Playing Dead_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [151]
The two deadbolts slid quietly into their slots. Good. She opened the front door.
An alarm pierced the night.
No!
She limped as fast as she could down the steps of the large farmhouse. A car was in the driveway. She couldn’t count on there being keys in it, but it would provide a shield if Phil started shooting at her across the yard.
She reached the car as the alarm shut off, the silence ringing in her ears. She crouched behind the driver’s side, where the wheel would block her feet from being seen by anyone looking under the car. It was dark, but a half moon illuminated the acreage. She glanced around, looking for anyplace to go, anyplace to hide. Blood dripped down her leg from the gunshot wound. She put pressure on it as she collected her thoughts.
“Claire!”
Phil stood silhouetted on the front porch. There was no easy place to hide. The house was thirty feet on the other side of the car. He would find her here.
She had to run, but she couldn’t outrun him.
“Claire, I will find you. You’re naked. You’re injured. You aren’t going to escape.”
She looked around as best she could without exposing herself. She saw something in front of the car. Feet. She leaned down to see . . .
. . . a body. She’d thought she’d been awakened—or jolted out of her drug-induced loss of consciousness—by a gunshot. She was right. A man lay in front of the car. From the angle he had fallen, Claire suspected he was dead.
Was that man the owner of this car? He would have keys to the car. If she could get in, she could drive anywhere. Would he have left the keys in the car?
“Dammit, Claire, don’t make this harder on yourself. You can’t escape your fate.”
He was closer. Claire didn’t dare open the car door. The dome light would come on, exposing her position, and if the keys weren’t in the ignition, she’d be toast.
She crawled around to the front of the car. She felt the man’s pants for keys in his pockets. Nothing. But . . .
. . . he had a gun next to his hand. A 9mm. Was he a cop? Had he come here to rescue her, only to be shot by Phil?
No, the police would never send a lone cop to a scene like this. And if it was a routine patrol, or a neighbor calling, if he hadn’t checked in they would have sent backup. Not a cop . . . but Claire couldn’t dwell on who he was or why he was here. She reached for the gun. Instantly she felt more in control.
“Claire, time to stop the games.”
He was standing behind the car.
You can’t run from him. This is the only option.
Standing, Claire aimed the gun at Phil. She pressed the trigger.
Nothing.
Again and again.
Phil laughed. “I can’t believe you didn’t check to make sure there were bullets in the gun. I emptied the cartridge after I shot him. Couldn’t be sure he was dead, didn’t want him shooting me in the back.”
Claire turned and ran. Limped. Her leg hurt, the pain blinding her, but she moved as fast as she could.
Phil was still laughing behind her. And gaining.
Please, please, please.
Claire didn’t want to die. She stumbled, aiming for the bushes where she might be able to find some cover. She wanted time, dammit! Time with Mitch. Time with her dad. She wanted all the time back that Phil Palmer had stolen from her.
But how could she get away from a madman? She pushed through bushes and small trees, sharp branches and leaves cutting into her skin. She had one bad leg and a useless gun. She could hit him over the head with it. But to do that, she had to let him get close.
Her blood loss was making her dizzy. Where was he? She didn’t hear him laughing anymore. She didn’t hear anything except the echo of panic in her ears. She willed herself to calm down. If she wasn’t calm, she couldn’t think rationally, and couldn’t find an escape route.
There was a shed twenty feet to her left. Could she make it? Would she find anything useful inside? Maybe cutting shears. Or a chain saw. She almost laughed at the thought, as if she’d found herself involuntarily in a B-horror flick. No, she’d be trapped over there. Stick to the bushes