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latch. It refused to move beneath his numbed fingers, and he silently swore. It was locked and his hands were tied, literally and figuratively.
    First things first. Free his hands, then contemplate his next move. Straightening, Travis tested his legs again. They were a bit steadier now, his steps more true. He walked carefully back in the direction from which he'd come.
    It was like blindman's bluff with no hands to feel his way and a splintering ache in his head. His boots tread on something softer now. A rug. He slowed his steps even more. His thigh thumped against the hard edge of something and he turned. There was little enough mobility in his arms, but he stretched them as far back as he could, feeling along the surface of what he figured to be a desk.
    Papers. Several books. An inkwell and...
    His hands brushed something hard and cool. He felt it topple and jerked to catch it, but he was too slow and it crashed to the floor.
    Travis sucked air through his teeth and waited. Surely the noise would alert someone, but no footsteps came, and he realized in a moment that the object's fall had been blessedly muffled by the carpet.
    Kneeling with some difficulty, he skimmed the floor with his fingertips.
    The broken globe of the lamp sliced the pad of his right index finger before he had time to ascertain what the object was. He drew his hands away, stifled a curse, and realized in a moment that this was the answer to his most pressing problem. Finding the curved glass, he steadied a large broken piece beneath the heel of one boot and thrust his hands over the shard. It cut his wrist immediately, but he ignored the wound and shifted his position.
    Hemp scraped against jagged glass. Back and forth. Back and forth. He could hear voices again and wondered if they were getting nearer. Travis sawed faster, hoping he was making progress.
    A shout sounded from outside. He pushed harder against the glass. It broke and he swore, aloud this time. He winced, waiting a moment.
    From somewhere in the house a door swung open, allowing the harsh swell of many voices to reach him. Travis hurriedly shifted his weight, settling his heel against a smaller piece of glass and sawing with increased speed.
    Something was afoot. Something that boded ill for his continued survival. He could tell by the cramping ache in his ribs.
    "Dead?"
    That one word sounded loud and clear as day. Ryland gritted his teeth, knowing what this meant. Patterson had been discovered and the townspeople had arrived. But why? Wouldn't they assume the mayor had died from a fall?
    He needed more time. Just a bit more, but footsteps were coming toward him. Travis shifted again, pushing the lamp away, hoping it was hidden below the desk. Falling to his side, he lay still and closed his eyes.
    A key turned in the lock. The door was thrust open.
    "But please, my good people. He deserves a fair trial."
    “Trial! The money's gone and George is dead!"
    Travis opened his eyes to the glaring light and blinked. He had no need to see the faces that crowded around the upheld lamp. He'd seen lynch mobs before.
    "We're just lucky Red here apprehended him before he got out of town." The speaker had a walrus moustache and narrow eyes. "What'd you do with the money?"
    Travis remained silent, waiting.
    "He killed George."
    "Deserves no better hisself."
    "But where'd he put the money?"
    "Please, people," interrupted a man with silver hair and brocade robe. Thomas Grey, Ryland deduced. "How do we know it was he that committed the murder?"
    "Know? Red here seen him do it," said a gritty voice.
    "Is that true, Red?" asked Grey, his expression as concerned as his tone.
    The man called Red shifted nervously. He was narrow and tall, with fire-bright hair. "It was dark. But I seen it all." He shook his head as if still stunned by the horror of what he'd witnessed. "George. He was such a harmless gent and..." His words faltered.
    Travis's mind careened along. The man was lying, and he was damned good at