Read Online The Given by Vicki Pettersson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Vicki Pettersson
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her death. The blood splatter was wrong for a standing kill. The killer, or killers, had levered themselves low, too, eye-level with the victim just in case the bullet passed through the brain. It would then strike the wall, not go straight down into floor.
But why hadnât any of the neighbors reported a blast? Grif wondered, gaze winging to the hole in the wall. And where were the footprints leading away from the body?
One thing was certain, Grif thought, lowering his gun. The killer was goneâlikely out that open windowâand so was her Centurion. So why, he wondered, gaze winging up to the dark hallway across from him, was there still plasma snaking down the . . .
Grifâs .38 flew from his hand as a thump cracked the back of his skull. The shards from one of the ceramic figurines scattered around him, and Grif thought, Oh. Not just for catching dust anymore. He pushed to his knees, but the gun was too far away and instinct had him spinning instead. He barely managed to raise an arm to block the faceful of flowers hurtling his way. Then a shot rang out, and glass fragments rained over his head. He shielded himself again, shocked at how close his head had come to looking remarkably similar to the dead womanâs.
But the gunshot from the hallway had done the job. Grifâs fedora was askew, blocking his vision, but he could sense that his attacker was already gone. He lunged for his .38 anyway. Then he cleared the center of the room, holding himself up against a wall until his vision stopped scattering into geometrical patterns. He didnât know if the person down the hallâthe one the plasma had been chasingâhad been trying to hit him with that shot or not, but he had to find out.
Ears pricked, Grif stood unblinking, trying to thrust his mortal senses outward. It would be just like Sarge, he thought, to set him up. The story about feeling their pain could be pure baloney. Taking him two days back in time, directing him to a murder scene so new that nobody had even learned of it yet, would be a good way to appease the Host, get his errant charge killed and back into the Tube.
âCâmon, Shaw,â he chided himself, even as he thought it. Sarge wouldnât do that.
Would he?
Cocking the hammer back on his snubnose, Grif sidestepped the body and moved farther into the silent condo. The footprint of the home was intuitive, and favored the north side of the building. Thatâs where the money view was, so the guest bath lay on the right, while the stunted hallway broke to the left. More of the strange, sexy artwork swirled up the walls like colored smoke, but Grif put his back to the largest frame, softened his gaze, and stared at the closed door rounding out the home.
He couldnât see through it, his celestial powers didnât extend that far, but he was looking for signs of plasma, an indication that someone was about to die. Unfortunately, he wouldnât be able to see the telltale warning if he were the fated victim. You never saw the plasma when it came for you.
But instinct, honed by two lifetimes and fifty years of limbo in between, told Grif that something was moving behind that door. Besides, who the hell went around closing doors behind them in their own house?
Grif planted himself to the side of the door before turning the handle and shoving it open. He didnât enter. Experience had taught him that most people found silence and stillness unbearable when anticipating confrontation.
More pastels and white, he saw, risking a glance inside. Ruffles and lace, silken pillows and more knitted throws, things he knew were expensive though he didnât know why. He had no desire to snooze atop some oversized doily. McCoy had been in the green, no doubt about it, but she was too showy about it. If he had to guess, she hadnât always possessed the funds she did now.
Or used to.
Sidestepping into the room, Grif angled toward the walk-in closet and the
But why hadnât any of the neighbors reported a blast? Grif wondered, gaze winging to the hole in the wall. And where were the footprints leading away from the body?
One thing was certain, Grif thought, lowering his gun. The killer was goneâlikely out that open windowâand so was her Centurion. So why, he wondered, gaze winging up to the dark hallway across from him, was there still plasma snaking down the . . .
Grifâs .38 flew from his hand as a thump cracked the back of his skull. The shards from one of the ceramic figurines scattered around him, and Grif thought, Oh. Not just for catching dust anymore. He pushed to his knees, but the gun was too far away and instinct had him spinning instead. He barely managed to raise an arm to block the faceful of flowers hurtling his way. Then a shot rang out, and glass fragments rained over his head. He shielded himself again, shocked at how close his head had come to looking remarkably similar to the dead womanâs.
But the gunshot from the hallway had done the job. Grifâs fedora was askew, blocking his vision, but he could sense that his attacker was already gone. He lunged for his .38 anyway. Then he cleared the center of the room, holding himself up against a wall until his vision stopped scattering into geometrical patterns. He didnât know if the person down the hallâthe one the plasma had been chasingâhad been trying to hit him with that shot or not, but he had to find out.
Ears pricked, Grif stood unblinking, trying to thrust his mortal senses outward. It would be just like Sarge, he thought, to set him up. The story about feeling their pain could be pure baloney. Taking him two days back in time, directing him to a murder scene so new that nobody had even learned of it yet, would be a good way to appease the Host, get his errant charge killed and back into the Tube.
âCâmon, Shaw,â he chided himself, even as he thought it. Sarge wouldnât do that.
Would he?
Cocking the hammer back on his snubnose, Grif sidestepped the body and moved farther into the silent condo. The footprint of the home was intuitive, and favored the north side of the building. Thatâs where the money view was, so the guest bath lay on the right, while the stunted hallway broke to the left. More of the strange, sexy artwork swirled up the walls like colored smoke, but Grif put his back to the largest frame, softened his gaze, and stared at the closed door rounding out the home.
He couldnât see through it, his celestial powers didnât extend that far, but he was looking for signs of plasma, an indication that someone was about to die. Unfortunately, he wouldnât be able to see the telltale warning if he were the fated victim. You never saw the plasma when it came for you.
But instinct, honed by two lifetimes and fifty years of limbo in between, told Grif that something was moving behind that door. Besides, who the hell went around closing doors behind them in their own house?
Grif planted himself to the side of the door before turning the handle and shoving it open. He didnât enter. Experience had taught him that most people found silence and stillness unbearable when anticipating confrontation.
More pastels and white, he saw, risking a glance inside. Ruffles and lace, silken pillows and more knitted throws, things he knew were expensive though he didnât know why. He had no desire to snooze atop some oversized doily. McCoy had been in the green, no doubt about it, but she was too showy about it. If he had to guess, she hadnât always possessed the funds she did now.
Or used to.
Sidestepping into the room, Grif angled toward the walk-in closet and the
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