The collie was docile enough. Even more docile was Frankie, sprawled in the late model job alongside the pick-up. Frankie was a little guy who’d splattered a lot of blood onto the driver’s side window; he’d taken three hits, two in the face, one in the throat. The latter wound was gurgling a little.
Looked like the pick-up truck’s driver had slid up to a stop next to the newer vehicle and just started firing away through his open window.
Somebody didn’t like intruders....
Yet no sign of the driver. And that fucking collie hadn’t shot anybody. Lauren looked all around – the day had died on her, but visibility was fine in a clear blue dusk long with shadows. She circled the barn, gun in hand, till she came back to where she started.
If Frankie’s killer was the occupant of that farmhouse (where a couple lights were on), she’d need to hustle. She quickly returned to the barn, opened the trunk of her car, got rid of the extra suitcase – like Paolo himself, excess baggage – and gave the brown carry-on filled with Jimmy’s money a loving little pat.
She was just about to go up to open the barn doors and drive the hell out, hoping for room to squeeze past the two parked vehicles out there, when the rugged-looking Marlboro man with the plaid jacket and blue baseball cap and double-barrel shotgun stepped inside.
“Hold ‘er right there, missy,” he said, face blank as a hay bale.