Spilled Blood by Brian Freeman Read Free Book Online Page A

his fault. Their fault.
    He thought about what Olivia had told him at the jail.
Mom’s got it.
Cancer. The same disease that had claimed Josephine’s life. He was devastated at the news and hurt that she had insisted on going through this alone, as if she assumed he couldn’t bear it.She was probably right. He stood there, invisible among the trees, trying to gather the courage to see her. Trying to find a way not to melt at the sight of her face.
    Chris headed for the house, but he stopped when a rumbling truck engine interrupted the solitude of St. Croix. Not even a quarter-mile away, rubber squealed as a vehicle braked sharply and turned off the highway. He saw the twin beams of headlights, but as he watched, the headlights vanished. The pick-up truck was dark. It cruised through the criss-cross grid of streets, coming closer. It passed the church and came straight toward the intersection. He couldn’t see faces through the dark glass.
    The truck slowed in front of Hannah’s house.
    Then the shots began.
    Chris threw himself to the wet ground as bursts of smoke and light flashed like bombs. Six loud bangs erupted in rapid succession. Glass shattered as at least one bullet smashed through a first-floor window, and he heard someone scream. He recognized the pitch of the voice. It was Hannah.
    He pushed himself up and ran, shouting her name. Cheers and laughter floated from the pick-up. They were young voices – teenagers – but the voices cut off in startled silence as they heard him. The truck headlights flashed on, blinding and pinning him. He ducked, conscious that he was an easy target. The pick-up bolted in reverse, weaving as it retreated up the street. The headlights vanished, and the car screeched into a U-turn, speeding across one of the house lawns as it veered toward the highway. He heard the engine roar. The car accelerated, racing north.
    Back toward Barron.
    He ran for the steps of Hannah’s house and pounded on the door. He called her name again, but there was no answer. The house was quiet, and the silence fed his fear. Just as he was about to climb inside through the broken window, he saw the door slide open six inches. The pretty face of his ex-wife peered out at him.
    ‘Chris?’
    ‘They’re gone,’ he said.
    Hannah switched on the porch light and opened the door wider. He wanted to embrace her, but she walked past him onto the front steps. He looked over his shoulder and saw that a dozen people had already assembled near the house; they had run from their own homes to help. She waved at the street.
    ‘I’m okay,’ she called. ‘Everything’s okay.’
    Then to him: ‘Come on in, Chris.’ As if no time had passed.
    He followed her inside. She put her hands on her hips, studying the broken glass on the dining-room floor. With a sigh, she disappeared into the small kitchen and came back with a hand-broom and dustpan. She got down on her knees and began methodically sweeping up the shards of glass. That was Hannah. No panic. No drama. Get it done.
    ‘We should call the police,’ he said.
    Hannah stopped and looked at him. It was as if she’d realized for the first time that he was really here. They had not seen each other since she left Minneapolis and took Olivia across the state. Three years. Three years in which his only contact with the woman who had shared his life for nearly two decades was a handful of tense phone calls.
    ‘We should,’ she said, ‘but it won’t do any good.’
    ‘I couldn’t see their faces or identify the car. I’m sorry.’
    ‘It was Barron boys. It doesn’t really matter who.’
    ‘We should call the police anyway. They should have someone here to protect you.’
    Hannah finished sweeping in silence. When she was done, she stood up with a weary smile and laid the dustpan on an antique table. ‘No one wants to protect us. They want us to go away. Or die.’
    Chris heard a rapping at the front door. Hannah brushed past him, their arms touching, and