Part 18 (1/2)

”I guess I'm going to take this letter with me. I guess, if you say anything about it, I'll just say you lied.”

Hope flickered in me for a minute, to be extinguished when I considered the overwhelming selfishness of this man's life. He had no intention of leaving me alive with his secret. After all, there were blood tests that could prove whether or not he'd been Celia's father. And there was the lawyer who could testify he'd had a letter sent to Celia on her birthday, even if he couldn't say what the contents of that letter had been.

I had no idea what I could do to stop him. I don't go around armed. You'd be surprised how many Southern belles have a gun in their purse, but I wasn't one of them. I didn't have a stun gun, or a blackjack . . . hey. I had a panic b.u.t.ton! It was on the keyless entry pad for my car.

I'd gotten my keys out and now they were clutched in my hand. Was my car close enough to the back door to pick up the signal? I hadn't the slightest idea how the d.a.m.n thing worked. I probably had to be closer. So, before I could have second thoughts, I made a dash for the back door, managed to get my hand out of it, and pressed the panic b.u.t.ton.

Beep! Beep! Beep ! My car responded in a wonderful way, lights flas.h.i.+ng and horn blaring. But I feared it was too little, too late, because now Will had hold of me around the waist and was pulling me back into the library. I held on to the doork.n.o.b of the open door as long as I could, but he was a strong man and my grip was weak. ! My car responded in a wonderful way, lights flas.h.i.+ng and horn blaring. But I feared it was too little, too late, because now Will had hold of me around the waist and was pulling me back into the library. I held on to the doork.n.o.b of the open door as long as I could, but he was a strong man and my grip was weak.

Who would be driving past the library anyway, at nine o'clock on a weeknight? Downtown Lawrenceton was pretty much deserted even on the weekends, much less on a Thursday night. My heart sank, even as I kicked backwards at him, hoping to land a blow south of the waist.

I got him in the s.h.i.+n instead, not nearly as effective, but enough to raise a ”Huh!” of surprise. I shrieked, hoping to add to the din of the horn and addle his brain, but all that did was make him mad. He whopped me upside the head with an open hand. If he'd fisted it, it would have knocked me out or broken my neck, but I guess he wasn't used to victims who actually fought back. He couldn't control both my hands, so I went for his face, hoping to scratch him conspicuously, and I dug in. My nails are always short, so I didn't make as much of a gouge as I'd hoped for, but he was bleeding and cursing up a storm. He hit me again, and this time he did a better job of it.

”Help!” I screamed, and someone actually did.

I had completely forgotten Patricia Bledsoe.

Patricia was dancing behind him with a gun in her hand.

If she shot him, she'd get me.

Before I could give my opinion, she seemed to realize that, too, and turned the gun around in her hand. Holding it by the barrel, she poised herself, and swung the b.u.t.t with all her might. She connected solidly with his head, right above his right ear. There was an awful little noise, like stepping on wet peanut sh.e.l.ls, and then he collapsed in a heap.

We stood there and breathed heavily for a minute, Patricia's chest heaving just as hard as mine.

”Oh, thank you,” I babbled. ”Oh, Patricia, thank you thank you.”

”I've got to get out of here,” she said precisely, clipping off her words like they were the end of a cigar.

”Yes, sure.”

”What are you going to tell them?”

”I'll make up something, you get gone. I won't tell anyone.”

”I believe you,” she said, sounding a little surprised.

”He could've hit the corner of that table,” I said. ”It's wood.” I wasn't sure if that would make a difference or not, but it sounded good.

”Better put some blood on the corner, then,” Patricia advised. She had her envelope still clutched in her hand, and now she tucked it into her skirt pocket.

”Good luck to you and Jerome,” I said, and then Patricia Bledsoe-Anita Defarge-was out of the Lawrenceton Library for the very last time, and over the sound of my car honking, I never heard her pull away.

I had a couple of things to do before I called 911. Feeling my whole face pucker with distaste, I touched my fingers to Will Weir's depressed wound, and I rubbed the blood and hair on the corner of the table nearest him. I thought briefly of trying to move him closer to the table, but I was afraid of s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up things even more. Better leave it simple.

I didn't think I'd ever concealed a crime before in my life. It was kind of exhilarating. I rinsed my hands off in the employee sink, and then poured some cold coffee that had been sitting in the pot down the drain after the tinged water. I left the pot in the sink.