Read Online JACK KILBORN ~ AFRAID by Jack Kilborn - Free Book Online
Authors: Jack Kilborn
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phone? Didn’t cops have rules about that sort of thing?
“I need to speak with the sheriff. It’s an emergency.”
“I don’t think he can speak. I believe I just ruptured his kidney.”
“What?” What the hell is going on?
“Is this the man who just went into the Morton house? How’s Sal holding up? Still grieving for his dear, dead wife?”
“His wife? Where’s Maggie?”
“She’s not on the bed? Hmm. Interesting. I suppose Ajax has her, then.”
Josh stared at the huge bloodstain on the bed, and then his eyes climbed up Sal, who continued to stare, mouth agape, across the hall to the adjoining bedroom. Josh followed Sal’s stare with the flashlight.
It came to rest on the huge man standing next to the window, quietly slow dancing with the naked, mutilated corpse of Maggie Morton.
F ran’s upper body hung out of the diner’s broken kitchen window, Al’s murderer clutching the ankle of her right foot, preventing her from getting away. Glass shards dug into her chest, and the smell of rotten food from the alley Dumpster to her left made her eyes water. Fran kicked out with her free foot, connecting with the killer several times, but her rubber-soled shoes bounced off without apparent effect.
Her hands frantically sought something to grab on to, something to hold so she could pull herself out. The Dumpster, a foot away, might as well have been a mile. Her palms couldn’t get any kind of purchase on the brick wall. All Fran could do was lean forward, hooking her armpits around the window frame, and try to resist the inevitable yank back into the kitchen.
The yank didn’t come. In fact, the killer didn’t tug on her at all. He simply held her ankle—hard enough that she couldn’t twist away—but without pulling. Fran remembered being a child, getting a booster shot at the doctor’s office, and how waiting for it was just as bad as getting it. She wondered how being stabbed with a knife compared to an inoculation needle. Or would he prefer slicing to stabbing?
But seconds ticked away, and still he did nothing but hold her. The anticipation was torture.
Then his other hand touched her bare calf and began to knead it, rubbing up and down.
Fran screamed, this intimate gesture somehow ratcheting up her terror. A moment later, her shoe was pulled off. Then she felt her sock peeling down. What the hell was this guy doing?
She found out when something warm and wet enveloped her toes.
He was sucking them.
Fran squirmed and kicked, but she had no leverage, no way to bend her legs while she was on her stomach. She planted her free foot on the attacker’s forehead and pushed, trying to keep his face away. It had no effect. As his tongue squirmed between her toes, his free hand traveled up her leg and rubbed the inside of her thigh under her skirt.
If both hands were holding her, that meant he wasn’t holding the knife.
Fran tried to figure out how she could use this to her advantage. Had he dropped the knife? Set it down? Put it in a sheath?
His teeth scraped the knuckle of her little toe, then locked around it.
Oh, Jesus, no …
First pressure. Then pain. The killer sawed his teeth back and forth and shook his head like a dog, but apparently the toe didn’t want to come off no matter how violent the movement. The agony spiked to unbearable levels, going on and on and on, and Fran kicked his face and pushed against the outside brick wall and then suddenly she slipped free, spilling face-first onto the asphalt, hands out to break her fall.
Fran rolled onto her butt, her back against the wall, hands seeking out the unrelenting throb that now occupied her entire body and soul. She’d stubbed her toes many times in her life, once while she had an ingrown nail. That pain was a joke compared to this. She probed the wound, trying to judge the severity of the damage in the darkness, sobbing at what she discovered. Her toe was completely gone, a tiny sharp nub of bone sticking out where it used
“I need to speak with the sheriff. It’s an emergency.”
“I don’t think he can speak. I believe I just ruptured his kidney.”
“What?” What the hell is going on?
“Is this the man who just went into the Morton house? How’s Sal holding up? Still grieving for his dear, dead wife?”
“His wife? Where’s Maggie?”
“She’s not on the bed? Hmm. Interesting. I suppose Ajax has her, then.”
Josh stared at the huge bloodstain on the bed, and then his eyes climbed up Sal, who continued to stare, mouth agape, across the hall to the adjoining bedroom. Josh followed Sal’s stare with the flashlight.
It came to rest on the huge man standing next to the window, quietly slow dancing with the naked, mutilated corpse of Maggie Morton.
F ran’s upper body hung out of the diner’s broken kitchen window, Al’s murderer clutching the ankle of her right foot, preventing her from getting away. Glass shards dug into her chest, and the smell of rotten food from the alley Dumpster to her left made her eyes water. Fran kicked out with her free foot, connecting with the killer several times, but her rubber-soled shoes bounced off without apparent effect.
Her hands frantically sought something to grab on to, something to hold so she could pull herself out. The Dumpster, a foot away, might as well have been a mile. Her palms couldn’t get any kind of purchase on the brick wall. All Fran could do was lean forward, hooking her armpits around the window frame, and try to resist the inevitable yank back into the kitchen.
The yank didn’t come. In fact, the killer didn’t tug on her at all. He simply held her ankle—hard enough that she couldn’t twist away—but without pulling. Fran remembered being a child, getting a booster shot at the doctor’s office, and how waiting for it was just as bad as getting it. She wondered how being stabbed with a knife compared to an inoculation needle. Or would he prefer slicing to stabbing?
But seconds ticked away, and still he did nothing but hold her. The anticipation was torture.
Then his other hand touched her bare calf and began to knead it, rubbing up and down.
Fran screamed, this intimate gesture somehow ratcheting up her terror. A moment later, her shoe was pulled off. Then she felt her sock peeling down. What the hell was this guy doing?
She found out when something warm and wet enveloped her toes.
He was sucking them.
Fran squirmed and kicked, but she had no leverage, no way to bend her legs while she was on her stomach. She planted her free foot on the attacker’s forehead and pushed, trying to keep his face away. It had no effect. As his tongue squirmed between her toes, his free hand traveled up her leg and rubbed the inside of her thigh under her skirt.
If both hands were holding her, that meant he wasn’t holding the knife.
Fran tried to figure out how she could use this to her advantage. Had he dropped the knife? Set it down? Put it in a sheath?
His teeth scraped the knuckle of her little toe, then locked around it.
Oh, Jesus, no …
First pressure. Then pain. The killer sawed his teeth back and forth and shook his head like a dog, but apparently the toe didn’t want to come off no matter how violent the movement. The agony spiked to unbearable levels, going on and on and on, and Fran kicked his face and pushed against the outside brick wall and then suddenly she slipped free, spilling face-first onto the asphalt, hands out to break her fall.
Fran rolled onto her butt, her back against the wall, hands seeking out the unrelenting throb that now occupied her entire body and soul. She’d stubbed her toes many times in her life, once while she had an ingrown nail. That pain was a joke compared to this. She probed the wound, trying to judge the severity of the damage in the darkness, sobbing at what she discovered. Her toe was completely gone, a tiny sharp nub of bone sticking out where it used
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