There Fell a Shadow Read Free Page B

the door. He grabbed the handle and pulled. The wind gusted in. It blew back his collar, bared his face. Snow swirled over the floor, rose around his ankles. He seemed about to plunge forward, to vanish into the blizzard.
    The sound of shattering glass stopped him.
    Startled, I followed the sound. I saw Colt: he had turned to check the movement of the door. He sat frozen in his chair. His cheeks were the color of ashes. His hand was still curled as if he were holding his beer mug. He wasn’t. It had slipped through his fingers. It had fallen to the floor, and the thick glass had exploded into a million pieces. The pile of them glittered in the pale light.
    When the glass broke, the man in the doorway halted, swiveled. He and Colt locked eyes. The whole bar had gone silent. There was only the wild, hollow sough of the wind as it brought in the snow.
    Then—in a hoarse gasp that seemed part of that wind—Colt said: “You!”
    The door handle slid from the man’s grasp. The door swung shut slowly. The sound of the wind died. Colt pushed unsteadily to his feet.
    â€œColt,” Holloway said. He reached for Colt’s arm. Colt shook him off. Wexler made no effort to stop him. He sat transfixed.
    â€œYou!” Colt said again. He growled it this time.
    The haunted man stood still and waited. Colt stalked him. Came near him step by step until he was standing with him in a small pool of melted snow. Their faces were inches apart.
    Colt said quietly: “You’re dead! You’re a dead man!”
    The other reared back.
    Colt shouted: “You’re a dead man, goddamn it! Goddamn it, you owe me an accounting.”
    He grabbed the man by his lapels. I heard a chair scrape as Holloway started to his feet. But the haunted man’s hand shot up swiftly. He knocked Colt’s arm away with a single sweeping motion. Colt staggered back a step.
    â€œNot here,” the man hissed. “Not here, for God’s sake.”
    Holloway stood poised to leap forward, to separate them with his thick little body if they came to blows. But Colt did not move. He seemed to consider. When he finally spoke, his voice seemed almost calm.
    â€œThe Madison,” he said. His intent stare never left the other’s face. “I’m at the Madison.”
    The man nodded.
    Colt pointed a finger at him. “Tomorrow.”
    The man nodded.
    Then, readjusting his collar, he pulled the door open again. He stepped out and, in another moment, he had disappeared in the whirlwind of snow.
    The door swung shut behind him.

C olt stared at the closed door for several seconds. Holloway sank back into his chair with a sigh. Wexler closed his eyes, daubed the sweat from his flaccid face with a napkin. Colt turned, running his hand up through his hair. He took a deep breath. Walked slowly to the table, and lowered himself into his chair.
    At first, he kept his eyes trained on the tabletop. We waited, trying not to watch him, watching him. Finally, he looked up.
    â€œGuy owes me money,” he said softly. “That’s all.”
    We nodded at him. We mumbled, fidgeted. None of us knew what to say.
    The pretty waitress returned to our table—cautiously now. She was hunched over protectively, as if she were afraid of us. She raised one blond eyebrow. “Uh …” she said nervously. “Does anyone, like, want another drink? Or anything?”
    That turned out to be just the right question. We all wanted another drink, every one of us. She hurried off to get them.
    â€œWell,” said Wexler, a little too brightly, “nothing like a bit of excitement to enliven the evening, I always, uh, say, you …”
    Holloway tried to pick up the slack. “It’s funny, I remember this guy I used to play poker with. Owed me money. Once we’d been playing five card stud, and I had three kings and an ace in the hole with no other aces showing. I was broke and this other guy, Bennett, he