Read Online Hour of the Hunter by J. A. Jance - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. A. Jance
Ads: Link
from the looks on their faces that they thought she was too heavy. For some reason, this seemed funny to her, but when she tried to laugh, another searing pain shot through her.
One of the men tried to pry Davy away from her hand, but he clung to her and refused to budge.
"Let him come," one of the attendants said. "He's hurt, Could that be?
Olhoni hurt? Rita tried to look at him, to see what was wrong, but she blacked out then. The next thing she knew, she was riding in the ambulance, or rather on top of it. Over it somehow. She could see the two attendants huddled over a strangely familiar figure lying flat on a stretcher.
Olhoni was sitting off to one side. Rita called to him, but he didn't look up, didn't hear her. His eyes never left the face of the old woman on the stretcher. There was a bottle with some kind of liquid in it hanging above her.
A plastic tube led from the bottle to a needle pressed into the flesh of the woman's arm.
Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity. "We're losing her! We're losing her!" one of the attendants shouted.
Ruthlessly, the other man shoved Olhoni aside, pushing him roughly up into the front seat. The boy didn't protest.
He went where he was told and sat there, with his hands clutching the dashboard, staring out the window in front of him.
And that was when Rita saw the buzzards, three of them, sitting in a row on three separate telephone poles, their huge wings outstretched to collect the last warming rays of sunshine. Those buzzards, their heads still naked and bloody after I'itoi scalped them in punishment for betraying him, sat there soaking up the sun on their coal-black living wing tips.
The buzzards were alive and wanted to be alive. Suddenly, so did Rita.
Olhoni still needed her. Fitoi did not.
Clawing her way, hand over hand, Rita scrambled down from the roof of the movin vehicle, fought her way back inside the ambulance until she stood peering curiously down at the shrunken form still strapped to the stretcher.
For some time, she gazed dispassionately at the body, amazed by how terribly ancient that old woman seemed, by how worn and wrinkled and used-up she was, but not yet ready to be dead.
With a terrifying jolt, the electrical current passed through her body, hammering her heart awake once more, and she was home.
Andrew Carlisle took his time coming down the trail.
He searched back and forth, combing the Mountainside until he found the two empty beer cans they had dropped on the way up. No sense in leaving a set of identifiable fingerprints. He knew from what he'd learned in Florence that the chances of homicide cops finding a assailant were slim as long as the stranger was reasonably smart and played it cool.
The waning afternoon sun scorched the ground around him. No one had yet ventured into the deserted rest-area parking lot by the time he returned to his victim's car. He helped himself to another beer-still cold, thank God-and started the Toyota. He turned off the air-conditioning and drove down the freeway with the windows open, letting the hot desert air flow freely over his body. It was outside air.
He was free.
Fortunately, there was plenty of gas in the car, so he didn't have to stop before he got to Phoenix. He drove straight to the Park Central Mall in Phoenix proper and parked in an empty corner of the lot.
There, as afternoon turned to evening, he went through the woman's purse and removed all the cash, over two hundred dollars' worth.
Beneath the seat he discovered a gun, a Llarna .380 automatic. He had planned to take nothing that belonged to his victim, nothing that could tie him back to her, but the weapon was more temptation than he could resist. Trying to purchase a weapon if he wanted one later might cause people to ask questions. So he pocketed the gun.
Carefully, systematically, he went over every surface in the vehicle, wiping it clean of prints. Then he did the same to the beer cans and jewelry before he took them to a nearby
One of the men tried to pry Davy away from her hand, but he clung to her and refused to budge.
"Let him come," one of the attendants said. "He's hurt, Could that be?
Olhoni hurt? Rita tried to look at him, to see what was wrong, but she blacked out then. The next thing she knew, she was riding in the ambulance, or rather on top of it. Over it somehow. She could see the two attendants huddled over a strangely familiar figure lying flat on a stretcher.
Olhoni was sitting off to one side. Rita called to him, but he didn't look up, didn't hear her. His eyes never left the face of the old woman on the stretcher. There was a bottle with some kind of liquid in it hanging above her.
A plastic tube led from the bottle to a needle pressed into the flesh of the woman's arm.
Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity. "We're losing her! We're losing her!" one of the attendants shouted.
Ruthlessly, the other man shoved Olhoni aside, pushing him roughly up into the front seat. The boy didn't protest.
He went where he was told and sat there, with his hands clutching the dashboard, staring out the window in front of him.
And that was when Rita saw the buzzards, three of them, sitting in a row on three separate telephone poles, their huge wings outstretched to collect the last warming rays of sunshine. Those buzzards, their heads still naked and bloody after I'itoi scalped them in punishment for betraying him, sat there soaking up the sun on their coal-black living wing tips.
The buzzards were alive and wanted to be alive. Suddenly, so did Rita.
Olhoni still needed her. Fitoi did not.
Clawing her way, hand over hand, Rita scrambled down from the roof of the movin vehicle, fought her way back inside the ambulance until she stood peering curiously down at the shrunken form still strapped to the stretcher.
For some time, she gazed dispassionately at the body, amazed by how terribly ancient that old woman seemed, by how worn and wrinkled and used-up she was, but not yet ready to be dead.
With a terrifying jolt, the electrical current passed through her body, hammering her heart awake once more, and she was home.
Andrew Carlisle took his time coming down the trail.
He searched back and forth, combing the Mountainside until he found the two empty beer cans they had dropped on the way up. No sense in leaving a set of identifiable fingerprints. He knew from what he'd learned in Florence that the chances of homicide cops finding a assailant were slim as long as the stranger was reasonably smart and played it cool.
The waning afternoon sun scorched the ground around him. No one had yet ventured into the deserted rest-area parking lot by the time he returned to his victim's car. He helped himself to another beer-still cold, thank God-and started the Toyota. He turned off the air-conditioning and drove down the freeway with the windows open, letting the hot desert air flow freely over his body. It was outside air.
He was free.
Fortunately, there was plenty of gas in the car, so he didn't have to stop before he got to Phoenix. He drove straight to the Park Central Mall in Phoenix proper and parked in an empty corner of the lot.
There, as afternoon turned to evening, he went through the woman's purse and removed all the cash, over two hundred dollars' worth.
Beneath the seat he discovered a gun, a Llarna .380 automatic. He had planned to take nothing that belonged to his victim, nothing that could tie him back to her, but the weapon was more temptation than he could resist. Trying to purchase a weapon if he wanted one later might cause people to ask questions. So he pocketed the gun.
Carefully, systematically, he went over every surface in the vehicle, wiping it clean of prints. Then he did the same to the beer cans and jewelry before he took them to a nearby