14
I pressed into the small space under a kind of boiler as a scream tried to crawl up and out my throat. Fear put a choke hold on said throat when a dark figure paused, the roundness of his head visible against the dim overhead bulb.
He waited, his head bent in a listening attitude while light found and lit a dull gleam in the weapon he carried. I closed my eyes so he wouldn’t see my whites and shoot. That’s when I heard more footsteps.
Rescue or an accomplice?
I peeked. The round-headed man tensed, reached up and loosened the bulb overhead, then stepped back into my shadows. He was so close I could smell his noxious after-shave mixed with acrid sweat. What came first, I wondered, the bad taste, then the bad guy, or the bad guy, then the bad taste? Not my finest hour, I’ll admit, but
