Darell yanked open his desk drawer and extracted his gun. A Glock 17—possibly the same model Craig wielded. It was fully loaded. Darell had inspected it this morning when he moved it from his bedroom nightstand where he kept it.
He transferred his cane to his left hand and clutched the gun with his right.
Darell hurried from the office. Pete Lynch lay in the hallway.
Darell stopped and cranked his body into a stoop. He reached out his gnarled hand holding the Glock, hovered his knuckles in front of Pete’s nose.
No air.
With effort he straightened. He cast desperate looks around the body. No sign of Pete’s gun either. Craig had taken it. He was after Kaitlan.
Idiot girl had been screaming like a banshee. Where had she gone?
Darell turned around to peer at his bedroom door. What if Craig was hiding in there?
No. He’d have followed the sound of Kaitlan’s voice.
Darrel shuffled around and hurried up the hall.
Had Sam gotten everything on film? Craig, pulling a gun. It wasn’t a murder, but it should be enough.
With perfect clarity Darell saw Craig’s immediate plan. Wouldn’t Darell have his antagonist do the same, if he were writing the scene? Craig couldn’t just shoot them. First he had to squeeze names out of them—who else had they told?
How long before Craig discovered others in the house?
In the distance, somewhere off the entryway—a noise.
Kaitlan.
“Craig Barlow!” Darell thumped over the hardwood. “You want to kill somebody, here I am!”