China Lake by Meg Gardiner Read Free Book Online Page A

screaming, spittle arcing from his mouth. ‘‘You bitches and sons of bitches!’’ He blinked. ‘‘Oh, Jesus, look at that.’’ His hand waved at the red-robed choir. ‘‘They’re on fire. Ohh. Burning . . .’’
    With a groan, Curt Smollek found his courage. He lunged and clasped the man around the thighs, hoisting him off his feet. The intruder shrieked and bucked, arching his back. I pulled free and stumbled backward.
    ‘‘I’ll tell!’’ the man screamed. ‘‘Fuck everybody here! I’ll tell!’’
    The congregation was on its feet. Onstage the baton twirlers were huddling together. Wyoming was snapping his fingers at the choir, telling them to strike up a hymn. They were ignoring him.
    The intruder was thrashing, wrenching the scuffle toward me. I backed up, bumped into chairs, and the man raked the air with his hands, snagging my shirt, digging his fingers in, pulling me with him as Paxton and Smollek carried him toward the door. He kicked furiously and his knee caught Smollek in the chin. Smollek’s head snapped back, the intruder twisted hard, and in a tangle we staggered toward the showroom window.
    I saw it coming and shouted, ‘‘No!’’ But momentum had us. I tucked my head beneath my arms. We crashed through the window and out onto the sidewalk.
    Glass spanked the concrete. I fell, still in my tuck, landing on Curt Smollek, feeling bones and flesh and bits of glass striking me. After a stunned moment I heard wails and scuffling feet. I rolled carefully to one side and saw people inside the church rushing to the broken window. Around me shards glittered on the sidewalk. Smollek was kneeling on all fours, his white T-shirt speckled with blood. The intruder was wobbling across the street, trailing a moan behind him. Chunks of glass protruded from his back and arms, but he seemed heedless. Paxton was on his feet. He grabbed Smollek’s sleeve and dragged him up.
    A dozen small cuts stung my hands and scalp. But I had been last through the glass, wearing long sleeves, and that had protected me. Delicately I stood up, careful not to touch the ground, feeling dazed and lucky.
    The intruder’s scream rose again, a long, foul curse. Suddenly headlights illuminated him. Brakes screeched and a heavy truck hit him, swept him under its wheels. His screaming stopped.
    The truck skewed to a halt, tires smoking, farm produce spilling from its bed. I ran into the street. The truck driver jumped down from the cab. He dropped to the asphalt and stared under the front axle, crying, ‘‘Oh, God! Oh, God!’’
    I ran to his side. ‘‘Can you back the truck off of him?’’
    His jowly face was desperate. ‘‘He’s caught. . . .’’
    Crouching next to him, I called 911 on my cell phone. The driver said, ‘‘He ran right out in front of me.’’ I laid a hand on his back, told him the paramedics and a fire crew were on the way. He was shuddering.
    I said, ‘‘We have to see if we can help him.’’
    ‘‘Yeah,’’ he said, but didn’t move. ‘‘Christ, right out in front of me. I couldn’t stop.’’
    I looked around. The congregation was spilling out the church door. Smollek was sitting on the curb, head in his hands. Paxton, apparently untouched by shattered glass, was squatting on his haunches in front of the truck, peering underneath it.
    I said, ‘‘Can you reach him?’’
    He looked at me. The white light from the headlights cast him in sharp relief. Without speaking he stood, brushed off his hands, and sauntered toward the crowd. His pace said, Not my problem anymore .
    Dread wadded in my stomach, but I lay down and shimmied forward until my head was under the chassis. I smelled exhaust and grease, felt the heat of the engine, looked at the dark curve of the wheel. The man’s legs, broken and limp, protruded from the wheel well, and his arm dangled, a Rolex shining on his motionless wrist. I couldn’t see the rest of him.
    I said, ‘‘Can you hear me?’’
    No response.