Yelling, the man got to his feet, staggering every time Puck leaped on him. He stumbled across the parking lot, cursing in some guttural language Jennifer didn't recognize -- not Arabic, German, Russian, or French. She snatched up the flat silver box. Gunshots rang out, and bullets ricocheted off the cement. Somersaulting backwards, she nearly hit her head on the car bumper to her right.
Shouting the commands to stop, retreat, come back to her, in English and reinforced in Greek, Jennifer stumbled backwards into the shelter of her Jeep. The gunshots halted mere seconds after Puck joined her, shuddering and silently growling.
Fighting to calm her breathing, she wrapped her arms around her companion and listened to the night sounds. Specifically, the lack of certain sounds -- running feet, men shouting and cursing, and the roaring of an engine as a car or truck sped away into the night. She could only guess that whoever had tried to do something to her Jeep had approached on foot. Why?
The family at Quarry Hall was still discussing the possibilities, the theories, when the police arrived. Roger stepped out to deal with them, leaving Jennifer to finish the call. Puck stayed with Jennifer, and she was grateful.
She still had the silver box, long enough and wide enough to hold maybe six pencils, clutched tight in her hand. She didn't want to hand it over to the police, but chances were good they would demand she hand it over if she told them about it.