Read Online Cradle Lake by Ronald Malfi - Free Book Online

the Audi’s windshield, Alan could make out only subtle, indistinct movements behind the steering wheel.
    Hank rushed past him and over to the fallen child.
    It took a few heartbeats for Alan to snap back to reality. He forced his legs to move toward the injured child. With each stride bringing him closer and closer, the horror of the scene grew more pronounced. Finally, when he reached the child, he had to quickly avert his eyes. The boy’s legs were at funny angles, and there was a trickle of blood along one pant leg. Worse still was the way the boy’s head was turned on his neck …
    Hank crouched down and pressed his ear to the boy’s face.
    â€œJesus, Hank. Is he … ?”
    â€œHe’s alive,” Hank said. Then he shouted it, as if to attract the attention of anyone holding a phone. “He’s alive!”
    The crowd of neighborhood kids closed in, their faces slack, their eyes wide in a combination of fear and disbelief. Among them Alan recognized the boy
he’d
nearly hit with his car on that first day in town. For an instant, the boy’s big, dark eyes met his. The boy’s stare was accusatory, as if this had all somehow been Alan’s fault.
    â€œGet back, guys,” he told the kids. His voice shook. “Give them room.”
    While Hank touched the side of the boy’s throat, perhaps checking for the strength of his pulse, Alan took a stepback. His foot came down on something. He looked down and found himself standing on a baseball glove. He suddenly thought he was going to be sick.
    Neighbors stood on their porches. Some of the men gathered around the fallen boy. The boy wasn’t moving. Aside from the splash of blood on his pants, there was some blood on his T-shirt as well, but Alan held out hope that the minimal amount of it was a good sign. One of the kid’s sneakers was missing, leaving behind a foot within a floppy white sock pointing at the sky. Absently, Alan wondered where the sneaker had gone.
    And his neck, oh God, the poor kid’s neck …
    He hurried around the emergent crowd of men and peered into the Audi’s open door. A woman, no more than thirty years of age, sat behind the wheel. She would have been attractive had her face retained any color, had it not been stricken by the sudden horror of what she had done. White-knuckled, she squeezed the steering wheel in both hands. She was mumbling something under her breath as he approached.
    He bent down and said “Ma’am” a number of times through the open door, but she didn’t respond.
    â€œMove!” one of the men shouted from the huddle.
    Alan looked up and watched the huddle begin to separate, amazed at just how
far
the boy had been thrown.
    â€œHe’s breathing! The kid’s breathing!”
    â€œâ€¦ nowhere,” said the woman.
    Alan looked at her. “What?”
    â€œCame out of nowhere.” Her voice was barely audible.
    â€œIt’ll be okay.” It was a stupid thing to say—the sort ofstupid thing people say in movies that cause the audience to groan—but it was the only thing that came to his mind. So he repeated the stupid thing: “It’ll be okay.”
    â€œAsk the woman her name.” It was Don Probst, coming up behind him. Don looked about as gray as the sky. “We should get her name.”
    Alan reached into the car and turned off the engine, sliding the gear to Park. The last thing he wanted was for the woman to freak out and accidentally gun the accelerator, plowing through the crowd of men trying to help the injured boy. He withdrew the keys from the ignition. The woman didn’t even look at him.
    â€œSomeone should call an ambulance,” he said, backing away from the Audi. He slammed into Don, who hardly uttered a sound. Turning to face the neighbors who were still standing on their porches, Alan shouted, “Someone call an ambulance!”
    He turned and, to his horror, saw Hank