A Stranger's Baby. Kerry Connor

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      JAKE ARMSTRONG EASED HIMSELF out of the truck, first his good left leg, then the right that seemed to have failed him yet again. He tried to keep the weight off his right foot, gingerly setting it on the pavement and leaning on the left.

      It didn’t help. A sharp pain shot down the limb starting at the knee. Gripping the door, he sucked in a breath through gritted teeth. He’d taken two pills as soon as he’d exited the all-night drugstore, downing them without water, needing them too much, hating that he did. For all the good they’d done him. The pills must not have kicked in yet.

      Or maybe he’d waited too long and now would have to wait that much longer for them to start working. He hadn’t bothered refilling the prescription after he’d run out weeks ago, thinking he didn’t need the medicine anymore.

      So much for that.

      Damn. He’d thought he was doing well, too, enough so that he’d felt confident ignoring the initial twinges that had probably indicated something was wrong. He was used to fighting through pain. He was running farther and harder every day. He felt stronger. His old doctors would say he was pushing himself too hard, and for no reason. That he was lucky to be walking at all after they’d put his knee back together.

      “Damn doctors,” he grumbled under his breath. “Don’t know what they’re talking about.” Which was exactly why they were no longer his doctors.

      At least there was nobody else out on the street at two o’clock in the morning to see him hobbling around. Not for the first time, he was glad he’d gotten a place in this town outside of Boston, rather than staying in the city. The neighborhood remained still and quiet, every house darkened for the night.

      He was about to slam the door shut when an explosion cut through the air, catching him off guard, causing him to stumble. Leaning into the door, he whipped his head toward the noise. He knew the sound of gunfire. It came in rapid succession, one shot after another after another.

      He didn’t have to look far to determine the origin. The shots were coming from inside the house next door.

      The house where the pregnant woman lived.

      The bottle of pills fell from his hand, forgotten, as he reached for his cell and stabbed in the numbers. The sounds of the gunshots continued to hang in the air, uninterrupted by fresh ones.

      “9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”

      “There’s gunfire coming from my neighbor’s house. She’s a pregnant woman. Lives alone.”

      “What’s the address?” the dispatcher asked with admirable calm.

      He quickly gave it to her, answering her follow-up questions on autopilot as he surveyed the house. No lights were on in the building; there was no way to see inside. No further sounds came from within. The closest streetlamp was on the other side of the road, its steady beam barely reaching the lawn. The driveway was empty, her vehicle likely parked inside the garage. The house itself remained shrouded in shadows. He stared into them, but detected no signs of movement.

      The echo of the gunfire faded from his ears, leaving nothing but a silence so absolute that he wondered, for a heartbeat, if he’d imagined what he’d thought he’d heard. He dismissed the thought a second later. He knew what he’d heard. It had been gunfire.

      Which only made the endless silence that followed and lack of movement inside the house more disturbing.

      As if from a great distance, he heard the dispatcher assuring him the police were on their way and asking him to stay on the line. The final words barely reached him. He was already hanging up, moving forward as fast as his gimpy leg would let him.

      It would take the police a while to get there, and even longer for an ambulance if one wasn’t called until after they arrived and determined it was necessary. She could be hurt. She could be dying, her and the baby. He couldn’t just stand there. He had to do something.

      He stalked around the edge of the lawn, not wanting to cross directly and get too close too soon. Every second he braced himself, ready for another shot to come from the house, prepared to duck.

      It never came. Reaching the front path, he followed it to the door. Hoping he wasn’t making a mistake, he pounded on it with his fist.

      “Hey—” he started to call out, only to stop abruptly, suddenly realizing he didn’t know her name. She hadn’t introduced herself after he’d moved in last month, apparently no more interested in getting to know him than he was her. They’d exchanged nothing more than brief glances across their lawns whenever they both happened to be in front of their respective homes. She’d give him a polite nod, a short, shy smile as her gaze skittered away. She was pretty, from what he could tell, but evidently not social. Not that he could judge. He wasn’t, either.

      “Everything okay in there?” he asked instead.

      He waited for a light to flicker on inside or for her to answer the door.

      A full minute passed. Nothing happened.

      He repeated the knock and the call, to no effect.

      The lack of a response only stoked his tension. He tried the knob and wasn’t surprised to find it locked.

      Something was going on. He had to find another way inside the house.

      From what he remembered, there was another door in the back of the building. He gave a quick check in the front window. Seeing nothing, he made his way around the side of the house. The other windows were no СКАЧАТЬ