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.
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