Read Online Witch's Canyon by Jeff Mariotte - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jeff Mariotte
Ads: Link
one hand on the ground for support and the other clamped over her mouth, and she was frozen to the spot. The Indian walked toward her, stumbling a little, head lolling to the side. For an instant he seemed to change, to shift into something the same shape but made of glowing black light, then into a bone-and-muscle version of himself, but when she blinked he looked as he had at first. Brittany had the sense that he was already dead, that his wound was fatal, but he hadn’t figured out that it was time to lie down.
“What do you . . . are you . . . ?” She couldn’t figure out what to ask him, and her voice sounded distant, barely audible through the blood rushing in her ears. If he heard her, he gave no indication of it.
Witch’s
Can
71
yon
She could hear wind whistling in and out of his chest wound as he breathed.
When he reached for her, Brittany fi nally thawed, trying to break and run. He surprised her with his quickness, though, and got a fistful of her curly red hair. He yanked on it. Her feet went out from under her and she sprawled on the hardwood floor of her living room, breathing fast now, working toward a really good scream, the kind that would raise the rafters of this old place and bring the police running.
Either they’d shoot the Indian or tell her that she had gone insane, and at the moment that seemed the likeliest prospect, because only madness could explain what she faced.
The knee against her belly felt real enough, pressing her down against the floor, and the smell of the man, sour, like meat left too long in the sun, that was real too, and when he brought the tomahawk down against her chest, in the same place where his wound was, for just the briefest instant that felt staggeringly real too.
“This is a mess,” Jim Beckett said. “A godawful mess, no two ways about it.”
Deputy Trace Johannsen nodded soberly. “You’re not kidding about that.”
Beckett looked at Brittany Gardner’s body again.
She had suffered a massive chest wound, as if an unskilled doctor had cracked her open to perform emergency heart surgery but hadn’t bothered to close 72 SUPERNATURAL
her up again. Until her heart had stopped beating, it had pumped blood out through the gaping wound, soaking her sweatshirt and pooling on the fl oor.
Three bodies in less than twenty-four hours. He liked Cedar Wells because it was a quiet town, close to good hunting and fishing. The Grand Canyon was a bonus, although he rarely visited it; simply knowing it was there was good enough.
Suddenly it wasn’t so quiet. Instead it looked like Detroit during its worst days, or Washington, or maybe L.A. when the Bloods and Crips went at it with knives and guns. Beckett was old enough to remember the good old days when youth gangs armed themselves with little switchblades and bicycle chains. Not that this looked like a gangster killing, but there was a principle involved, and the principle was that people in his town shouldn’t kill each other.
Nor should strangers kill the locals, not near a national park that drew somewhere around fi ve million visitors a year. He just wanted his old town back, the one where people rarely died violently.
“Dispatch said she reported a prowler across the street,” Trace explained. He had already gone through the story once, but seemed compelled to tell it again, and listening to him was easier than thinking. “An old geezer carrying a gun. I checked over there, but the Sawyers hadn’t seen anyone. I knocked over here to ask her about it, and she didn’t answer.
I knew she had been home just a few minutes before, so I looked in her window and saw her here.” Witch’s
Can
73
yon
“But no sign of an intruder?” Beckett asked. “No old man with a gun?”
“Nothing like that. Anyway, if he had a gun, why would he open her up like that? Why not just shoot her?”
“I wish I knew the answer to that. Did you fi nd any footprints or anything, either here or by the Sawyer
“What do you . . . are you . . . ?” She couldn’t figure out what to ask him, and her voice sounded distant, barely audible through the blood rushing in her ears. If he heard her, he gave no indication of it.
Witch’s
Can
71
yon
She could hear wind whistling in and out of his chest wound as he breathed.
When he reached for her, Brittany fi nally thawed, trying to break and run. He surprised her with his quickness, though, and got a fistful of her curly red hair. He yanked on it. Her feet went out from under her and she sprawled on the hardwood floor of her living room, breathing fast now, working toward a really good scream, the kind that would raise the rafters of this old place and bring the police running.
Either they’d shoot the Indian or tell her that she had gone insane, and at the moment that seemed the likeliest prospect, because only madness could explain what she faced.
The knee against her belly felt real enough, pressing her down against the floor, and the smell of the man, sour, like meat left too long in the sun, that was real too, and when he brought the tomahawk down against her chest, in the same place where his wound was, for just the briefest instant that felt staggeringly real too.
“This is a mess,” Jim Beckett said. “A godawful mess, no two ways about it.”
Deputy Trace Johannsen nodded soberly. “You’re not kidding about that.”
Beckett looked at Brittany Gardner’s body again.
She had suffered a massive chest wound, as if an unskilled doctor had cracked her open to perform emergency heart surgery but hadn’t bothered to close 72 SUPERNATURAL
her up again. Until her heart had stopped beating, it had pumped blood out through the gaping wound, soaking her sweatshirt and pooling on the fl oor.
Three bodies in less than twenty-four hours. He liked Cedar Wells because it was a quiet town, close to good hunting and fishing. The Grand Canyon was a bonus, although he rarely visited it; simply knowing it was there was good enough.
Suddenly it wasn’t so quiet. Instead it looked like Detroit during its worst days, or Washington, or maybe L.A. when the Bloods and Crips went at it with knives and guns. Beckett was old enough to remember the good old days when youth gangs armed themselves with little switchblades and bicycle chains. Not that this looked like a gangster killing, but there was a principle involved, and the principle was that people in his town shouldn’t kill each other.
Nor should strangers kill the locals, not near a national park that drew somewhere around fi ve million visitors a year. He just wanted his old town back, the one where people rarely died violently.
“Dispatch said she reported a prowler across the street,” Trace explained. He had already gone through the story once, but seemed compelled to tell it again, and listening to him was easier than thinking. “An old geezer carrying a gun. I checked over there, but the Sawyers hadn’t seen anyone. I knocked over here to ask her about it, and she didn’t answer.
I knew she had been home just a few minutes before, so I looked in her window and saw her here.” Witch’s
Can
73
yon
“But no sign of an intruder?” Beckett asked. “No old man with a gun?”
“Nothing like that. Anyway, if he had a gun, why would he open her up like that? Why not just shoot her?”
“I wish I knew the answer to that. Did you fi nd any footprints or anything, either here or by the Sawyer
Similar Books
