Death Notes

each sheet.
    The museum would have fun with this stuff but I didn’t see anything in Match’s old compositions that would help me much now. I turned to leave the room. It was then that I realized the phone had stopped ringing.
    I froze. Maybe I was just so hopped-up I’d missed the last ring. I shut off my flashlight and listened. Silence. How long ago had it stopped? I pulled out my cell phone and listened. All I heard was a dial tone.
    Something creaked down the hall. Then I heard a muffled shuffling, faint, but getting louder and closer by the second.
    Damn. I fought a wild impulse to run screaming down the hall and out the front door, and forced myself to think. One millisecond was all I needed. There was no place to hide. No place to go but out. I made for the back window and fumbled with the latch.
    It gave, silently, instantly, but before I could raise it, the blinding overhead light flooded the room. Behind me, I heard a gasp.
    ‘Oh my God!’
    I recognized Sharon’s voice. The brightness just about blinded me when I wheeled around, but I managed to make out Sharon’s stout figure in the doorway. The wide collar of her zebra-striped caftan sloped off one meaty shoulder and the hair on the right side of her head was smushed flat, like she’d been sleeping on it. She looked frazzled and trashed and only half awake.
    I started to smile, but something caught my eye, something small and dark in her hand. My heart stopped. It was a gun. And it was leveled point-blank at my chest.
    Sharon blinked groggily, then seemed to recognize me.
    ‘Ronnie? What... what are you doing here?’ Her voice sounded hollow and drugged. She didn’t lower the gun.
    Shit, my eyes hurt. I was tired of squinting and every cell in my body felt sharp and prickly. I wanted to say something smart, something that would diffuse her hostility and wake her up at the same time, but all I could think about was the gun. It was a Saturday night special. Cheap, black, and efficient.
    ‘Put the gun down, Sharon.’
    ‘When did...? You’d better explain, honey.’
    She sounded coherent enough but the first rule Blackie taught me way back when was never argue with a gun - and never take a gun for granted.
    ‘Explain,’ she muttered.
    So I did.
    ‘Testing,’ I heard myself say. ‘I was testing your new system.’
    ‘Testing?’
    Her eyes drifted shut and she swayed against the doorframe, then snapped to attention.
    ‘What... system?’
    ‘Your burglar alarm system. Remember? I installed it for you. Monday. I always run a test after I put one in. It’s routine. Hey,’ I pointed at the gun, and offered her my most winning smile. ‘You don’t need that.’
    But she still wouldn’t put the gun down. I was starting to think Sharon and I didn’t have the best client/detective relationship we could have. Her pupils were dilated the size of frisbees and her unfocused eyes swam. I watched her fat little fingers. One twitch, one unconscious spasm, and I’d be history. ‘Honest,’ I said. ‘It was just a test.’
    The slack muscles in her face tightened. It was obvious she didn’t believe me.
    ‘You wanna know what? I... You...’ she trailed off in a mumble, then rallied. ‘You helped, didn’t you?’
    ‘Right. I designed the system. The burglar alarm.’
    ‘No, no, no.’ She waved the gun back and forth, shaking it instead of her head. I held my breath and prayed it wouldn’t go off, prayed it wasn’t loaded.
    ‘The break-in,’ she said. ‘You helped...’
    ‘I—’
    ‘You did, you little bish. An’ Match’s book - you helped steal that, too. An’ his mushic, didn’t you? Thought I didn't know?’ Her dazed, sloppy grin scared me almost as much as the gun did. I needed to say something before she added the Kennedy assassinations to the list of indictments and convinced herself to pull the trigger.
    ‘Sharon, look at me. It’s Ronnie. You know me. You hired me. I’m on your side. Remember?’
    I don’t think she did.
    ‘Tell me who you’re talking about, Sharon. Who broke in?’ I started toward her, my hand extended, the way you’d hold your hand out to a snarling pitbull.
    ‘Put the gun down, Sharon. We’re friends.’
    I would have crawled if I thought it’d do me any good. ‘Just stay calm, Sharon. I’m here to help. Now put the gun down so we can talk.’
    I was creeping forward, one tiny step at a time, but there was still a good ten feet between us. My chest was the bullseye. It felt about to