BooksBarbecue
Back The Lying House
Chapters (103)
  1. Cover
  2. Back Cover Text
  3. Praise
  4. Booklist
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. 63
  70. 64
  71. 65
  72. 66
  73. 67
  74. 68
  75. 69
  76. 70
  77. 71
  78. 72
  79. 73
  80. 74
  81. 75
  82. 76
  83. 77
  84. 78
  85. 79
  86. 80
  87. 81
  88. 82
  89. 83
  90. 84
  91. 85
  92. 86
  93. 87
  94. 88
  95. 89
  96. 90
  97. 91
  98. 92
  99. 93
  100. 94
  101. Epilogue
  102. Acknowledgments and a Personal Note
  103. Excerpt

Jeff’s heart hammered, his fingers slipped on the knife as he tried to loosen the guy’s grip, but the attacker was strong, agile, slowly turning the serrated blade to Jeff, poising it at his face. Jeff’s head was locked in a vise grip, the blade drew closer and he braced for it to plunge into him when the entire side of the house blossomed in blinding white.

“Freeze, asshole!”

Dillard aimed his tactical police flashlight at them. The muzzle of a gun pressed into the attacker’s head, and a lightning kick knocked the knife free. Dillard picked it up with his flashlight hand and pocketed it. As Jeff stood up, Dillard delivered another kick to the attacker’s side, causing him to grunt.

“On your stomach, asshole!” Dillard dropped plastic cuffs on his back, keeping his gun trained on him. “Pull his wrists behind his back, and put those on him, Jeff.”

Breathing hard, bleeding and sweating, Jeff zipped the cuffs on him as another flashlight lit the scene.

“Jeez, you got the guy.” Tripp arrived, panting.

“Jeff got him,” Dillard said.

Tripp raked his light over Jeff. “You all right?”

“Yeah.” His pulse galloping, Jeff dragged his hand across his face. “Thanks, Roland. It was close.”

“Get him on his feet,” Dillard said.

Tripp and Jeff hefted the guy up. Dillard yanked off the man’s balaclava. He was a white guy in his late thirties, with the scarred face and expression of a human nightmare. Dillard patted him for weapons and ID but found nothing.

“Is this the guy who invaded your home and attacked your wife, Jeff?”

“Could be. The knife looks the same. I don’t know. Say something, dipshit, so I can hear your voice.”

He sneered at Jeff and remained silent.

“Light up his shoes,” Jeff said.

He wore dark blue sneakers. The left shoe bore a small tear near a left eyelet.

“This is the guy,” Jeff said.

“We need to call 9-1-1,” Tripp said.

“Hold on, Ned.” Dillard stepped closer, keeping his gun on the suspect. “So this is the guy. You’re sure?”

“Zero doubt.” Jeff was still breathing hard.

“Know what I think, Jeff? I think it’s time for payback.”

“What do you mean?”

“He broke into your house and assaulted your wife, and he just tried to kill you. Are you going to stand for that?”

“What, you want me to beat him up?”

“You’d be right to do it.”

“No. We’ll let the cops handle him.”

“He’s right, Roland.” Tripp was uneasy. “We need to call police now.”

“Shut up, Ned. Jeff, you know you want to do it.”

“It wouldn’t be right. He’s handcuffed—”

“Do it for Lisa.”

Dillard reached into his pocket for the knife.