Page 64 of The Girl Who Knew Too Much

She found a knife strapped to Springer’s leg.

“Forgot about the blade,” Springer muttered.

“Sure you did,” Irene said.

“I’ll take that,” Oliver said. He grasped the knife in his free hand and looked down at Springer. “Neither of us can get you on your feet. Can you make it to the car on your own?”

“I think so. Yeah.”

Springer managed to haul himself upright. Irene opened the passenger side door. Hand clamped to his shoulder, Springer crawled into the seat. Irene closed the door.

Springer groaned and passed out.

Oliver opened the rear door and climbed into the back of the Ford. He leaned forward and clamped a hand around Springer’s wound.

Irene got behind the wheel. She fired up the engine, put the car in gear, turned around in the clearing, and started up the dirt road. Rocks spit under the tires.

“What are we going to do with Springer?” she asked.

“We’ll take him to the Burning Cove hospital. I’ll call Detective Brandon and let him know what happened. If Springer makes it through the night, Brandon should be able to get some answers out of him.”

“What about the fire?”

“We’ll stop at the first place we see that might have a phone, and notify the fire department. With luck the clearing around the warehouse will keep the fire from jumping up the hillside. There’s nothing but water at the back.”

She reached the end of the lane and paused before turning onto Miramar Road. She glanced back at Oliver. He was pressing hard on Springer’s wound. In the weak glow of the dashboard lights his face was set in hard, grim lines.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Never better. Drive.”

She pulled out onto Miramar Road and floored the accelerator.

“You know,” she said, “in the movies this sort of thing always looks a lot more thrilling.”

“I’ve noticed that,” Oliver said.

Chapter 27

“Ithought you didn’t like guns,” Irene said.

“I don’t,” Oliver said. He drank some whiskey, lowered the glass, and rested his head against the back of the armchair. “But that doesn’t mean they aren’t occasionally useful.”

Irene came to a halt in the middle of the living room and surveyed him with a critical eye. He knew the look all too well. He had been getting it every few minutes since they had walked through his front door a short time ago.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked. Again.

“I’m fine,” he said, lying through his teeth.

He was heartily tired of the question but he told himself she meant well. He tried to sort through his mixed reactions to her concern. Sure, it was nice that she cared. But he hated knowing that she had seen him at his weakest that night.

He downed a healthy dose of whiskey to take his mind off the pain and his own miserable performance.

He was sitting in one of the big leather chairs in front of thefireplace, his damned leg propped on a hassock. Shortly after Irene had brought him home, he ordered a large quantity of ice from room service. He now had three ice bags draped over his bad leg.

Irene swallowed some of her own whiskey and resumed her pacing.

“Nick Tremayne used poor Daisy Jennings to lure us to that warehouse tonight and then he murdered her,” she said.

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