JACK KILBORN ~ AFRAID by Jack Kilborn Read Free Book Online Page A

jutted from the pane, but Fran forced her upper body into the hole. Her hair snagged, but she pushed forward, scooting her chest through the opening as glass cut at her palms and elbows. Then her hands touched the brick on the outside of the building, and she was dragging her hips out, thinking that she’d actually made it, thinking she’d actually gotten away, and her fear transformed into a crazy, almost hysterical sense of relief.
    That’s when the killer grabbed her ankle.
     
     
    • • •
     
     
    S heriff Ace Streng fired twice at the figure coming up the stairs, the muzzle flashes illuminating something black and enormous. The bullets didn’t slow it down, so Streng ran left, to the door on the other side of the hall.
    A spare bedroom, unlit, with a musty odor that indicated it hadn’t been used in a while. Streng found the window, hurried to it, and fumbled for the lock.
    He chanced a look behind him, saw the figure filling the doorway. A sharp, unpleasant smell filled the room, like cigarettes and body odor. Streng aimed and squeezed off three more shots. The thing didn’t fall. He turned his attention back to the window, jerked it open, and went face-first out onto the roof. It was steeper than he guessed, and he slipped onto his back and began to skid, the flashlight slipping from his hand and clattering down the incline, winking out when it went over the edge.
    Streng spread out his arms, tried to keep from falling. His knuckles scraped against the cold, rough shingles, the skin tearing. He reflexively opened his hand, letting go of the .45, hearing it skitter to a stop above him while he kept sliding down, his momentum picking up.
    The trees obscured the moon and stars, and Streng’s eyes couldn’t penetrate the inky night. But he knew there wasn’t much roof left, and if he went over at this speed he’d break his leg. Or his neck.
    The sheriff turned onto his side as he slid, and then onto his belly, arms and legs outstretched, toes fighting for purchase. He began to slow down, and then his feet hit the gutter, dug into it, abruptly stopping his descent.
    Streng didn’t have time to be relieved. He strained his eyes against the darkness, trying to see the ground beneath him.
    All he saw was black. How far could it be? Ten feet? Fifteen? The ground would be hard from the cool weather, and there was the chance he’d land on a rock, or worse.
    A cracking sound, then a crash. Streng was peppered with glass and bits of wood, and he could feel the whole house thump. Whatever was chasing him was on the roof.
    Streng now had no choice. He guessed the man in Sal’s room was already making his way down the stairs, gun ready, and the steady thump thump thump of that thing’s footsteps was closing in fast. Streng swung his legs out over the edge, letting them dangle in the darkness. He gripped the gutter, not expecting it to support his weight, but maybe it would slow him down a bit as it broke.
    Without dwelling on it, Streng scooted off the rooftop, ankles tight together, knees bent. The gutter held for a second, then the aluminum split. Streng lost his grip and fell.
    He hit faster than expected, and then the ground slipped out from under him in an unnerving way, causing him to pitch forward and fall again, his hands unable to stop his chin from cracking against the dirt.
    Streng’s vision lit up, sparkling motes swirling before him, and his jaw ached like he’d been hit with a bat. He reached around, felt the loose pieces of wood surrounding him, and realized he’d landed on Sal’s firewood cord, stacked up against the house for winter burning.
    Streng forced himself to his hands and knees, spat out the blood that was filling his mouth, and tried to get his bearings. He was in the back of the house. The Jeep was parked on the side.
    Streng ran for the car.
    Aging, Streng often mused while lying in bed at night unable to sleep, is the body’s deliberate and systematic betrayal of the soul. First the