Bonereapers by Jeanne Matthews

Author:Jeanne Matthews [Matthews, Jeanne]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Suspense, (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
ISBN: 9781590586204
Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press
Published: 2012-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

Jesus, Joseph, and Mary. What was happening? She slithered across the snow on her belly, scrambling for her life toward a snow bank, maybe twenty feet away. She didn’t know, but she thought the shots had come from somewhere down below, from one of the barracks-style houses. She reached the bank, turned, and flattened her back against its highest point. She didn’t have the nerve to peek over the top. She ran her tongue around her mouth and spit out a gob of bloody cookie crumbs. In her terror, she had bitten the inside of her cheek and a painful, bloody ridge had formed.

Her thoughts were churning. She had seen the action heroes and heroines in the movies do this scene a hundred times. What did they do after they reached cover? They drew their guns. Terrific. She hadn’t noticed if the rifle was still in the church’s gun rack, but the elderly man had probably taken it. He’d left only a minute ahead of her. Was he the shooter? The target? Had a drunken hunter mistaken her for a polar bear?

She drew her body up into a hunker, being careful to keep her head below the rim of the snow bank, and assessed the damage to her left arm. The sleeve of the parka had been shredded and so had the flesh of her upper arm. Blood oozed toward her elbow. She stifled a gag and shuddered. On the bright side, at this temperature, she would freeze to death before she bled out.

Without a gun, all she could do was cower and pray until help arrived or else make a run for it. People in the movies were always “making a run for it,” but where was her “it” and could she get there without being shot again?

Why wasn’t a crowd forming? Was the sound of gunfire so routine on a Thursday afternoon in Longyearbyen that nobody bothered to check out the source? The sound of a siren would be music to her ears. Her arm felt as if it were being flayed by a thousand whips.

She duck-walked to the end of the snow bank nearest to the street she’d taken up the hill and peeked over the top. She didn’t see any movement, but there weren’t many streetlights up here and the shooter could still be out there in the dark, waiting for her to show herself.

Footsteps sounded in the snow behind her. She twisted her head around so fast she nearly lost her balance. A man and a woman were walking toward the church from another direction. The man had an old-timey camera with a telephoto lens slung over his shoulder. The woman was shining a flashlight on a map. Not assassins. Ordinary tourists.

“Help! I’ve been shot!”

“Hva?” The man wheeled around as if he’d heard God speak to him out of a burning bush.

“Police! Call the politi, p-p-please.” She began to feel lightheaded. She pushed herself to her feet and held out her arm to the woman.

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