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Back Atlanta Burns Save as PDF
Chapters (50)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Page
  3. Dedication Page
  4. CONTENTS
  5. PART ONE: SHOTGUN GRAVY
  6. Sometimes she wakes…
  7. CHAPTER ONE
  8. CHAPTER TWO
  9. CHAPTER THREE
  10. CHAPTER FOUR
  11. CHAPTER FIVE
  12. CHAPTER SIX
  13. CHAPTER SEVEN
  14. CHAPTER EIGHT
  15. CHAPTER NINE
  16. CHAPTER TEN
  17. CHAPTER ELEVEN
  18. PART TWO: BAIT DOG
  19. CHAPTER TWELVE
  20. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  21. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  22. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  23. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  24. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  25. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  26. CHAPTER NINETEEN
  27. CHAPTER TWENTY
  28. PART THREE: THE FARM
  29. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  30. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  31. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  32. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  33. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  34. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  35. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  36. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  37. PART FOUR: KISSING FIRE
  38. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  39. CHAPTER THIRTY
  40. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
  41. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
  42. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
  43. PART FIVE: BAIT GIRL
  44. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
  45. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
  46. CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
  47. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
  48. EPILOGUE: THE MESSAGE
  49. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  50. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Behind her, a radio squelches at the same time as a branch snaps.

She wheels around—one of the three bullets rolls off her palm into the leaves. Panic makes her clumsy; she tries to press the remaining two 9-millimeters into the magazine, but she fumbles the first one and it catches the spring mechanism and launches itself out of her grip like a jumping bean. She curses under her breath and presses her teeth together so hard she’s afraid they’ll snap. The final bullet slides into the magazine, and she jacks it into the gun—

Just as Ellis Wayman steps into view.

His face is ashen and rage-struck, like he made a mean face and now it’s stuck that way. He steps forward. Whitey lowers his head but doesn’t growl—this is his old master.

Atlanta points the gun.

Ellis takes another step forward.

“Stop where you are,” she says.

“You called the cops,” he says, voice a haggard rasp.

“What?”

He holds up the radio. “Randy just called from the front gate. Said the cops are there.” As if on cue, she hears the distant sirens warbling, gravel grinding under tires. “And now they’re here.”

Another step forward.

Whitey starts to growl.

“You need to stop,” she says. “I’ll shoot. I swear I will.”

“I figure you will.”

Another step forward.

She pulls the trigger.

Click.

“You didn’t pull the toggle,” he says. She tries to rack it like a pistol, fumbling for the slide but suddenly finds there is no slide—her hands move over the old German pistol and she doesn’t know what to do. He tells her. “You lift up on the bolt toggle, toward the back of the . . .” He sighs. Waves her off. “Don’t bother. They’re here. It’s over. I don’t hurt little girls even if they want to kill me. Even if they steal my prize dog.”

Whitey whines.

“I . . .” She searches for words. All she comes up with is, “I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “I’m going inside the house. Get a glass of whiskey before they come. You want one?”

“I don’t.”

He starts to walk away, but then he stops and turns back around. “I liked you. Still do. I thought maybe we had an understanding. But you screwed me pretty good here.”

“This is a bad place.”

“Maybe. I’m not a bad man, though.” He offers a ghastly, miserable smile. “I’ll see you on the other side, Atlanta Burns.”

And he plods back toward his house, head hung low, big feet tromping over branches and briar. A bear heading back to his den to wait for the hunters.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE