When the Dead Speak

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

When Sam heard the office door close, she emerged from her hiding place. Checking the computer screen, she noticed that the menu was filled. Preston seemed to have purchased every on-line service available. In the bottom right-hand corner she saw the icon of a lock and key. Her curiosity piqued, she moved the mouse on the icon and clicked.

A question on the screen asked: PASSWORD. Sam exited the program and returned to the menu. She pressed the SCREEN PRINT key and waited for the page to come off the printer. She folded up the copy and just as she was placing it in her purse, noticed a movement out of the corner of her eye.

"Security," the man said. "Move away from the desk, slowly." He was tall, tuxedo-clad, and aiming a 9mm pistol at her. His eyebrows slowly formed a brown line across his forehead.

"I just wanted to use the phone. There's no need to point..."

"Keep your hands up." The unsmiling eyes and ruddy complexion were almost as threatening as the gun.

Sam rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. This guy was taking his job way too seriously. He probably didn't even know how to use the gun. She imagined him spending his nights as a bouncer in some dance club looking for wiry accountants to bounce off the walls. Anyone who had to spend his Saturday night playing bodyguard to Preston Hilliard led a sorry life. The thought of swiping the Nambe silver ashtray off the desk just to aggravate the hell out of this guy crossed her mind. But he had that stern look in his eyes that said, not on my watch you don't.

"Identification." He rippled his fingers back and forth in a gimme gesture as he backed up to the door.

Great. She didn't have any on her, not even a driver's license, which was in the glove compartment of her Jeep. The security guard put his hand on the door knob and opened it slowly, as though getting ready to call for assistance. That was when she bolted.

Back inside the closet, Sam slid the back wall open and ran down the stairs. Her right hand retrieved a small flashlight from her purse. Pressing the button, she lit up her path of flight.

But she wasn't alone. She heard footsteps on the stairs behind her and suddenly remembered why she hated wearing heels. Now she was grateful that her skirt, or lack of one, allowed her room for movement.

She ran to the same freight delivery door she had used in the past and in seconds was hit with the dewy smell of fresh air as it opened into the backyard. Seconds after exiting the door she heard her pursuer. She didn't have to see him, she could hear him breathing, hear his footsteps. And he was a lot quicker than she gave him credit for.

The backyard was bathed in soft moonlight. She felt damp grass under her feet. Suddenly, strong arms reached around her and a weight slammed into her as she was tackled from behind.

She cried out as she hit the ground. He was up on his feet in a split second. Rolling over on her back, she propped herself up on one elbow and gazed up at the security guard looming over her. His eyes were glued to her legs. When she looked down, she saw her skirt within two inches of being totally obscene.

Maybe the frail female bit might work about now. She slid her hand down her leg. "I think I sprained my ankle," Sam whined.

One eyebrow on her pursuer shot up. He reached out a hand to her and said, "Get up."

So much for the Pitiful Pearl routine. Alternate approach needed. She guessed him to be about two hundred, maybe two hundred and ten pounds. But he had broad shoulders, probably into body building. Would not be easy to handle unless she caught him off guard.