The Passenger by Jack Ketchum Read Free Book Online Page A

was the most likely place in go for help and she hadn’t.
    Why ?
    Inside the house was silent. Living room,
study, silent. Just as he’d left them.
    But not the bedroom.
    The sheets were stripped off the bed and
piled on the floor and that wasn’t like her at all, they’d be in the hamper if
she was planning to do a laundry when she came home tonight and that was
troubling enough but then he saw the pair of beer cans on the dresser. She never drank beer. Hated the stuff.
    So that now he was really worried.
    Phone
the police.
    In the kitchen he saw more beer cans in
the garbage and two more on the counter along with the empty bottle of
Glenlivet.
    Jesus . The Glenlivet was fucking empty. That was wrong too. They’d had a nightcap last night
before bed and the bottle was still nearly full when he put it away. Then he
saw the scrap of paper beneath it and pulled it out from under.
     
    NY TA45567
    blue Dodge wagon
    regist Marion Lane
    Emil? Ray? Billy?
    murder, Rt 605—8:30 p.m. ?
    HELP!
     
    The handwriting was shaky but hers. He
reached for the phone and heard nothing but dead air so he followed the line
down to where they’d pulled it out of the wall socket— Who? Emil? Ray? Billy? —plugged it back in and dialed 911. What if I
hadn’t come back for the goddamn briefs? he thought. What in god’s name if I
hadn’t? Then the cop was on the line.
    “Officer Hutt speaking. How can I help
you?”
    He put on his most businesslike,
no-nonsense voice. A little amazed that he could do so.
    “Listen carefully. My name is Alan Laymon
and I’m an attorney. I have specific information regarding the murder of a
police officer on Route Six-o-five at approximately eight-thirty this evening.
1 have a plate number for a blue Dodge wagon. The killers are holding at least
one hostage, maybe two. I have names or partial names for all of them. Do you
understand me?”
    He did.
     
    * * *
     
    All told, Emil thought, things were
looking good. He’d had two pieces of ass in a single night. He more or less
preferred the one he hadn’t raped. Which was fine since it was simpler. He had
both of them here in the front seat beside him right where they ought to be.
    He’d shot a cop—dangerous as hell, sure,
but something he’d seriously wanted to do since fucking prison.
    Not a bad night at all.
    They were headed along a narrow dirt
access road toward a farmhouse. Margaret or whatever her name was had spotted
it, one light burning in a window in the valley below. She’d killed the lights
when he told her to but the moonlight was plenty bright enough.
    “Go easy,” he said.
    To the side of the farmhouse he saw a
rusted-out Ford pickup that looked like it hadn’t been on the road in years but beside it in front of the
porch, a light-colored, four-door Chevy. It would do.
    “Pull up here,” he said. “Keep her
running.” They were about three car lengths away.
    “Chevy looks just the ticket. Ray? You
want to do the honors?”
    Ray, the one with the hands. He nodded.
    “Billy, go along and keep an eye on the
house. Real quiet.”
    They opened both doors and stepped
outside. He didn’t have to tell them not to shut them. He turned to the woman
beside him.
    “You too,” he said. “ Real quiet. Are we clear about that?”
    “Yes.”
    He watched them move to the driver’s side
of the Chevy and saw Ray open the door and duck in, Billy a little in front of
him watching the house and already jittering like he had the shits, looking
back at Ray as though willing him to hurry. He heard the engine sputter and die
and sputter again through the still night air and thought, damn ! just as the living room window flew open and the shotgun
appeared and let fly and the Chevy’s windshield exploded. He saw Billy hit the
ground and start crawling toward the back of the car, Ray nowhere in sight.
    “Get outa there! Goddammit! I’ll blow
your goddamn ears off!”
    An old man’s voice. One very pissed off old man.
    The shotgun sparked and