The Liar’s Lullaby. Meg Gardiner

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СКАЧАТЬ would be checked by the medical examiner and cross-referenced for tox screening in connection with Tasia’s autopsy. But Jo wanted to verify their contents for herself.

      The wind whistled through the open window. She heard a car drive past the house. Men’s voices batted about on the wind.

      The floor creaked behind her. She turned.

      The bedroom looked exactly as she’d seen it moments earlier. The floor creaked again, in the hallway beyond it.

      Chennault.

      Damn, the nosy bastard had snuck back inside the house. She strode out of the bathroom toward the bedroom door. “Excuse me.”

      Again the creak. She stepped into the hall. Nobody was on the landing.

      “Mr. Chennault?”

      She told herself she hadn’t imagined it. Again she heard men’s voices outside. She walked to the landing, where a picture window overlooked the street. The hairs on her arms prickled.

      Beside his car, Chennault stood talking to the property manager.

      Slowly she turned. Behind her, outside a hallway closet, stood a figure in fatigues and a balaclava.

      Five foot eight, probably two-fifty, and breathing hard. Jo’s gaze went to his hands. Gardening gloves.

      She ran for the stairs.

      She sprinted, two steps, three, and heard him coming. His feet thumped on the carpet. Run, she thought. She leaped down the stairs two at a time.

      A hand grabbed her hair. Her head snapped back.

      She swung an elbow and hit padded flesh, heard his thick breathing, felt his meaty presence. His hand twisted her hair. She lost her balance, missed a step, and fell.

      She threw out her hands and hit hard, knees to stomach to her face. The masked man grunted and toppled with her. They slid down the stairs and thudded against the hardwood floor.

      He landed on top of her. His weight, his smell, were crushing. She squirmed, fingernails out. His flesh was soft and red around the collar. She clawed at his neck.

      He lumbered to his feet and careened into the living room, hitting the wall as he ran. He threw open the plate-glass patio door.

      Jo clambered to her feet and stumbled for the front door. Looking back, she saw the intruder flee across the backyard.

      She threw open the front door. “Help.”

      Chennault and the property manager looked up, startled, and rushed toward her.

      Jo found her phone. Fingers shaking, she punched 911. She pointed at the back of the house. “Man in a balaclava. Ran out and into the trees.”

      The property manager gaped at her, and at the open patio door, with seeming confusion. Chennault took the same long second, then put a hand on Jo’s shoulder.

      “Are you hurt?” he said.

      She had the phone to her ear. Her ribs were killing her. Her face had rug burns. She couldn’t swallow because her throat was bone-dry.

      “I’m okay.”

      Through the patio door, she saw movement. The bottlebrush trees were heavy with red blooms, and they swung as the man in the balaclava ran past. Chennault saw it too. He hesitated only a second before running out the patio door.

      “Nine-one-one. What is the nature of your emergency?”

      “An intruder just assaulted me.”

      Jo ran after Chennault. He was already across the yard and running for the trees. Up the steep hillside, the rhododendrons rustled like a black bear was tearing through them.

      She gave the 911 dispatcher the address. “I’m in pursuit on foot, with another civilian.”

      Part of her thinking, what the hell was she doing? Another part thinking, Look around. Make sure there’s not another one. And what the hell am I doing?

      “Stay on the line, Dr. Beckett,” the dispatcher said. “A unit is on the way.”

      “Wouldn’t hang up for a million bucks,” Jo said.

      She aimed for the trees.

       15

      JO RAN UP THE HILL BEHIND TASIA’S HOUSE, PHONE PRESSED TO HER ear. Her heart beat like a snare drum. Branches swung past her face. The hillside smelled of damp earth and the musk of the attacker’s clothing. Above her, the bushes swayed violently as the attacker bowled through them.

      “He’s a hundred yards ahead of me, heading for the top of Twin Peaks,” she told the emergency dispatcher. “The other civilian is closer to him.”

      Rhododendrons were dense on the hillside. Sunlight gashed through the leaves, looking unnaturally bright. Damn it. How had the guy gotten into the house?

      Ahead, Ace Chennault muscled through the brush. Ungainly but purposeful, he closed the distance on the attacker.

      “Chennault,” she hollered, “watch out for weapons.”

      She put the phone back to her ear. “We’re heading toward Sutro Tower. How long for the unit to respond?”

      “They’re on the way,” the dispatcher said.

      The damp ground gave way beneath her feet. She pitched forward and her hand hit the slope. The attacker disappeared from sight, followed by Chennault. She heard them threshing the bushes. She put her arm up to shield herself from branches and plowed after them.

      The hillside flattened and she came out onto a dusty field. Ahead lay eucalyptus groves, then a chain-link fence. Sutro Tower stood beyond it, a fulsome red and white in the sunshine, rising mightily three hundred yards overhead.

      The attacker was following the fence line into the distance. He had a smooth stride and was surprisingly light on his feet, motoring toward freedom. Chennault sprinted raggedly behind him.

      “He’s headed west. If he gets past Sutro Tower…” She tried to picture what lay beyond the antenna. Glades, more eucalyptus, steep ravines. “…he could lose us.”

      She ran, beginning to blow hard. On the far side of the hilltop the attacker darted into a eucalyptus grove and dropped from sight over the lip of the hill. Five seconds later so did Chennault.

      Jo passed Sutro Tower. “They’re in heavy woods, heading downhill.”

      At the lip of the hill she slowed. The ground pitched harshly into trees and tangled undergrowth. The vine-covered ground was a morass of eroded gullies. A fallen eucalyptus, at least a hundred feet tall, spanned a ravine like a bridge.

      Chennault was eighty yards ahead, pummeling downhill like he couldn’t stop. She didn’t see the СКАЧАТЬ