Killman Creek (Stillhouse Lake #2)(56)

He hits on his back, and the impact dazes him; he’s still lying there when we reach him. He seems okay, and when Sam offers him a hand up, he takes it. “Anything broken?” Sam asks. “How’s your head?”

“Okay,” Carl says. “I’m okay. I’m—” The shock snaps, and he realizes his situation. He stumbles back, but he’s limping, and Sam and I look at each other as Suffolk starts a lumbering, lurching run for slow-motion freedom.

I say, “Hey, Carl? Look, just give it up. Don’t make me shoot a kneecap off you.”

Suffolk turns. He seems ashen, and for the first time, he looks at each of us in turn, with real focus. When he gets to me, his face changes. It turns malignant, as if some demon has drifted to the surface and altered his skin. His forehead reddens. He lowers his chin, and his eyes have a cold delight in them that makes me want to step back. I don’t.

“You,” he says softly. “You’re his bitch.”

And then he lunges for me, and because I didn’t step back, I’m easily in his range. I think he intends to knock me down, and I’m ready for that.

I’m not ready for a full-on killing assault.

His hands close around my throat, and without any hesitation at all, he starts a crushing pressure. This isn’t a game, and it isn’t tentative. He intends to kill me. My rational mind breaks into a white storm of panic. I can feel myself being lifted right off the ground by his strength, and the pain, the suffocating panic of my lungs laboring for air, robs me of any kind of real thought at all.

I hear a whisper in my ear. It’s as clear as if he’s standing next to me. This is how you die, Gina. Melvin’s voice. It seems to have been an eternity already. I try to fight, to twist, I try to keep my neck muscles stiff against his crushing grip, but I know that’s only going to prolong my agony.

Melvin’s voice comes again. It takes a long time, strangling someone. Three or four minutes at least. Maybe longer.

It seems like an eternity, but it’s only been seconds, I realize; I see Sam punching Suffolk, solid blows to his kidneys. Suffolk doesn’t even notice. His rage has become armor.

Shoot him, I want to scream at Sam. For God’s sake . . .

I scrape my toes along a hard surface. My flailing fingers catch onto something soft. I thought I was trying for his eyes, but this isn’t his eyes, it’s a lip, and I dig my fingernails in and pull and twist as hard as I can. I hear a bellow as loud as thunder wash over me . . . but his hands don’t relax.

It’s getting darker. I can hear tissues crunching, compressing. I’m listening to my body break.

And then, suddenly, I’m falling. My flailing feet hit the ground, but my knees are weak, and I tip backward as they give way. I’m pulling in a sweet, burning breath even as I fall.

Sam catches me.

I collapse against his chest, and his arms go around me to hold me upright until my knees steady, and all I can do for a moment is pull in air, push it out, even though it hurts. Once my body has its demands for breath satisfied, I start to take it all in again.

Carl Suffolk is down on the ground, bleeding from a head wound. There’s a pipe next to him. Sam clocked him hard enough to finally break through that shell of rage.

“Gwen?” Sam asks me. “Can you breathe?” He sounds scared. I manage to nod, though I’m sure the bruises around my throat are going to be black in a couple of days. I swallow. Nothing feels broken. If Suffolk had managed to collapse my larynx, snap my hyoid bone, I’d be beyond anyone’s help. I think he almost managed it.

The rolling back door of the business is up, and there is a crowd of white-shirted employees—men and women both—staring out at us from the loading dock. Roberts shoves his way through with a phone in his hand. “Yes, right now!” he’s saying. “I need police right now. One of my employees is being assaulted—”

“Uh, sir, that’s not what happened,” one of his employees says. “He attacked her!”

“I always said he wasn’t right in the head,” one of the others says, and more nod. “Creepy asshole.”

“All right, all right, settle down!” Roberts says. His face is flushed, and he’s clearly out of his depth. “Let’s let the police settle this—”

“Back inside, folks!” calls a deep, cheerful voice, and I look back down the alley to see Mike Lustig, of all people, striding toward us. He’s wearing an FBI protective vest and windbreaker, and he’s got his badge prominently displayed; it catches the low western light and flashes like real gold. Behind him, he’s brought two other agents, who look stone-faced and dangerous. They’re all in sunglasses against the glare of the setting sun. “Roll that door down. Go on now. Thank you for your cooperation. Nobody leaves. I’ve got agents on the front. Just sit tight.”

He sounds so incredibly self-assured that Roberts ushers his people back inside and rolls down the door without so much as a protest. I can see him curiously peeping out the window, phone still in his hand. Probably on with the local police again.

“Jesus, son, you clocked him good,” Mike says, crouching down next to Suffolk. The man’s groaning and stirring. “Going to have to get him checked out before we do anything else.”

“Trust me,” Sam says. “Cuff him first.”

“This guy?”