Page 26 of Death on Gallows Path

“Look.” She pressed harder.

To get away from the advanced torture, I pivoted in the direction she wanted me to look, which was a recessed doorway on the same side of the street as Zepke’s and farther down the block from where the Gang of Four and Berrie and the Bostons had tangled.

The best I could make out was the shadowy form of what looked to be a man. Taller and broader than average.

Movement shifted my gaze to a nearer doorway. This one was illuminated by a street light and contained a woman in a hooded raincoat. I could see dark hair and the general impression of a pale face.

She was intent on the truck, seemingly focused on the driver’s seat occupied by Damon.

It was impossible to tell where the other figure was looking. Could have been at her or the truck.

“You know who they are?” Clara asked in a low voice.

“No idea.”

“She’s the woman I saw with Damon and he’s the guy I saw watching them.”

Maybe she could see the woman well enough to recognize her, but unless her eyesight was a whole lot better than mine, she could not identify that male-shaped shadow as anyone specific. I suspected what she’d seen before was coloring her interpretation of what we could see — and couldn’t see — now.

“It’s awfully dark,” I protested.

The Swindell truck, now in the street, backed up a few more feet before Damon gunned it forward.

Backing up had spread enough light from the headlights to see the woman in the doorway better, confirming the raincoat, dark hair, pale face . . . and a combination of a full-grill smile and mean-crinkled eyes that made me think of someone who’d just snookered an opponent.

“That’s definitely her,” Clara said. “Oh, darn. He’s gone — lurker guy — so we won’t get a closer look at him. Darn. Now she’s walking the wrong way for us to see her, either.”

She gusted a sigh.

“C’mon, we might as well go. Nothing more to see here.”

I rubbed my arm. I’d carry evidence from Clara’s attention-getting tactic for a while.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“They’re not normal,” Clara said once we were inside the van.

“The people?”

She darted me a look, saying clearly I must still be lost in writing mode to ask that.

She had a point.

No way would she dismiss dogs that way after two encounters. She’d give them lots more chances.

Not bothering to answer my unworthy question, she said, “That Damon Swindell, especially. You know, my first impression of him was he’s attractive-ish. Regular features, nothing overtly ugly about him physically.”

That last word was key.

Because his approach to his dog, with not a trace of affection or compassion, was ugly.

He wasn’t great with people, either.

“Uh-huh.” I tore open the treat packet to give the dogs a round for the road. They’d get another round at home when Murphy could share.

“Looking angry most of the time doesn’t help,” Clara said. “I bet somebody told him that’s how he could look strong, so he thinks that’s the way to show he has a square jaw.”

I stifled a chuckle as she continued.