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Back Whirlwind Save as PDF
Chapters (95)
  1. Title Page
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. 31
  33. 32
  34. 33
  35. 34
  36. 35
  37. 36
  38. 37
  39. 38
  40. 39
  41. 40
  42. 41
  43. 42
  44. 43
  45. 44
  46. 45
  47. 46
  48. 47
  49. 48
  50. 49
  51. 50
  52. 51
  53. 52
  54. 53
  55. 54
  56. 55
  57. 56
  58. 57
  59. 58
  60. 59
  61. 60
  62. 61
  63. 62
  64. 63
  65. 64
  66. 65
  67. 66
  68. 67
  69. 68
  70. 69
  71. 70
  72. 71
  73. 72
  74. 73
  75. 74
  76. 75
  77. 76
  78. 77
  79. 78
  80. 79
  81. 80
  82. 81
  83. 82
  84. 83
  85. 84
  86. 85
  87. 86
  88. 87
  89. 88
  90. 89
  91. 90
  92. 91
  93. 92
  94. Also by DAVID KLASS
  95. Copyright Page

Sirens getting louder. Not a fire. When he disappeared, Mr. Peters called the police. They were pretending to be nice to keep me there. Setting a trap.

I run for the back door. Mr. P. swings again. Connects. Not a home run. Maybe a double. Sharp pain in my right shoulder. But it doesn’t knock me off my feet.

I make it to the door. Also locked. Mr. Peters is coming after me with the bat. I get the latch open. Half run and half fall down the steps.

Spotlights converge on me. I can feel the heat on my face. Didn’t know Hadley had this many police. Cops crouching behind their cars, guns in hand. Ten, fifteen, twenty of them. All ready to fire and turn me into Swiss cheese. “This is Chief Parker,” a deep voice announces through a megaphone. “We have you covered. There is no escape. Lie down on your stomach. Get down right now.”

I could run for it. But somebody might get hurt. And what would be the point of running? I need to find out what happened to P.J. So I get down.

Dry smell of winter grass in my nose and throat.

Policemen run toward me. Kneel on my back. Search me. Cuff my hands behind me. Hoist me back up to my feet.

Mr. Peters standing there. Red-faced with rage. “What did you do to my little girl? Tell me!”

“Nothing, sir. When did she—”

He swings, and all I can do is roll away from the punch. Feels like it loosens the teeth on one side of my mouth.

Pretty good right hook for a middle-aged printer.

I buckle but don’t go down. “Nothing, Mr. Peters,” I repeat, looking straight into his enraged black eyes. “How long has she been gone?”

His wife stands next to him, sobbing.

A big man approaches through the evening shadows. Shoulders like a water buffalo’s. Neat uniform, as if to make up for destructive acne. Chief Parker. I played football with his son, Chris. Tough kid. Tough dad.

“Hello, Jack,” he says softly. “Long time no see.”

“Hello, sir.”

But he’s turned away from me to look at Mr. and Mrs. Peters. “Don’t worry,” he tells them. “I’ll get some answers out of him. We have our ways.”

3

3

Police holding cell. Jack all alone. No other prisoners tonight. No drunks. No vagrants.

Stone wall. Bars on three sides. A locked square cage. My hands are still cuffed behind my back. Painful. Not much circulation going on there. My mind roiled by what’s just taken place. P.J.’s missing, maybe even dead! Her parents blame me. Probably the whole town does. And the worst of it is maybe they’re right.