Jeannie Parker 01-Survival Instinct by Carlson Katherine

Author:Carlson, Katherine [Carlson, Katherine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Suspense, American Suspense, Psychological Suspense, Domestic Thriller, Paranormal Suspense
Published: 2019-10-30T23:00:00+00:00

34

The innkeeper watched the last log burn.

Relieved to see it crust to black; it meant a new course of action. He couldn’t stay here and freeze—he weighed little more than a clattering skeleton. He needed to get back to the inn. Time to hustle. Swallow the fear like a lump of chewing tobacco—ignore the fact that Grayson could snap his neck in a millisecond.

Barry buttoned his coat, organized his pack—ditched the headlamp—and remembered Veronica. Her big doe eyes so innocent, so doting—right up till the end. He hadn’t known she was going to die. Too busy passed out at the campsite—out cold from the Jägermeister Grayson fed him all day. “Sneaky fucker.”

But Jeannie proved a different sort altogether. A fighter. The woman had serious guts. He hoped she’d prove a catalyst, a blow to the status quo that tormented him so long. Grayson was bad philosophy that went forever unchallenged.

“And he won’t be lost to the goose chase for long.”

Barry looked around at the war-torn remains of the sweet, baby lodge his partner built a lifetime ago. He touched the corner of Peter’s desk and tried to conjure his cologne: Old Spice. He smiled at the over-sized bowling ball that earned him some tacky third-place trophy years before.

Barry could only hope God—if such an awesome thing existed—would exercise patience with him—as Peter once did. He wondered what Pete would think, being compared to God in such a way. Barry tried to laugh but choked instead. He hit himself in the chest with a closed fist to make it stop. Hit himself a little too hard. “That’ll leave a bruise.” Not that anyone would notice or care. His days as an amorous gadabout were long past. Now he understood the meaning of “better gone than old.”

Yet he endured—a reluctant witness to a boy still running wild. Barry lit another cigarette and tried not to remember. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, but it was no use.

The child filled his memories … little Grayson stood in the yard, shirtless and crying. It was wintertime, and his father was beating him with the back of a shovel. Barry winced and paced—hoped Dutch didn’t gouge the kid’s flesh—waiting to take part in a gathering of bullies. Weak and incompetent scavengers. The meeting had been delayed because the child did something wrong involving nails—and running away.

Pitiful men leered from the basement window—vile voyeurs scratching at their balls while a child shriveled. No one helped—they wanted to feed the flames of their cruelty. It’s why they were there.

“But not me,” Barry whispered to the cabin. “Not ME.”

Time and memories passed as he huddled and smoked inside the battered shelter. He coughed and gagged and tried not to recall the freezing downpour on that horrible day … the way the shovel sounded hitting young skin. He’d always hoped the sound would fade, but it never did.

Not once.

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