Fatal Harvest. Catherine PalmerЧитать онлайн книгу.
that felt like a noose tightening around his neck. Dear God, please help me! I don’t know what to do. I need to talk to somebody. I need help. But You’re all I have.
He forced himself to reason. If God was all he had, wasn’t that enough? God is more than sufficient…a very present help in time of trouble…wonderful Counselor…
“Okay,” Matt breathed out. “Holy Spirit, give me wisdom. And courage, too. Please be my counselor. Help me not to blow this worse than I already have. Amen.”
When he lifted his head, he felt calmer. He wasn’t in such bad shape after all, he realized. He had about fifty dollars, a laptop, a vehicle. He had youth, energy and brains—more than enough to get him out of this hot water. He even had the credit card his father had given him. What more did he need? Maybe the Snickers had just given him a sugar high, but he was feeling better about the situation. He turned his attention to Jim Banyon’s house.
The thing to do was go inside and just talk things through with Mr. Banyon. Maybe everything was really all right. Maybe Mr. Banyon had spoken with the Agrimax men, calmed them down, given them the key, and assured them Matt hadn’t done anything wrong. Maybe they would go away, and everything would be normal again. He and Billy would rent a movie and eat four bags of microwave popcorn and drink a twelve-pack of orange soda.
Drawing a fortifying breath deep into his lungs, Matt eased open the door of his pickup. At the squeak, his palms went damp.
It’s okay, he told himself. It’s nothing. Be calm, Mattman.
He edged out of the cab and crept through the cover of trees. The lights were still on in the house. No silhouettes moving around inside. Darkness was falling fast.
Pausing at the edge of the grove, Matt crouched and scanned the area. There was no way to approach the house without showing himself. He dashed to the front door. It was ajar. He wedged himself against the frame and knocked quickly, quietly. He looked over his shoulder. Was someone moving out beyond the fence?
Gulping down the acid that bubbled up from his stomach, Matt pushed the door open and slipped inside.
“Mr. Banyon?” His voice came out soft and wimpy. Way too high. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Mr. Banyon, it’s me, Matt Strong.”
Nothing.
His own rapid breaths sounding like a locomotive engine, he moved forward. Down the narrow foyer. His rubber soles made a tump-tump sound on the tile.
Living-room light spilled into the hallway, and he stepped across it onto beige berber carpet. Someone was sleeping on the couch that faced the bank of windows opposite the foyer. An arm lay across the top of the sofa. Mr. Banyon’s arm. Matt recognized the turquoise-inlaid silver watchband. Whew. How bad could it be if the rancher was napping? That was normal after a long day’s work. His dad was always zonked out on the recliner in the evenings.
“Hey, Mr. Banyon, sir?” Matt said, moving around the couch. “Sorry to wake you up, but I—”
A monster stared back at him. Swollen eyeballs, blackened teeth, a crimson halo. Red stain on the sofa pillow. Bloodstain. Spatters across the back of the couch.
The body was Mr. Banyon’s—plaid work shirt, silver belt buckle, jeans, those old boots. But the face. Not the face.
Matt fought to keep breathing. Mr. Banyon’s other arm draped down to the floor. Six inches away lay a pistol. Matt’s eyes shot back to the face. The blackened teeth and burn marks on the lips…they could only mean…
No. Matt’s mouth formed the word, but no sound came out. “No,” he said again. “No, God, don’t let this be! Don’t let this be!”
He fell to one knee, grabbed Mr. Banyon’s shirt, and shook him. “Don’t do this! Not this!”
The monstrous head rolled, sliding down the pillow toward the shoulder.
Matt jumped backward, stumbling into the coffee table. He reached behind him to steady the large Hopi pot that always sat there. But it was gone—already lying on the carpet, broken into three pieces. Not wanting to look at Mr. Banyon again—and wanting to look just to be sure he hadn’t dreamed it—Matt forced himself to scan the room. Books that once lined pine shelves now lay scattered across the floor. A kachina doll’s glass case had been shattered. A curtain hung half-torn from its rod.
And Mr. Banyon’s desk near the fireplace…the drawers were out, their contents flung around the room…
The Agrimax men had been here. They came looking for it. For the USB key. They must have threatened Mr. Banyon the way they had threatened Matt. And when they left, taking the key and all its forbidden secrets, he had known he would spend the rest of his life in prison. So he had stretched out on the couch and put the pistol in his mouth and…and…
“It’s my fault!” Matt knotted his fingers in his hair, squeezed, and pulled. He felt like his own brain was going to come bursting out of his skull. “I did this! Me! It’s all because of me!”
He looked back at Mr. Banyon, and his eyes caught the flash of a headlight through the front window. Someone driving along the fence. Approaching the house. The Agrimax men!
Matt pounced on the pistol lying on the floor. He would shoot them. Shoot them both!
No, wait. He couldn’t do that. He had never fired a gun in his life. Hated hunting. Hated violence. Billy had teased him— Come on, Mattman, at least a jackrabbit! No, Matt wouldn’t do it.
Dropping the gun, he couldn’t keep his eyes from falling again on the monster. “I’m sorry!” he mouthed, tears wetting his lips. “I didn’t mean to do this!”
The crunch of gravel on the drive…then a car door slammed. Matt jerked, and his focus fell on a bulge in the pocket of Mr. Banyon’s plaid shirt. It was small, oblong, the size of a cigarette lighter. Only Mr. Banyon didn’t smoke.
As someone rang the doorbell, Matt slid two fingers into the pocket. Before he even touched it, he knew what he had found. The key fit neatly in his palm. He dropped it into the front pocket of his jeans and took off for the kitchen.
“Banyon? You in there?”
Matt could hear the voice echoing down the foyer. His foot landed on a small rug, and he skidded halfway across the kitchen floor. The back door stood ajar. Pushing open the screen, he burst through—remembering just in time to grab it so it wouldn’t slam shut behind him. Then he started toward the side of the house.
Down on all fours, he peered around the corner. The car parked out front didn’t belong to the Agrimax men. It was the sheriff. How had Sheriff Holtmeyer known to check on Mr. Banyon?
Now Matt could see two more vehicles moving up the rutted dirt road, their headlights bouncing. Grateful for darkness, he raced across the yard and dived into the stand of cottonwood trees.
Breathing hard, he yanked open the door to his pickup and climbed in. He turned the key in the ignition, reached for the shift lever, and paused. Leaving the truck idling, he leaned back in the seat and tried to collect his thoughts. If the Agrimax men hadn’t found the USB key, then maybe Mr. Banyon hadn’t killed himself. Maybe they had been looking for the device and had murdered him in the process. This was bad. Really bad.
Should Matt go to the sheriff, turn himself in, tell him the whole story, hand over the key? The information would go straight back to Agrimax, and that would be the end of everything Mr. Banyon had been trying to do. Had died trying to do.
Think, Mattman. Think, think. He wasn’t any good at thinking on his feet. Billy said he had no common sense, no street smarts. Give Mattman a logarithm. Give him calculus. Give him a computer to program. Give him Latin grammar or astronomy. He could puzzle through that stuff easily. But not this.
“Dear God, what am I supposed to do now?” he murmured, gripping the steering wheel. This had all been for God to begin with, hadn’t it? Feeding the hungry. Convincing Agrimax to turn over some of their excess. Finding a way