HIGHWATER: a suspense thriller you won't be able to put down by T. J. Brearton Read Free Book Online Page B

made her think of natural disasters, of people helpless as something else took them over. That the world was, finally and inarguably, something that could not — not now, not ever — be controlled. It could not be fixed up and refurbished to conceal the venal sins carried inside, could not be rebuilt and repainted to cover grief and longing. A world where hideous things that were just beyond the pale could arrive at any moment. It was only a matter of time.
    “Back,” Jared said. “Just get back.” He had his hand out behind him, half waving at her.
    She thought she smelled something in the air. She knew the fireworks smell of the shotgun. There was that, but there was something else. She’d smelled deer blood before, even coyote offal (spending entire weeks here with Jared during hunting season had opened her olfactory palate up to many different odors, from animal decomposition to the very tangy smell of Jared himself after three days in the woods), but this was different. The only thing she could associate it with was vomit. Not booze-vomit, not food-poisoning, but the stink of heroin. The smell of puke when there was nothing in the stomach to upchuck, only bile, and only from the deep recesses of the body, the places where the decay of affliction has taken hold and begun to spread its scourge.

CHAPTER SIX
    “Who are they?” Tom asked. Nearby was the bedroom he’d made into a den. A rifle was mounted above the doorframe in the inside of the room. It was a Kimber Montana, bolt-action, a cherry of a gun, and the .308 caliber bullets were in a Maxwell House Coffee can on a shelf above his antiquated Dell computer.
    “They’re wagerers.” Though Christopher’s body language suggested he wasn’t alarmed, the kid’s face was rigidly composed in the dusk of the living room, glowing ghostily in the light from the snowy outside.
    “Wagerers? What are you talking about? Friends of yours?” Tom took a sideways step away from Christopher, towards the den and closer to the rifle. He looked from Christopher to the outside, squinting through the haze of falling snow, willing the shapes in his driveway to wax clearer.
    Tom made out the four figures in the driveway. They had taken position and now stood still, as if waiting.
    “They’re not friends of mine,” said Christopher. “But I know them. I know what they are.”
    “You’re into gambling? Is that it?”
    “The word ‘wagerer’ is a kind of translation.”
    Tom wanted to question the kid more about it, but stopped himself. It didn’t matter what the hell the kid was saying, not now. As the eldest of two sons, Tom had been the one to tuck his brother, Charlie, into bed when the old man was too lit — which was almost every night. There had been no time for Tom to suffer his own night terrors, he was too busy reassuring his younger brother.
    It didn’t matter what Christopher said or what Tom thought about the young men on his lawn, because it was two in the morning. It was hard to trust your mind in those ditch hours.
    Charlie would say that a little boy lived in a hole behind the door. The little boy was dirty and gray, Charlie would tell Tom, with a very pink tongue, and other pink things on him, like leeches or peppermint gum. Charlie had gone on to write for the San Francisco Chronicle for a while. A journalist, working his way up to editor. He could talk his way out of anything, Tom knew; words were Charlie’s stock and trade. It was how he’d gotten out the stain.
    “Tom,” said Christopher.
    Tom Milliner jumped, snapped out of his reverie. He blinked and looked around at Christopher. The kid looked at him levelly, still with his rigid composure. His expression was resolute.
    It took Tom a moment to backtrack his thoughts — how had his mind wandered so far off? He wasted no more time, immediately going into the den and pulling the Montana rifle down from the hooks over the door. He went for the coffee can and fished for the .308s.
    “That