None of this was really turning out like Sprat had hoped.
* * *
Mike tossed the shotgun aside. He knew his shot had found its target. The guy was still groaning and whimpering and thrashing above. Time to get the hell out of Dodge. He crawled on his side, not wanting to roll onto the knife still stuck in his leg, pulled himself toward the doorway with his elbows and hands. If he could get to the hall, maybe he could pull himself up on a table or something. If he could just get outside, get to the Cadillac
It was slow going, the pain still rippling along his spine. The grunting and crying had subsided behind him. Maybe the guy had passed out, or maybe he was dead. Mike didn?t know how badly he?d hit him. He hoped to hell the guy was dead.
Mike could tell his nephew to go home. It was safe. Maybe he could repair the vineyard. He could rebuild. Mike had insurance. He could pick up where he left off. Sure. Ten more feet and he?d be out the door. He wouldn?t look back. Blood dripped warm and sticky down his leg. He?d been so close to death. But he?d lived. He?d made it and?
Something grabbed his ankle from behind.
?Not so fast, fucker.? The voice behind him was shaky, strained, but also angry. A thick accent.
?You motherfucker. I?m c-crippled.? He grabbed Mike?s ankle with the other hand too, pulled himself onto Mike?s legs. ?You shot my f-foot off.?
Mike tried to shift, twist around, get into any kind of position to fight the guy off. It was no good. The guy was punching him in the ribs now. Mike grunted, remembered the pistol in his pants but couldn?t reach it. He took more punches to the ribs and the back of the head.
His attacker reared up, brought the point of his elbow down with his full force into the middle of Mike?s back. Mike screamed?
But?
Something shifted, fell into place along his spine. Mike rolled onto his back. The agony had drained away, replaced only by a dull ache.
The attacker grabbed the knife in Mike?s leg and jerked it out. Mike grunted.
?I?ll slice your bloody throat.? Another flash of lightning. Mike?s attacker had the knife high over his head for a death strike, eyes wild, the blade gleaming in the sudden light. Teeth clenched in an animal grimace. The man looked like something from a comic book cover?
Mike drew his foot back, kicked hard, caught the guy in the teeth. He flew backward.
Mike climbed to his feet, stretched. He felt the furniture around him, groped in the dark until he found something heavy and ceramic.
The guy was moaning and mumbling. Mike followed the noise, found his head, and brought the ceramic vase down with everything he had. Vase and skull cracked open.
Mike backed away, breathing so heavily he was wheezing. He grabbed at the pistol in his belt and drew it, backed up against a wall.
Mike stood with his back against the wall for a long time. Or maybe it was only a few seconds. It was difficult to tell. He was in a daze, exhausted and numb. The .38 hung loosely in his hand. He hunched over, slapped a palm over the leg wound. It wasn?t bleeding too badly, but it hurt like hell.
When he saw the soft flickering light, he thought at first he was hallucinating. Didn?t they say you saw a light when you were dying? Or was that a tunnel? Mike couldn?t remember.
Nikki appeared in the doorway, and Mike lifted the revolver.
?It?s just me,? she said quickly. She held a candle, which lit her bruised face.
Mike nodded, too tired to talk. What was there to say?
She took three steps toward him, glanced at the dead body on the floor, looked at the pistol in Mike?s hand.
