Part 24 (1/2)

I got to my feet, winced at the stiffness and pain, and rotated my neck and shoulders to get the kinks out. I'd be lucky if I could get on my bike in five hours, let alone pedal the frigging thing.

I made my way to the back door, down the ramp, and to the sidewalk that led to the barn-the same path we'd used during our en ma.s.se exodus earlier. I shuffled along, barely able to keep my eyes open.

All right. All right. I did the zombie walk. I was working on less than three hours of sleep spent camped out on the floor of a haunted murder house. Give me a break.

I slow-moed my way down the sidewalk, each step an accomplishment. My ”walker” steps took me down the short sidewalk to the porch of the barn. I frowned at the now dark structure, and sleepily ripped whoever had turned the lights off a new one. I climbed the porch steps and tried to recall where the john was located.

The buzz-buzz of a mosquito tickled my ear, and I slapped it away.

”Bloodsuckers!” I mumbled.

I remembered my cell phone and took it from my pocket, hitting the b.u.t.ton to wake it up. I held it out in front of me to light the way.

I took another ”walker” step, hesitating at the porch rail when I caught the outline of a figure on the bench to my right.

Busted!

Some 'fraidy cat had crept out of the house to bed down on the bench. I did a forehead b.u.mp with the b.u.t.t of my hand. Why hadn't I thought of that?

I approached the sacked-out sleeper, curious to see who had struck out on their own.

A mosquito dive-bombed me. Then another. And another.

Slap! Slap! Slap!

”d.a.m.n.” I was being eaten alive. I swatted another potential taste-tester away and decided I'd better wake the oblivious sleeper or, come morning, he or she would be a prime candidate for West Nile Virus.

”Hey! You! Not a good place to crash,” I said.

No reaction.

”h.e.l.loo.” I bent over and put a hand on the sleeper's shoulder and shook. ”You're so gonna regret this in the morning,” I said. ”You'll wake up short a pint of whole blood.”

I pulled my hand back. It felt wet.

I frowned, and pushed the b.u.t.ton on my phone, s.h.i.+ning what wimpy illumination it provided at my fingertips. I stared down at my hand.

It wasn't. It couldn't be. Uh-uh. No way was that dark red, wet, sticky substance blood. No way.

I raised my fingers for a closer look.

It sure looked like blood.

My phone went dark.

I said a few words I promised to ask forgiveness for and fumbled around getting the phone to wake up.

”Hey. You. There.” I said.

Finally, the phone's light illuminated the sleeper's profile. I sucked in a ragged breath.

Vinny Vincent, the dark shadow of blood standing out in sharp contrast to the white collar of his s.h.i.+rt, lay sprawled out on the bench.

Holy h.e.l.l-Raiser!

I could see the headlines now: Hollywood agent gets the ax!

And one cursed cub reporter?

She gets the shaft.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

I stared at the phone number displayed on my cell and bit my lip.

To answer or not to answer? That was the question.

I opted to punt and hit ”ignore.”

In the dawn's early light, my vantage point from the second floor/hayloft level of the Murder House barn provided a spectacular view. The small, white two-story at the corner of South Sixth Avenue and East Second Street in Villisca, Iowa, probably hadn't seen this amount of curious gawker foot traffic since the infamous morning of June 10, 1912, when-according to Frankie-a good share of the citizenry tromped through a ma.s.s murder crime scene, moving bodies and cleaning up blood, and destroying evidence that might have helped solve the crime.

Back then, however, they didn't have things like live links, satellite trucks, or smart phones to broadcast the unfolding events to a worldwide audience live.

Gotta love twenty-first century technology.

Patrick and Manny, along with local law enforcement, had herded us up to an area staged for tour group talks. A row of old theater seats, along with webbed lawn chairs, provided seating for those who took the tour.

”And you didn't take any pictures? Any at all?” Van Vleet asked again.

”Gee, I'm sorry, Drew. It didn't occur to me to snap pictures of an unconscious and bleeding a.s.sault victim before I dialed 9-1-1,” I said.

”What about afterwards?” Van Vleet pressed, and I gave him my version of the you-are-pond-sc.u.m' stare. Take my word for it. It's intimidating.

”Looks like you could use a cup.” Patrick appeared and pressed a cup of coffee into my hand. ”And...a bit of a break.” He performed a get-lost nod in Van Vleet's direction.

”Coffee does sound good,” Van Vleet said, an up-and-down of his Adam's apple showing he received the trooper's message loud and clear.

”So. How is he? Vinny, I mean?” I asked, cupping the warm coffee with both hands.

”He'll live. Actually, his injury isn't all that severe. A slight concussion at worst.”

”But all that blood-”

”Head wounds bleed buckets,” Patrick said. ”And often look much worse than they actually are. Mr. Vincent is being evaluated in a hospital, but it appears the injury isn't serious.”

I let out a long, relieved breath.