Clark snapped his right foot up. He had on heavy black boots. The tip caught Michael in the lower right side of his rib cage, sending him and the stool he was sitting on toppling backward. Michael hardly had a chance to react. Pain flared across his side. The back of his skull hit the wall hard. He fell to the floor at an awkward angle.

Oh, man, this is bad.

Clark loomed above, the manfly painting in his hands. This time Michael definitely reached for the fun. He had his fingers on the handle and was pulling it out when the canvas came crashing down on him. The frame tore into the top of his scalp, the canvas ripping down over his face. He felt the gun slip from his hand. Then another hand--this one had thick numbing fingers--reached inside his brain. He momentarily blacked out. The next thing he knew, Clark was leaning over him, the barrel of the automatic pressed to his cheek. Clark’s hair seemed suddenly much redder. Then Michael realized he was seeing him through the film of his own blood.

“I didn’t kill her, dude,” he hissed, showing some emotion at last. “She was my girl. Maybe it was you who killed her. Maybe I should kill you and bury you in the backyard. What do you say to that, Mr. Mike?”

“Go to hell.” Michael whispered.

Clark chuckled. Then he drew back the hand that held the gun and a freight train hit the side of Michael’s head....