Their struggle was brief, halted by a voice from behind them.
“Think you can handle him?”
Biff and Specks swung around. On the balcony, a nonchalant smile on his handsome face, stood Uncle Charlie.
Specks, his head pivoting from Biff to Charlie, a frightened look in his eyes, reached for the doorknob. He wanted out, and fast.
“Grab him!” Uncle Charlie ordered and came charging across the room.
Not once so far had Uncle Charlie called Biff by name. Biff took his lead from this. Uncle Charlie still didn’t want Specks to know that Biff wasn’t Derek.
Biff wrapped his arms around Specks, restraining him. Uncle Charlie, at their side, grabbed Specks by the shoulders and wrenched him away from Biff’s grasp.
“Now, how do you want to play this?” Charles Keene asked. His voice was firm, grim, even though his eyes held a sparkle of amusement.
Specks didn’t reply. He tried to pull away from Uncle Charlie’s grasp. He didn’t have a chance.
“There are several ways of handling you,” Biff’s uncle went on. “You see this?” He removed one hand and doubled it into a ham-sized fist. “It’s pretty large for a sleeping tablet. But well placed, like right here”—he flicked Specks’ jaw with the fist—“and I’m sure you will take a long, long nap.”