BooksBarbecue
Back The Runaway
Chapters (80)
  1. Cover
  2. TITLES BY NICK PETRIE
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. 67
  72. 68
  73. 69
  74. 70
  75. 71
  76. 72
  77. 73
  78. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  79. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  80. What’s next onyour reading list?

He swept his eyes across the darkened landscape, his lizard brain scanning for patterns of danger. The weeds thwacked against his pantlegs as he walked. The exercise wasn’t improving his knee. More like the opposite. Peter was not exactly a precision weapon himself at the moment. The ibuprofen was keeping him mostly functional. His only concern was that he might fail June and Lewis and the others. He put it out of his mind. He’d make it to the doctor tomorrow, or else he’d be dead. Either way, why worry?

The house was closer now. Halfway there, he figured. Lewis and Bobbie would be finishing their recon, then find a place to drop the Chevy. On foot, they would move a lot faster than Peter.

His phone buzzed, a cheap burner he’d bought at a Flying J outside Bismarck. Voice low, Lewis said, “I got a pickup in the ditch with Nebraska plates.”

Peter closed his eyes. “They’re here. Watch your ass.”

“Roger that. You, too, brother. We’re going in.”

“Hold up.” He kept Lewis on the line and slipped across the tractor path to June’s side. “Lewis saw a truck. Nebraska plates. Better call the sheriff.”

They kept walking as she put her phone to her ear. After a few moments, she shook her head. Peter told Lewis, “No answer. See you there.”

Then they heard, a half mile distant but carried clearly on the cool night breeze, the high pealing sound of breaking glass.

“Go,” Peter said. And began to run, bad knee and all.

69

HELENE

Roy shouldered open the front door and hauled Bogaloosa into the living room. The sheriff lay dead on the crimson couch. Kicking away the coffee table, Roy dropped Bogaloosa in a torn leather recliner, hands cuffed behind his back.

How small and soft he looked beside Roy, Helene thought. The baby swirled in her belly.

Eyes wide, Bogaloosa stared at the sheriff. Helene said, “Look at me, fucker.” He turned his head, fear all over his face. She liked it. “Do you know who I am?”

He nodded. “Helene.” He cleared his throat. “Johansen. What are you doing here?”

At least he recognized her. After all he’d put her through, if he hadn’t even recognized her face? She might have killed him just for that.

“You were going to rape me,” she said. “On my birthday. Like it was a gift you were giving me. Do you remember that?”

His eyes flicked to Roy, then back to her. “It was just a joke,” he said. “I’m sorry. I would never have done that.”

She remembered how he’d pushed her up against the milking stall in the barn, his fist clamped around her arm. All the times he’d brushed up against her, fingertips touching her breasts and butt. She leaned closer to him now, smelling fear in the stink from his armpits.