leaned over his friend’s prone form.
“Curt, can you hear me?” he demanded as Darla breathlessly knelt beside him on the
dusty concrete floor.
For the space of a heartbeat, she held out hope that Curt would groan and then begin
to move. That optimism lasted only until the flashlight beam illuminated both the
bloody gash across the back of his skull and his wide-open, sightless eyes. Darla
bit back another gasp. Curt couldn’t hear them . . . wasn’t ever going to hear anything
ever again.
“Son of a bitch,” Barry choked out, and made as if to turn his friend over. Hastily,
Darla grabbed his arm.
“Leave him alone, Barry . . . there’s nothing we can do. Besides, the police won’t
want us touching anything.”
“The police?” He rose and rubbed a frantic hand over his thinning hair. “Yeah, you’re
right. Call 9-1-1, while I get some more light in here.”
It took her two tries to punch in the right sequence of numbers, for her hands were
shaking. Barry, meanwhile, had rushed back up the steps and plugged in a pair of the
clamp lights so that they shone like faint headlights down the wooden stairway. The
additional illumination made Darla blink and gave Curt’s unnaturally still form an
even more unreal appearance. She promptly scooted several feet away from the corpse,
preferring the relative darkness of the rest of the basement to being right next to
the dead man as she made her call.
Why couldn’t this have happened upstairs?
She already had something of an aversion to dark basements. She suspected she would
end up with a full-blown basement phobia now that she’d managed to find a dead body
lying in one.
After what seemed an interminable wait, though surely it had been but a matter of
seconds, the emergency operator came on the line. In a strained voice she barely recognized
as her own, Darla gave her name and explained the situation.
“It could have been an accident, but we don’t really know. An ambulance?” she answered
the dispatcher’s question. “You can send one, but I’m pretty sure he’s been dead awhile.
Address? Barry,” she called to the man, who now sat silently beside his friend, “what’s
the street number of the building?”
Barry stirred from his reverie long enough to give her the address, which she hurriedly
repeated into the phone, along with a few more details about the body’s location in
the building. The dispatcher instructed her to remain on scene and not touch anything
in the vicinity of the dead man . . . too late, as Darla recalled how Barry had moved
the crowbar off Curt’s body.
“They’re sending the police and an ambulance right out,” Darla told him once she’d
hung up. Then, carefully avoiding looking at Curt again, she suggested, “Maybe we
should wait upstairs until they get here.”
“But I don’t want to just leave him here like this,” Barry countered with a miserable
shake of his head. “I should find a blanket or something to put over him.”
“The dispatcher said not to touch anything,” she reminded him. “We don’t know what
actually happened to him, so we don’t want to accidentally destroy any evidence.”
Like picking up the pry bar
, she told herself, though she probably would have reflexively done the same thing
had she been first to reach Curt.
Barry gave a grim nod and gestured her toward the stairs. “I guess I should take a
look around while we’re waiting on the cops to see if any wire or tools are missing.
Curt’s been worried about those bastards who stole our copper last week paying another
visit.”
Darla had come to much the same conclusion. Bad enough that since Curt’s warning the
week before, she’d worried over the possible loss of her street numbers to the scrap
thieves. Now she had to fear the possibility of falling victim to criminals who were
bold enough to commit murder if they were crossed?
They retreated
“Curt, can you hear me?” he demanded as Darla breathlessly knelt beside him on the
dusty concrete floor.
For the space of a heartbeat, she held out hope that Curt would groan and then begin
to move. That optimism lasted only until the flashlight beam illuminated both the
bloody gash across the back of his skull and his wide-open, sightless eyes. Darla
bit back another gasp. Curt couldn’t hear them . . . wasn’t ever going to hear anything
ever again.
“Son of a bitch,” Barry choked out, and made as if to turn his friend over. Hastily,
Darla grabbed his arm.
“Leave him alone, Barry . . . there’s nothing we can do. Besides, the police won’t
want us touching anything.”
“The police?” He rose and rubbed a frantic hand over his thinning hair. “Yeah, you’re
right. Call 9-1-1, while I get some more light in here.”
It took her two tries to punch in the right sequence of numbers, for her hands were
shaking. Barry, meanwhile, had rushed back up the steps and plugged in a pair of the
clamp lights so that they shone like faint headlights down the wooden stairway. The
additional illumination made Darla blink and gave Curt’s unnaturally still form an
even more unreal appearance. She promptly scooted several feet away from the corpse,
preferring the relative darkness of the rest of the basement to being right next to
the dead man as she made her call.
Why couldn’t this have happened upstairs?
She already had something of an aversion to dark basements. She suspected she would
end up with a full-blown basement phobia now that she’d managed to find a dead body
lying in one.
After what seemed an interminable wait, though surely it had been but a matter of
seconds, the emergency operator came on the line. In a strained voice she barely recognized
as her own, Darla gave her name and explained the situation.
“It could have been an accident, but we don’t really know. An ambulance?” she answered
the dispatcher’s question. “You can send one, but I’m pretty sure he’s been dead awhile.
Address? Barry,” she called to the man, who now sat silently beside his friend, “what’s
the street number of the building?”
Barry stirred from his reverie long enough to give her the address, which she hurriedly
repeated into the phone, along with a few more details about the body’s location in
the building. The dispatcher instructed her to remain on scene and not touch anything
in the vicinity of the dead man . . . too late, as Darla recalled how Barry had moved
the crowbar off Curt’s body.
“They’re sending the police and an ambulance right out,” Darla told him once she’d
hung up. Then, carefully avoiding looking at Curt again, she suggested, “Maybe we
should wait upstairs until they get here.”
“But I don’t want to just leave him here like this,” Barry countered with a miserable
shake of his head. “I should find a blanket or something to put over him.”
“The dispatcher said not to touch anything,” she reminded him. “We don’t know what
actually happened to him, so we don’t want to accidentally destroy any evidence.”
Like picking up the pry bar
, she told herself, though she probably would have reflexively done the same thing
had she been first to reach Curt.
Barry gave a grim nod and gestured her toward the stairs. “I guess I should take a
look around while we’re waiting on the cops to see if any wire or tools are missing.
Curt’s been worried about those bastards who stole our copper last week paying another
visit.”
Darla had come to much the same conclusion. Bad enough that since Curt’s warning the
week before, she’d worried over the possible loss of her street numbers to the scrap
thieves. Now she had to fear the possibility of falling victim to criminals who were
bold enough to commit murder if they were crossed?
They retreated
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