17
Andrea flicks on the Maglite while drawing her weapon. I pull
out my .45, thumb off the safety.
“Who’s there?” I shout. Then, to
Andrea, “Give me the lamp.”
She hands it to me. I shine it against
the door. No one there.
Then, footsteps behind me. I turn,
shoot. The bullet ricochets against the wall.
“Get down!” I shout.
Andrea screams as the overhead
lights turn back on. Standing only a few feet before me, Dr. Belli is holding
Andrea in a choke hold, a dagger that must be at least five hundred years old
pressed against her neck. Her eyes are wide, not blinking. Belli is breathing
hard, his face red, forehead sweating under that scraggly Beatles haircut.
“I’ll take my sketchbook back, Mr.
Baker,” he declares.
“Or, let me guess,” I retort with a
roll of my eyes. “The g
