Читать книгу Justice - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 5

He saw the flash before he heard the pop. The percussive ppffft that almost drowned out the moan. The head snapped back, lolling from side to side, then finally found a resting place slumped over the right shoulder. As blood dripped from between the eyes, he wondered if the bastard had ever felt a thing, he’d been so dead drunk.

The thought didn’t quell the shakes, his hands clay cold and stiff. For a while he heard nothing. Then he became aware of his own breathing. He crept out from his shelter and swallowed dryly. Tried to walk, but his knees buckled.

He melted to the floor.

Stayed that way for a long time. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. Time was a black hole, a stupor of sleep and restlessness. Everything was shadowed and fuzzy.

Slowly, things came back into focus. The room, the floor, the bound body, the hole between the eyes. Blood had seeped onto the carpet, pooled around his shoes.

He stared, hoping tears would come. But they didn’t. They never did.

With great effort, he hoisted his gawky frame upward, nearly tripping over spindly legs. The curse of being tall at such a young age: He was all height, no muscle. Light-headed, sick from the smell of gunpowder, he let go with a dry heave.

He tried to walk but again fell forward.

He needed air—clean air.

He crawled on his hands and knees out the back door, pushing open the squeaky screen. Wrapping his hands around the porch column, he raised himself to his feet. His bicycle was still resting against the apple tree, leaning against the trunk because it didn’t have a kickstand.

He knew he had to tell someone. Even though she hated the jerk, Mom would still freak. That left only his uncle. Joey would take care of him. He had to get over to Joey.

He straightened his spine and inched his way over to his transportation. He gripped the handlebars, swung his leg over the seat. Pressing down on the pedal. Propelling himself forward.

Down the driveway and out onto the street.

Faster and faster, harder and harder, until wind whipped through his platinum hair.

He did a wheelie. He felt all right.