Read Online Family Murders: A Thriller by Henry Carver - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Henry Carver
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came to sliding halt.
Angela stopped and looked down at her dog. "What is it, boy?"
She looked up at the trail again, ready to scan the area ahead, but any kind of search was a moot point.
There he was, standing in the center of the path. She hadn't so much as heard the leaves rustle. Even at fifty yards, Eric was easy to pick out. He was wearing a dark leather jacket and a pair of bright pink sunglasses.
It seemed impossible to just appear on this section of path, but Angela quickly figured he had come from above, sliding down the incline and then jumping down from the top of the vertical cut into the hill. She realized just as quickly that she couldn't escape the same way: it was effectively a wall over ten feet tall, one made of a compressed, crumbly kind of brown clay, the type that would give way at her first handhold.
But he couldn't get back out that way either. A quick glance over the steep side reinforced her first impression. As far as drops went, it was probably not survivable. This section of the path was effectively a funnel, one way in and one way out. There was only one way to go—she had to turn around, head back, run away. Her body turned halfway, and then Angela made a decision. She had been on the run from this man after their very first meeting, and ever since.
No more. Because there was one other direction she could go. Forward.
"Come on, Rocky." She started walking. Rocky didn't really need any encouragement. She could feel the change in his demeanor, from playful to something like human fury. She hadn't known dogs could feel that way, had certainly never seen it in Rocky, but could feel it radiating off him. Could see it, too. He was usually so clumsy for a dog, like a perpetual teenager who doesn't know how long his limbs are. In an instant he had become lithe and loose and powerful. Each footfall seemed measured, streamlined. He was, she realized, stalking.
"Good boy," she said.
Rocky didn't look up. He kept his eyes down-range, and Angela realized she should do the same. One foot fell in front of another. She started to approach. Eric's entire body was so still, it was easy to believe he had never moved at all.
That he had always been here.
Behind the pink plastic, his face was unreadable. When Angela was twenty yards out, she started talking.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, calmly as she could.
He said nothing.
"What are you doing here, Eric?"
Using his name at least got a small movement. He smiled.
"I noticed you and the dog like to come out this way for a jog," he said. "I thought it might be the perfect place for us to get together for some alone time."
Angela absorbed the crush of the emptiness around her, perceiving just how far the two of them were from anyone else. She didn't say anything.
"So, you're finally starting to put things together," Eric said.
"I know who you are. I know what you are."
"What am I?"
"You're a monster. Some people would say you're sick, but I have a daughter. I don't have the luxury of trying to understand you."
"That's backwards. You've got it all twisted up in your head. I'm not the dragon in this story, Angela—I'm the dragon-slayer."
"I can see why you would tell yourself that."
"I'm the one who should have recognized what needed to be done and done it," he said. "I should have done the right thing. And even though you don't deserve it, that's what I'm going to do now."
"It must make you feel better to talk like this, to rewrite everything with you as the victim, so you don't have to think about what happened to that little girl."
Eric started shaking his head. "No. You of all people don't get to talk about her."
"So you don't have to think about what you did to that little girl. To you own sister. What would Gabby—"
" DON'T YOU DARE SAY HER NAME! " It was like flipping a switch. From a default setting of cool detachment, his face morphed into a gargoyle of hatred and rage.
Angela felt herself take a step back from the sudden,
Angela stopped and looked down at her dog. "What is it, boy?"
She looked up at the trail again, ready to scan the area ahead, but any kind of search was a moot point.
There he was, standing in the center of the path. She hadn't so much as heard the leaves rustle. Even at fifty yards, Eric was easy to pick out. He was wearing a dark leather jacket and a pair of bright pink sunglasses.
It seemed impossible to just appear on this section of path, but Angela quickly figured he had come from above, sliding down the incline and then jumping down from the top of the vertical cut into the hill. She realized just as quickly that she couldn't escape the same way: it was effectively a wall over ten feet tall, one made of a compressed, crumbly kind of brown clay, the type that would give way at her first handhold.
But he couldn't get back out that way either. A quick glance over the steep side reinforced her first impression. As far as drops went, it was probably not survivable. This section of the path was effectively a funnel, one way in and one way out. There was only one way to go—she had to turn around, head back, run away. Her body turned halfway, and then Angela made a decision. She had been on the run from this man after their very first meeting, and ever since.
No more. Because there was one other direction she could go. Forward.
"Come on, Rocky." She started walking. Rocky didn't really need any encouragement. She could feel the change in his demeanor, from playful to something like human fury. She hadn't known dogs could feel that way, had certainly never seen it in Rocky, but could feel it radiating off him. Could see it, too. He was usually so clumsy for a dog, like a perpetual teenager who doesn't know how long his limbs are. In an instant he had become lithe and loose and powerful. Each footfall seemed measured, streamlined. He was, she realized, stalking.
"Good boy," she said.
Rocky didn't look up. He kept his eyes down-range, and Angela realized she should do the same. One foot fell in front of another. She started to approach. Eric's entire body was so still, it was easy to believe he had never moved at all.
That he had always been here.
Behind the pink plastic, his face was unreadable. When Angela was twenty yards out, she started talking.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, calmly as she could.
He said nothing.
"What are you doing here, Eric?"
Using his name at least got a small movement. He smiled.
"I noticed you and the dog like to come out this way for a jog," he said. "I thought it might be the perfect place for us to get together for some alone time."
Angela absorbed the crush of the emptiness around her, perceiving just how far the two of them were from anyone else. She didn't say anything.
"So, you're finally starting to put things together," Eric said.
"I know who you are. I know what you are."
"What am I?"
"You're a monster. Some people would say you're sick, but I have a daughter. I don't have the luxury of trying to understand you."
"That's backwards. You've got it all twisted up in your head. I'm not the dragon in this story, Angela—I'm the dragon-slayer."
"I can see why you would tell yourself that."
"I'm the one who should have recognized what needed to be done and done it," he said. "I should have done the right thing. And even though you don't deserve it, that's what I'm going to do now."
"It must make you feel better to talk like this, to rewrite everything with you as the victim, so you don't have to think about what happened to that little girl."
Eric started shaking his head. "No. You of all people don't get to talk about her."
"So you don't have to think about what you did to that little girl. To you own sister. What would Gabby—"
" DON'T YOU DARE SAY HER NAME! " It was like flipping a switch. From a default setting of cool detachment, his face morphed into a gargoyle of hatred and rage.
Angela felt herself take a step back from the sudden,
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