Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [56]
Again, he heard footsteps. He walked faster, and the clicking of heels behind him seemed to match his pace. He came to an S-curve in the sidewalk and, rather than follow the concrete patch, cut straight across the grass. The sound of the footsteps behind him vanished, as if someone behind him were tracing his own silent path. He returned to the sidewalk at the top of the S-curve. A moment later, he heard the clicking heels behind him do the same.
He definitely felt like he was being followed.
Jack stopped and turned. In the pitch darkness beneath the trees, he saw no one, but he sensed that someone was there.
“Andie, is that you?” It was way too hopeful to think that she was going to surprise him again with a visit, but calling out the name of anyone seemed less paranoid than a nervous “Who’s there?”
No one answered.
Jack reached for his cell phone. Just as he flipped it open, a crushing blow between the shoulder blades sent him, flailing, face-first to the sidewalk. The phone went flying, and the air rushed from his lungs. As he struggled to breathe and rise to one knee, an even harder blow sent him down again. This time, he was too disoriented to break the fall. His chin smashed against the concrete. The salty taste of his own blood filled his mouth.
“Why . . . are,” he said, trying to speak, but it was impossible to form an entire sentence.
He was flat on his belly when the attacker grabbed him from behind, took a fistful of hair, and yanked his head back.
“One move and I slice you from ear to ear.”
Jack froze. A steel blade was at his throat. The man’s voice sounded foreign, but Jack couldn’t place the accent. More important, the threat sounded real.
“Take it easy,” said Jack.
“Shut up,” the man said. “Did he give you any photographs?”
“Who? Photos of what?”
“Ethan Chang. Did he give you the photographs he told you about?”
“No. I never met him.”
He yanked Jack’s head back harder. “Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying. I never met him, I swear.”
“Lucky for you. But now consider yourself warned.”
“Warned of what?”
“Forget everything you ever heard about Prague.”
“I don’t—” Jack stopped in midsentence. The blade was pressing harder against his throat.
“The lawyers have been way too subtle. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. And by the way. Remember how Ethan Chang heard you talking to your grandfather’s girlfriend about Pio Nono?”
“Yes.”
“I heard it, too,” he said. “So believe me when I tell you this: Until you have a wife or children, there is nothing more painful than watching your grandfather suffer at a time in his life when he is too old and too confused to understand why anyone would want to hurt him.”
“Leave him out of this.”
“That’s up to you,” the man said as he pulled the blade away from Jack’s throat—and then slammed the butt of the knife against the back of Jack’s skull.
Jack fought to stay conscious, but he saw nothing, heard nothing, as his world slowly turned darker than the night itself.
Chapter Twenty-six
Vince woke early on Sunday morning.
He was seated on the front step outside his house, the canopy of the porch overhang shielding him from a light, cool rain.
Rain was in some ways Vince’s best friend. The bond had formed on his first rainy day without sight, just moments after he’d stepped out the front door and stood on the top step. His mind was gearing up for the usual mental exercise, the memorized flower beds, shrubbery, and footpaths that defined his morning walk. But the rain changed all that. It was the sound of falling rain that brought the outdoors and all of its shapes, textures, and contours back into his world. Where there was once only blackness, suddenly there was water