Page 41 of Fire on the Moon

Chapter Thirteen

“You son of a bitch,” a gravelly voice growled. “You killed Connie.”

Before the newcomer could obliterate Zane’s spinal cord, he heard a loud cracking sound, and the man behind him went down.

Whirling, he saw Francesca standing in the hallway and shattered shards of another flowerpot on the floor around the intruder’s head.

“Thanks,” he said, looking from her to the man on the floor.

“I saw him through the window. I knew it would be too late if I called you on the phone. I didn’t know what else to do besides throw something at the window.”

“And then you came around in back of him.”

She nodded.

“And saved my life,” he added, before dragging in a breath and steadying himself. He weighed the pros and cons of searching the house. He wanted to see what he could find, but were the police already on the way? The shots could be mistaken for the TV show, but the flowerpot crashing against the window was another matter. Then there was his arm, which had started to throb. He could move it, and he thought the bullet had missed the bone. But was it still in there, or had it gone through? He’d have to find that out later.

He looked at the dead man slumped on the bed. Zane had shot in self-defense, but he’d also invaded Tuckerman’s house, which meant that getting the police involved was a bad idea.

“We’d better get out of here,” he said. “Did you touch anything?”

“The doorknob. The flowerpots,” she answered.

He gestured toward the shards on the floor. “Wipe off the bigger pieces with your shirt.”

As she stooped to comply, he saw that his arm was bleeding. Damn!

When he pulled off his shirt and wrapped it around the wound, she caught her breath.

“You’re hurt.”

“Not much. Check for blood on the floor.”

She made a sound of distress but bent to inspect the place where he’d been standing.

Ignoring the throbbing pain, he turned to the chest of drawers where he found several more tee shirts. He wrapped one over the makeshift bandage he’d already applied to his arm. After using another to wipe the drawer handles, he pulled on the shirt, which was miles too big.

Looking up, he saw Francesca had straightened and was staring at him.

“The floor okay?” he asked.

“I think so,” she whispered.

“Let’s beat it.” Crossing the room, he stepped over the assassin on the floor.

“Who is he?” she asked.

“His housemate. I assume. Maybe one of the other guys who was following us a couple of days ago. But I don’t want to stop now and turn him over.” Zane reached into the man’s pocket. Finding a wallet, he removed it and took it with him.

On the way down the hall, he opened a door and looked into the other bedroom. It was similar to Tuckerman’s, with bedclothes in casual disarray, as well as a nightstand, chest and TV.

Knowing they were out of time, Zane turned to Francesca.

“Gotta get out of here.”

“I know.”

He led her into the living room and out the door.

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