Page 25 of Death on Gallows Path

Damon’s voice rose enough over Bryon’s for us to catch phrases. No big deal was one. Nothing you can do about it was another.

In response, Bryon’s voice topped Damon’s, reaching full audible range.

“You like to play games. People like you always do. Don’t have what it takes to build a real career in a real profession. Shifting from deal to deal to deal, a grifter more than anything. You think you’re showing the world you’re standing up to me? You’re not. I’m not a game-player. I’m a man of action. Don’t know how you haven’t figured that out. Now I’m telling you — know it now. And, and . . . You want to try to play, big boy? It’s not going to turn out well.”

Zoley stopped tugging at Bryon and focused on Damon, possibly expecting an explosive response, though we couldn’t read her expression, since she had her back mostly to us.

All four of them went motionless.

Even at this distance, Clara and I held our breath.

Into this moment — charged with emotion and uncertainty — blundered Berrie and the two Boston youngsters.

They had crossed Tanner Street, their path taking them directly through the tense cluster of the Gang of Four.

That might have passed almost unnoticed amid the drama, but then one of the Bostons, quickly joined by the other, objected strenuously to finding Lucifer and Izolde directly in front of them, to the apparent surprise of Berrie, who hadn’t been watching where she was going.

Noise erupted, dominated by barking.

Pammy corralled Lucifer and got him in the back of the big-boat truck. Damon kept yapping. At Berrie, at Bryon, then at Pammy.

Neither Zoley nor Bryon exercised any control over Izolde, who bounced around — literally, with hops from side to side, interspersed with play bows — clearly thinking this was a great game.

One of the Bostons bowed back.

Before the dogs could elaborate on those invitations, Damon shouted a curse at Berrie.

“Well— I never,” she huffed. “I have never been spoken to like that.”

I knew first-hand she had been. Same word, as a matter of fact.

Not me doing the shouting, despite numerous temptations, but dog park attendees in the small-dog enclosures where Berrie and, to a lesser extent, her Bostons regularly drove others to expressions of extreme frustration.

In this moment, she made a show of flouncing away. That took her right into Damon’s path as he jerked open the driver’s door of the truck. It hit her in the derriere.

Not hard enough to hurt, much less knock her over. But plenty to incense her.

She said something to him. He swore at her again.

She spun away — as if that would bother him — and screamed for the Bostons, who were actually in front of her. It took her a second to spot them.

Damon slammed the driver’s door.

Bryon started away. “Let’s go, Zoley,” he said shortly.

She cast a look over her shoulder toward Damon, but he’d started the engine, even before Pammy reached the passenger door on the other side.

Damon barely looked around as he began to back out.

Something sharp and imbued with vise-like strength dug into the flesh of my forearm.

I garbled a protest.

“Look, look,” my friend hissed at me.

I couldn’t. My vision was clouded by pain at her hold.

“Clara,” I pleaded.