Whispers at Midnight Read Online Free PDF Page B

kick-ass Martha Stewart either. A soft and cuddly Martha Stewart. A Martha Stewart whose fight or flight instinct was irretrievably set on flight.
    “We don’t have burglars in Benton,” Carly whispered back, nearly dropping the flashlight as she fumbled desperately to turn it off before the beam could give their presence away. Scant seconds after she succeeded, the man’s shoulders emerged from the blackness underneath the porch, followed in due and predictable course by his head.
    “Then who is he?” Sandra sounded unconvinced. The cardboard moving box full of pots and pans that she’d been carrying now rested at her feet. Carly had been so focused on the man that she hadn’t even realized Sandra had set her precious cooking utensils down in the wet grass. Her own less docile cargo squirmed indignantly in her arms. Hugo hated to be carried; he considered it beneath his dignity. Carly tightened her hold on the huge Himalayan cat and prayed he wouldn’t let out an untimely yowl.
    “A plumber? The Orkin man? How the heck should I know?”
    The night was humid and airless in the aftermath of the fierce summer storm that had just passed. A wet earthy smell that Carly always associated with rainy nights in Georgia hung in the air. Still-dripping leaves and eaves combined with the piccolo piping of a host of unseen tree frogs to cover their whispered conversation. From behind shifting clouds a pale sickle moon appeared, providing justenough light to enable Carly to see the tall form of the intruder come lithely to his feet.
    In one hand, its ominous shape unmistakable despite the darkness, he held an evil-looking black pistol.
    “That’s it. I’m calling nine-one-one.” Sandra rooted in the bright plastic tote bag that served as her purse and came up with her cell phone, which she flipped open.
    “We don’t have nine-one-one service in Benton.”
    “Shee-it.” Sandra stopped punching numbers, closed the phone and rolled her eyes at Carly. “You got anything in Benton besides spooky old houses and scary men with guns?”
    “We have a McDonald’s. And a Pizza Hut.” Both were recent arrivals of which her small hometown’s chamber of commerce was justly proud.
    “Oh, that’s great. How about I just go ahead and call one of them?” Sandra shook her head in disgust. “I don’t want to eat, fool. I want to be saved from the man with the gun. What about a fire department? They save cats from trees.”
    “In Benton if we need help we call the state police. Or the sheriff.”
    “Number?” Sandra flipped open her phone again.
    “No clue.”
    They were backing away as they spoke. Carly moved carefully, mindful of lurking tree roots, her sneakers sliding a little on the slippery ground, her eyes never leaving the maybe-burglar. Clearly unaware of their presence, he stood with his back to them, seeming to focus on the huge dark shape that was the barn, which was just visible behind the house. The yard was as neglected as the rest of the property, the grass and bushes overgrown, the leaves unraked from the previous fall, which made the footing even trickier, especially since they were moving downhill. Situated at the western edge of town atop a wooded knoll some distance from its nearest neighbor, the Beadle Mansion, as the house was known thanks to its original owner, did not even possess its own driveway. Their vehicle, a bright orange U-Haul, which they had driven straight through from Chicago, was parked beside the narrow blacktop road that curled around the base of the hill. Reaching it without alerting the man to theirpresence should be doable. Getting inside and driving away without being spotted was a whole nother basket of bread rolls.
    Sandra’s cell phone snapped shut with a tiny sound that spoke of pure disgust. The man started walking away from them toward the corner of the house as if he might be headed for the barn. Carly stuck the flashlight into the front pocket of her jeans and tightened her