House Privilege by Mike Lawson

Author:Mike Lawson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove Atlantic
Published: 2020-05-21T00:00:00+00:00

Paulie didn’t even think about it. He didn’t have time to think about it.

He pulled the Glock out of the back of his pants and shot the big kid rushing at him. Who was he? Where the fuck had he come from?

He’d had to let Cassie go to deal with the kid, and as soon as he did she sprinted farther out into the lake and started swimming. But she’d put only a few yards between them. He turned and aimed the gun at her head then hesitated, thinking again how he’d been told to kill her in a way that looked like an accident. Then he thought, Too late for that now, with a dead boy lying on the shore. He started to squeeze the trigger before Cassie could get any farther—but then he heard a scream, a scream that would peel the paint off a wall. He spun his head to look back at the shore to see who was screaming and there was a girl in a white sweater standing there.

His first thought was: witness. He aimed at her, pulled the trigger, but she was fifty yards away and he missed. She screamed again then turned and ran into the woods, still screaming. He figured he’d have a bitch of a time finding her in the woods and, as soon as the girl could, sure as shit, she’d call the cops. He turned back again to look at Cassie. The little squirt was swimming like she was in the Olympics. Every couple of strokes, she’d turn her head to take a breath and look back at him. He aimed at her head again, but she dove under the water just as he fired.

Okay, it was time to get the hell out of here. He didn’t know how long it would take the cops to respond in a rural area like this—probably not that fast—but he had a major problem. His car was half a mile away, at the boat landing. He could row the raft back to the boat landing, catch up with Cassie as he did, and finish her off but it would probably take him twenty minutes to reach the landing in the raft. He’d be better off running. He could make it back to his car in ten minutes if he ran.

He ran in the direction the girl in the white sweater had gone, barely looking at the big kid lying on the shore, on his back, the front of his sweatshirt soaked red. He didn’t see any sign of the girl; she was probably crouched down in the bushes, whispering on her phone. When he reached the trailhead he saw a beat-to-shit old pickup that most likely belonged to the boy he’d shot. He checked to see if by some miracle the kid had left his keys in the ignition; he hadn’t.

He took off running on the road that ran around the lake. He ran as fast as he could and was sweating like a mule and panting by the time he reached his car.

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