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Margaret’s shriek of shock and horror was abruptly cut off. The beam of her flashlight was extinguished beneath the rubble of bones and fractured wood.
“What the fuck?” Guthrie’s voice rose in near-panic. “Margaret? Where are you? What happened?”
He swung the flashlight around in wild, sweeping arcs, trying to make sense of the scene. Pallas dropped to her knees behind the remaining casket and grabbed the chisel before crawling to the end of the row.
No sound came from beneath the fallen caskets.
Pallas gripped the chisel and waited. She would not be able to hide and evade Guthrie indefinitely, but if she could hold out just a little while longer—buy a little more time—maybe, just maybe, Ambrose would find her before it was too late.
Footsteps approached the maze of jumbled caskets. Guthrie was nervous, moving warily.
“Why did you have to go and fuck up everything?” Guthrie shouted.
Pallas didn’t know if he was talking to her or to Margaret Moore.
“This was the score of a lifetime,” Guthrie continued. “If you and the writer hadn’t come to Carnelian, we wouldn’t be here now.”
Okay, he’s talking to me, Pallas thought.
She waited, chisel in hand.
The glare of a powerful flashlight exploded across the crypt.
“Nobody moves,” Ambrose ordered.
“Fuck,” Guthrie yelled.
He squeezed off a string of gunshots, firing blindly. It occurred to Pallas that people got killed all the time by ricochets and stray bullets.
“There are two of us,” Ambrose said. “This is over. Drop the gun.”
“He’s right,” another man said. “This ends here. We don’t like outsiders coming into our little town and causing trouble.”
Pallas recognized the voice: Ron Quinn, the cemetery caretaker.
“Pallas,” Ambrose shouted. “Where are you?”
“Back here,” she said. “Guthrie and Moore were in this together. She’s here, too, but I think she’s unconscious.”
“Put down the gun and come out, Guthrie,” Ambrose said.
Pallas heard bones clatter across the concrete. She turned quickly.Guthrie was standing directly in front of her. He pinned her in the glare of his flashlight. In his other hand he clutched a pistol.
“Come here, bitch, or I swear I’ll kill you right now,” he hissed. “I’ve got nothing to lose. Nothing. It’s all fucked because of you and the writer.”
She realized he intended to use her as a hostage. He was desperate. Frantic. If he were still rational he would be throwing down his gun and calling for a lawyer, but instead he was sliding into a full-blown panic.
“All right,” she said, struggling to keep her voice calm and nonthreatening. “I’ll go with you.”
“Drop the chisel.”
“Sure.” She set the tool on the floor and got to her feet. Guthrie clamped a fist around her upper arm and yanked her into position in front of him. The physical contact sent a nerve-shattering flash of electricity across her senses, briefly setting off another round of hallucinations. It was all she could do not to scream. She swayed, but Guthrie did not appear to notice. He clutched her arm as if she was a life preserver.
“I’ve got her,” he yelled. “We’re coming out together. Put the guns down and move into the light so I can see you.”
There was a short, seething silence and then Ambrose spoke.
“Pallas?” he said.
