Marc’s game…
Halfway up the hall, Amanda stopped to think. If she retrieved her purse, ran to Moby, and drove the hell away as she was planning to do, when she turned it over to the cops, she’d need to do some mighty fast talking to convince them she hadn’t stolen it in the first place, then gotten cold feet.
After all, the obscenely high value of the letter gave everyone a motive. It had been Amanda’s utility door left open and she’d certainly had opportunity. Her prints were all over the poster frames and, with a little digging, the police would find out she’d once been a custom framer, making the hiding place a natural choice for her.
She clutched the sketch pad tight to her chest and began to hyperventilate. She had witnessed the fight between Sara and Ben, and if Marc, in all his fury, chose to share what he knew about her intimate relationship with Sara, God forbid, the cops might even like her for the murder.
Feeling faint again, Amanda knew she dare not leave the premises with the letter, and she knew she needed help. She must call Detective Molerno immediately. The only public phone she knew about, the one Ben had supposedly used to call a cab that fateful night, was in the parking lot south of the building. To get there quickly, she had to pass by Porter and Marc again.
So be it. Amanda turned and retraced her steps. Each footfall sounded like a thunderclap in the dark deserted space, and the voyage was never-ending. Praying to sneak out unnoticed, she crept toward the square of bright light, the planes of the red truck glinting in the sun, and offered up thanks when she saw Porter was not in his booth.
She was almost clear when a large dark silhouette burst into the light. Marc had emerged from behind his F150, a brick in each hand. Although she couldn’t see his face, his posture projected pure menace.
“Where do you think you’re going, Amanda?”
His tone, though outwardly calm, implied a threat.
She tried to push past him. “I need to use a phone.”
But he blocked her. “I bet you do. You left your cell at Sara’s the other night. In fact, she gave it to me so I could return it.”
“You have my phone? So why the hell didn’t you give it to me?”
“I never got a chance. You were too busy accusing me of murder.”
It was a standoff. Amanda figured she had two choices: try to squeeze past him and risk getting crowned by a brick, or play Marc’s game—whatever that was.
“So, you want to give me my phone now?” She decided the game was a better choice.
He considered his options, then finally put both bricks down on the ground. “Sure, why not. It’s in my toolbox. Let’s go get it.”
Suddenly he again grasped her arm with one enormous gloved hand, then propelled her around the corner and into his booth. She tripped over a stack of bricks just inside the dark space, dropped her sketch pad on his floor, and quickly panicked. Fortunately the pad did not open to the stolen letter, so she offered up another prayer of thanks.
“Take it easy, I won’t bite.” Marc handed her the pad and helped her up. “C’mon, my toolbox is back in my studio.”
She desperately did not want to follow him into the workspace but had no choice. As he herded her forward she saw the shiny new key in his pass-through door. When they entered, she smelled the clay, the oil, the dust. All her senses were hyper-aware as he guided her toward his workbench.
She managed to slip around the bench, putting it between them as Marc removed his gloves and opened his steel box.
“I know it’s in here somewhere…” He lifted out screwdrivers, pliers and a razor-sharp chisel.
Amanda didn’t like the way he grasped the chisel in his right hand.
“You hurt my feelings, Amanda. Women have called me ugly names before, but no one’s ever called me a killer.”
She especially didn’t like the manic glitter in his black eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.”
“Yes, you did.”
As Marc moved around the table, inching toward her, she started scoping out an escape route, wondering if she could run to her own studio door without tripping over the many impediments looming in her path.
She wished Marc had turned on the lights, wished she had a lit welding torch in her hands, but mostly wished someone would come to her rescue.
“Please leave me alone, Marc!” Her plea was a pathetic little peep in the emptiness.
At the same time, she saw movement behind Marc’s head as someone new slipped into the room. Amanda couldn’t identify the person in the shadows, but she was grateful for the intervention.
“Help!” she shouted. This time her voice projected loud and clear.