Jack Beale 00 - Killer Run

work boots as they clacked on the bare wood floors made him wish he had worn a pair of running shoes instead. He remained alone as he toured the store, and the more time passed, the less confident he was in his mission. He thought, “ Maybe Polly was right; we should have just called the police. ” Then a voice from behind made him jump.
    “Malcom?”
    He turned, his heart pounding. Alfred was just as he remembered: shirt buttoned up to the neck, thick, wire-rimmed glasses, and that deep, slightly nasal voice. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Alfred. I think you know why I am here.”
    Alfred continued to stare at him. “No. Why?” his voice was emotionless.
    “I think you do.” He tried to sound as intimidating as he could.
    “I don’t. I really don’t. Why don’t you tell me.” Alfred’s voice never wavered, nor did his gaze.
    “The quilt. It’s gone, and so is the framed letter.”
    “What quilt? What letter?”
    Malcom couldn’t believe the balls Alfred had, to stand there and act like he didn’t know what he was talking about. “The quilt and letter you stole from us.”
    “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t like being accused of things I didn’t do, so maybe you had better just leave before one of us does something that might be regretted later.”
    “Bullshit. Give them back,” Malcom said, his voice beginning to rise.
    “Like I said, I don’t have them.”
    “You do,” he insisted. This time his voice was a little bit louder and more commanding.
    The look on Alfred’s face never changed. He continued to stare at Malcom and his voice remained flat. “I don’t. I think you should leave.”
    “I’m not leaving until I have them.”
    For the first time there was a subtle change in the tone of Alfred’s response and a slight shift in his stance. Malcom watched as Alfred’s eyes changed. His glasses still refracted them in an unnatural way, but instead of being goofy, they were now hard, cold, and a bit unnerving. “I told you. I don’t have them and I think you should leave now.” He paused and then added, “and even if I did, what makes you think I’d give them back?”
    Malcom didn’t move. It was his turn to stare silently. “So you do admit you have them.”
    “I apologized to your wife. I didn’t have to do that. Now, you need to leave.”
    Malcom remained motionless. “They have nothing to do with your family’s troubles two hundred years ago.”
    That last statement hit a nerve.
    “You don’t know anything about my family.”
    “I know what you told me. I know that the letters we found have nothing to do with them. I know…”
    Alfred leaned in toward Malcom and cut him off as he spoke. “I have spent my life searching for the truth.” His voice began to rise as if he were about to lose control. Then he paused, regained control, and in an even, more measured tone, continued, “and now it is within my grasp and I won’t let you or anyone else stop me.”
    Now, with Alfred, only inches from his face, Malcom really began to question his decision to confront him, but it was too late to stop now. “So, you do have them,” he repeated.
    “I admit nothing. Your words, not mine.”
    Malcom softened his tone a bit. “Look Alfred, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you the impression that I know much about your family. And we haven’t reported the thefts yet, because I wanted to give you the opportunity …”
    “What opportunity?” Alfred continued to stand too close for comfort, and his tone remained defiant. “To what, confess to something I didn’t do?”
    Malcom tried again. “Just give them back to me and we can forget that this ever happened.”
    “I can’t give what I don’t have. And I want you to leave.”
    “Not without the quilt and the letter.”
    The speed with which Alfred moved surprised Malcom, who suddenly found himself being propelled toward the front of the store from behind with his arm twisted behind his back. “Hey,” cried Malcom.
    Alfred’s strength was surprising, and he kept pushing him toward the door. But when they were still several steps away from the door, Malcom recovered enough to resist and stop Alfred’s forward momentum. He slammed his body back against Alfred while ramming his head back into his face. Alfred cried out, lost his balance, and released his grip at the same time. An elephant leg umbrella stand, filled with umbrellas, fell over, spilling them like so many