“Sarah, stop!” I bark.
She stops.
“Take a step back,” I instruct.
Slowly, she back steps. But at the same time, an eyelet on her shin-high lace-up boots snags the twine.
“Sarah, duck!” I shout.
She drops to her knees a split second before the fireman’s ax swings down from its ceiling-mounted pivot.
“For the love of God!” she wails. “That thing almost took my head off.”
“That would be the point,” I say. I check my watch. It’s going on six in the evening. The time when, according to Sarah anyway, the dam water is usually released. I suppose I could just allow her to drown after what she’s pulled on us. Her stabbing us in the back. Now that it appears she’s successfully located the treasure, we don’t need her alive anymore. But then, I’m not a killer, and what do the wise guys say in S
