Glimpse by Steve Whibley Page B

blood.
    â€œYou! What are you doing here?” Mr. Utlet barked at me.
    â€œI… we…” I blinked, trying to make sense of the scene before me. “You did this?”
    â€œThey started it,” Mr. Utlet said, defending himself. He waved an object that took me a moment to identify as a gun. “This isn’t my gun.” He kicked the unconscious man at his feet. “This numbskull brought it. Bet you’re regretting that, aren’t ya, genius?” He looked back at me. “That doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”
    â€œWe were… um… trying to help you.”
    â€œWe? We who?”
    â€œColin and L—”
    â€œPut the gun down, old man.”
    The voice came from my right, and without thinking, I jumped to my left and ducked behind a ratty old armchair. The man with the tattoo gripped Colin by the shoulder and pressed a knife against his neck. He sneered at me and then turned back to Mr. Utlet.
    Â 
    â€œPut it down!” he said again.
    â€œI don’t think so.” Mr. Utlet straightened his arms, pointed the gun at the burglar’s head, and narrowed his eyes.
    The tattooed man flexed his arm around Colin’s neck and shifted the hand that held the blade. Colin whimpered as a single bead of red trickled down his throat.
    â€œDrop the gun, old man. Or I’ll shove the blade straight through this little brat’s neck.”
    Mr. Utlet’s mouth twitched, and the muscles in his jaw clenched. I was sure he was about to take a shot, but at the last second he dropped the gun to the floor and gave it a little kick so it slid under his couch. “Let the kid go.”
    The burglar moved the knife away from Colin’s neck but kept a grip on his shoulder. He turned to the man propped up against the wall. “Darren, you okay?”
    â€œHe shot me in the leg,” the man moaned. “I can’t walk.”
    â€œDo it anyway,” tattoo man ordered. “What about Jim?” He nodded at the man lying still on the floor.
    â€œThe old man bashed him over the head and took his gun.”
    The man with the tattoo shoved Colin, sending him sprawling to the floor, and then moved toward his fallen comrade and nudged him with his foot. “Jim! Jim, get up.” Tattoo man’s buddy didn’t even move a finger.
    Colin scrambled across the hardwood floor and took a post next to me behind the armchair. He kept one hand pressed to his neck.
    â€œGet out of my house,” Mr. Utlet warned.
    â€œTell us where you keep your money, and we’ll gladly leave.”
    â€œWhat money?”
    â€œDon’t play games, old man. We’ve been doing this long enough to know that all you old suckers keep wads of cash in your house.”
    Mr. Utlet’s eyes became slits. “Get out of my house.”
    â€œOr what?” Tattoo man flicked the knife in front of his face. “I have the—”
    Mr. Utlet moved like a jackrabbit. One second he was standing two or three yards from the burglar, and the next, his fist was connecting with the other man’s jaw. His punch only managed to knock the man back a step, but the knife clattered to the floor. Tattoo man growled and swung back at Mr. Utlet. I blinked, and the next thing I knew, the two of them were on the ground rolling on top of each other, fists connecting so fast the room filled with sounds like a gorilla beating its chest. Somehow the tattooed man managed to stand up and kick Mr. Utlet while he was down. Mr. Utlet groaned, then lashed out with his foot and connected with the inside of the robber’s knee with a resounding crack . The man howled and staggered back, knocking into a floor lamp. Colin and I shielded our eyes as it smashed to the floor. Opaque shards of glass scattered around the room. Mr. Utlet was on his feet again. He slammed his fist into the man’s ribs, and as the burglar staggered back, Mr. Utlet tackled