Matthews glared angrily at him.  “Where is she?” he growled.

“Where’s who?” stuttered Thomas, edging backward toward the stairs.

“My wife!” Matthews shouted, and leapt over Fred’s prone body.  Thomas turned and fled down the stairs.  At the bottom he threw the satchel he was carrying, tripping Matthews and giving him time to get around the corner.  Where now?  And what wife?  He had no idea.  Getting away was the only important thing right now.  Quickly he sped through the kitchen and into the mud room to the back door.  Locked!  Of course it is, you idiot!  He thought to himself, and turned around.  Matthews was already there. 

The two eyed each other, Matthews grinning slightly and Thomas breathing hard.  “It doesn’t matter,” Matthews said.  “I’ll find her later.  Probably ran back to the inn without you.  You know what I’m going to do, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t!” said Thomas, “And I don’t know why!  What is it you think I’ve done?”

“Well, let’s start with breaking into my house; fooling around with my wife!  You think you can just take a man’s wife and he’ll just walk away?  Is that what you think?”  Matthews was working himself up to a primal rage, Thomas could see.  He felt confused, and lost – and more frightened than he had ever been in his life.

Just then Fred’s voice came from behind them in the kitchen.  “Blackwell, stand real still now!”  He barked.  Fred was weak, and holding on to the counter, but had his gun trained on Matthews’ back.  “I know you’re angry, but this isn’t the way to handle it, Blackwell.  Just put the gun down, real slow, and back up a step.  It’s my job to arrest this man, and that’s what I’ll do.  Put the gun down, now.”  Fred continued to talk, slowly and surely, and Blackwell listened.  Slowly his gun lowered and he began to turn towards the kitchen.  Fred motioned Thomas to move to the side and continued talk to Blackwell, his eyes never leaving the man’s face.  Suddenly Blackwell started to cry, a low, soft keen that grew in pitch into a wild howl.  He spun the rest of the way around, lifting the gun as he did.  The sharp report of Fred’s revolver filled Thomas’s ears, and the man he had known as Matthews crumpled to the linoleum floor.

(To read the beginning, go to The Artist, Chapter 1)