“And Nancy Regan wore a hat of that shade the night she and Papadopoulos vanished,” I finished for him. “On to the cottage.”
We left the street lights behind, climbed the hill, dipped down into a little valley, turned into a winding sandy path, left that to cut across sod between trees to a dirt road, trod half a mile of that, and then Jack led the way along a narrow path that wound through a black tangle of bushes and small trees. I hoped he knew where he was going.
“Almost there,” he whispered to me.
A man jumped out of the bushes and took me by the neck.
My hands were in my overcoat pockets—one holding the flashlight, the other my gun.
I pushed the muzzle of the pocketed gun toward the man—pulled the trigger.
The shot ruined seventy-five dollars’ worth of overcoat for me. But it took the man away from my neck.
That was lucky. Another man was on my back.
I tried to twist away from him—didn’t altogether make it—felt the edge of a knife along my spine.
That wasn’t so lucky—but it was better than getting the point.
I butted back at his face—missed—kept twisting and squirming while I brought my hands out of my pockets and clawed at him.
The blade of his knife came flat against my cheek. I caught the hand that held it and let myself go—down backward—him under.
He said: “Uh!”