“That works for me, but the cops—they’re going to want to know how Dennis knew who Noehring was; how he recognized him in the dark.” I thought I heard the floorboards squeak again. “You might be able to make it work, though. You’re a smart girl. ’Course, you’re still going to have to explain how your husband was murdered in the exact same spot where you two took your wedding vows.”
Von glanced down at her wedding photograph, still in the pile on the box with her other framed photos.
“What were you thinking?” I asked.
“I was thinking that he lied to me.” Her voice was surprisingly gentle.
10 - 9 - 8 …
“Men lie to women all the time,” I said, “and vice versa. You don’t shoot them for it.”
7 - 6 - 5 …
“You do if you can get a million dollars out of it.”
4 - 3 …
“So, it was a crime of passion, then?”
2 - 1 …
“I guess.”
Zero.
That’s when he came through the door. Only it wasn’t Herzog, and it wasn’t the back door. It was Dennis, and he came through the front door with a gun in his hand. He pushed his gun hand toward me as if throwing a punch and fired. The gun sounded like a surface-to-air missile in the small living room. The shot went wide, but not by much. I dove behind a stack of packing crates, landing on the shoulder that wasn’t broken, which, trust me, didn’t make the shoulder that was broken feel any better. I heard the Walther slip out from under my elbow and clatter to the floor, yet I didn’t realize what it meant until I reached for the gun only to find that it wasn’t there.
I heard Von shouting, although I didn’t see her because of the boxes.
“No, no, no,” she said. “Not in my house. Are you crazy?”
“Get out of the way,” Dennis said.
I found the Walther. It was just out of my reach. I rolled toward it. The two ends of my fractured collarbone rubbed together. I cried out in pain as I snatched the gun off the floor. Dennis was moving around the boxes. An experienced shooter would have fired through the boxes—they were made of paper, after all. I wouldn’t have had a chance. Dennis wasn’t experienced. He had to see his target. He came around the stack. I rolled onto my back, extended my arm, and threw a shot at him. I missed. Dennis fell backward. I heard him bounce against furniture. The photographs Von had stacked on top of the boxes fell; the glass in the frames shattered on the floor. I rolled to my knees. My head—hell, my entire body was throbbing, and lights flashed in front of my eyes like a Fourth of July fireworks display. I tried to ignore them as best I could. I glanced around the boxes. Dennis was on his feet again. Von was standing between him and me, her hands out as if she were trying to hold him back.
“Stop it,” she said.
Dennis shoved her out of the line of fire.
He saw me kneeling behind the boxes.
I sighted on the center of his chest.
He brought his gun up.
At the last possible moment, I shifted my aim slightly over and up.
I shot him low in the shoulder.
Dennis flew backward against the wall and slowly slid to the floor as if he were tired and wanted to sit down.
A streak of blood pouring from his back followed him all the way to the floor.
Von screamed, rushed to his side, and cradled his head against her breast. She began weeping, calling his name, and generally making a racket.
“Is he dead?” Herzog asked.
I watched him emerge from the kitchen, his gun in one hand, his other hand pressed against the side of his skull. Blood seeped between his fingers and trickled down his wrist. I knew instantly what had happened. Dennis saw me parking in front of the house. Instead of hiding in one of the rooms as expected, he went through the back door with the idea of rounding the house and ambushing me from behind, which is exactly what he had done. Along the way he met Herzog, whom he must have taken by surprise. I could picture him wiping Herzog across his skull with his gun, knocking him unconscious, giving him a concussion.
“You’re late,” I said. “I should dock your salary.”
“Don’t tell Chopper,” Herzog said.
I slowly rose to my feet and approached Von and Dennis on unsteady legs. My head was spinning, and it took a lot of effort to keep from vomiting. The gun had slipped from Dennis’s grasp. It was a six-shot Iver Johnson pocket pistol—a .25 caliber. I put my foot on it and slid it backward across the floor until it hit a stack of boxes.
“You—you shot me,” Dennis said.
His face was pale and his breathing erratic.
“Sorry ’bout that,” I said.
I leaned forward, using the wall for support, and gave his wound a quick examination. The bullet had gone through the fleshy part of his shoulder just above his armpit. I didn’t think it had hit bone, yet that didn’t mean he was going to play quarterback for the Vikings anytime soon, although he couldn’t have been any worse than who was playing.
“I think you’ll live,” I said.
Von looked up at me, a dark, sorrowful expression clouding her lovely face.
