The Fifth to Die: A gripping, page-turner of a crime thriller. J.D. Barker
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Название: The Fifth to Die: A gripping, page-turner of a crime thriller
Автор: J.D. Barker
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Ужасы и Мистика
isbn: 9780008250409
isbn:
“Get in,” the man said.
Lili looked down at the water. She knew it was warm, warmer than the basement, soothingly warm, comforting, but she feared it more than anything else in her entire life — more than the anger of her parents or the pain of a horrible injury, more than this man beside her.
It was death.
“Get in now,” he said.
Lili took a deep breath, but it did little to stem the quivers passing through her body, the weakness building deep within and slowly taking hold of her all. She took a deep breath, placed a hand on the edge of the large freezer, and climbed over the side. Then she sank into the water and lay down, the man holding her head above the surface at her shoulders. When her ears dipped below the water line, she lost all the sounds of the basement and heard nothing but her own breathing, the echo of her pounding heart, even the sound of her eyelids snapping shut and open again.
The man lifted her up just a little, enough to bring her ears back into the air. “Remember this time,” he said. “Remember it all.”
“I will,” Lili said.
The man shoved her beneath the surface, pressing her weakened body against the floor of the tank. Lili didn’t try to fight him this time, she didn’t even suck in one last breath. Instead, she inhaled the water. She choked back the pain as fluid filled her lungs, she fought the urge to cough, and breathed in more. She breathed in more until the wavy image of the man hovering above her faded away, until all went black, until it didn’t hurt anymore, telling herself to remember she had to remember.
Lili would not wake up again.
“You can’t possibly expect me to work my magic surrounded by the scent of freshly ground coffee without a venti caramel macchiato in my hand, can you?” Kloz said as he sat behind the manager’s desk in the back office of the Starbucks on Kedzie.
The room was cluttered, no more than a hundred square feet, with the desk pressed against the back wall and random boxes of supplies littering every inch of open floor space. With Kloz behind the desk and Nash standing to his right, the manager had to stand in the hallway outside the office.
“What about you? Would you like something?” the manager asked Nash. He had thinning brown hair, glasses, and about thirty pounds more than his frame was built to carry. He shuffled from side to side, his hands in constant movement. Nash couldn’t help but wonder what inhaling coffee fumes for ten hours a day would do to a person. “Can I get a regular large coffee, black?”
“What kind? We’ve got blond, dark, decaf Pike Place, Caffè Misto, Clover —”
“Regular large coffee, black,” Nash repeated.
His shoulders slumped. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Nash watched him disappear down the hall toward the front of the shop, then turned back to Kloz. “Well?”
Kloz had three windows open on the monitor. He was studying the text on the third with narrow eyes. “This thing is old, at least five years. The drive is only a half gig, and they’re running an HD camera setup at 1080p.”
“Don’t make me hurt you. I need it in English.”
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