Read Online Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) by Colin Campbell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Colin Campbell
Tags: Fiction, detective, english, Mystery, Police, International, marine, cop, Boston, international mystery
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The camouflage pants became faded blue jeans and the boots transformed into dusty black K-Swiss tennis shoes. The sand and stones and debris remained the same. It choked his lungs, and he coughed himself awake. He could barely open his eyes. His ears were ringing like Quasimodo in the bell tower. He coughed harder and cleared some of the obstruction from his throat, but his mouth was dry and claggy. He tried to spit but couldnât create any moisture.
Pain filled his world.
He kept still. First thing to do was take stock, but since everything hurt it was difficult to know where to start. Visual examination. After a traumatic experience, your physical senses could lie. Amputees often felt like they still had their limbs. Fingers and toes were notoriously fickle about transmitting data to the brain. It was all just pain. How many toes were left was impossible to gauge until you counted them. There was something heavy lying on top of him.
His eyes. He blinked them clear, but they stung with dust and scratches. They worked, though. He ignored the pain and did a quick circuit of the room without moving his head. Grant was lying in an awkward twisted position against the back wall with the table upside down across his lower body. The pain down there was worrying, but he argued that he had to be alive to feel pain. That was the first positive.
The second was that he still seemed to have both hands.
Sullivan was missing at least one. It was curled on the floor in the middle of the room. Red stringy blood vessels and white shards of bone protruded from the severed wrist. Grant wondered where the rest of him was and how badly he was injured. Then he glanced up and stopped wondering. A squashed eyeball stared down at him from the ceiling with a swatch of flesh and one ear.
Grant concentrated on his own situation. He had two hands, both eyes, and his head moved without snapping his neck. The table felt like a dead weight across his chest and legs, but at least his senses were reporting that he had legsâhe hoped. The solid metal table was hard to move. He pushed with his arms, but shock had robbed him of his strength.
The window had blown out into the street, and Grant became aware of sirens rushing from the outside world. Air horns indicated the fire department was on its way. The ringing in his ears toned down a notch. Somebody knocked on the door.
âYou gotta be kiddinâ. Come in.â
His voice was harsh and rasping. There were situations where gallows humor helped save the day and situations where silence was the only answer. This was one of those situationsâthe interview room demolished, Freddy Sullivan blasted apart, and pain wracking Grantâs body. He couldnât believe somebody was knocking on the door. Then he realized it wasnât a knock on the door. It was someone outside trying to knock their way through the door.
The door shook but didnât budge. Dust was dislodged from the door frame and the ceiling with each kick, but the door wouldnât open. Faces looked in through the hole where the window used to be. Voices called into the room, but Grant couldnât make out the words. His ears were still out of focus. He glanced at the base of the door and saw why it was blocked.
The biggest part of Freddy Sullivan lay amid a pile of bricks and plasterboard and a twisted metal chair. His torso, or most of it minus one shoulder, was laid on its side like he was resting. The door banged again and thumped the corpse. Grant felt anger ball up in his throat. The indignity of Freddy being abused even after death was too much for him. He shouted for whoever was kicking the door to stop, mustered enough strength to push the table off his legs, then crawled over to the door.
He paused. Words should be spoken, but now wasnât the time. He took a deep breath through his noseâhis mouth was still too dryâand gently rolled Sullivan onto his back. He tried to take his orange
The camouflage pants became faded blue jeans and the boots transformed into dusty black K-Swiss tennis shoes. The sand and stones and debris remained the same. It choked his lungs, and he coughed himself awake. He could barely open his eyes. His ears were ringing like Quasimodo in the bell tower. He coughed harder and cleared some of the obstruction from his throat, but his mouth was dry and claggy. He tried to spit but couldnât create any moisture.
Pain filled his world.
He kept still. First thing to do was take stock, but since everything hurt it was difficult to know where to start. Visual examination. After a traumatic experience, your physical senses could lie. Amputees often felt like they still had their limbs. Fingers and toes were notoriously fickle about transmitting data to the brain. It was all just pain. How many toes were left was impossible to gauge until you counted them. There was something heavy lying on top of him.
His eyes. He blinked them clear, but they stung with dust and scratches. They worked, though. He ignored the pain and did a quick circuit of the room without moving his head. Grant was lying in an awkward twisted position against the back wall with the table upside down across his lower body. The pain down there was worrying, but he argued that he had to be alive to feel pain. That was the first positive.
The second was that he still seemed to have both hands.
Sullivan was missing at least one. It was curled on the floor in the middle of the room. Red stringy blood vessels and white shards of bone protruded from the severed wrist. Grant wondered where the rest of him was and how badly he was injured. Then he glanced up and stopped wondering. A squashed eyeball stared down at him from the ceiling with a swatch of flesh and one ear.
Grant concentrated on his own situation. He had two hands, both eyes, and his head moved without snapping his neck. The table felt like a dead weight across his chest and legs, but at least his senses were reporting that he had legsâhe hoped. The solid metal table was hard to move. He pushed with his arms, but shock had robbed him of his strength.
The window had blown out into the street, and Grant became aware of sirens rushing from the outside world. Air horns indicated the fire department was on its way. The ringing in his ears toned down a notch. Somebody knocked on the door.
âYou gotta be kiddinâ. Come in.â
His voice was harsh and rasping. There were situations where gallows humor helped save the day and situations where silence was the only answer. This was one of those situationsâthe interview room demolished, Freddy Sullivan blasted apart, and pain wracking Grantâs body. He couldnât believe somebody was knocking on the door. Then he realized it wasnât a knock on the door. It was someone outside trying to knock their way through the door.
The door shook but didnât budge. Dust was dislodged from the door frame and the ceiling with each kick, but the door wouldnât open. Faces looked in through the hole where the window used to be. Voices called into the room, but Grant couldnât make out the words. His ears were still out of focus. He glanced at the base of the door and saw why it was blocked.
The biggest part of Freddy Sullivan lay amid a pile of bricks and plasterboard and a twisted metal chair. His torso, or most of it minus one shoulder, was laid on its side like he was resting. The door banged again and thumped the corpse. Grant felt anger ball up in his throat. The indignity of Freddy being abused even after death was too much for him. He shouted for whoever was kicking the door to stop, mustered enough strength to push the table off his legs, then crawled over to the door.
He paused. Words should be spoken, but now wasnât the time. He took a deep breath through his noseâhis mouth was still too dryâand gently rolled Sullivan onto his back. He tried to take his orange
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