Mountain Witness. Lena DiazЧитать онлайн книгу.
hear about it and start praying for his soul.
A piercing shriek sounded from outside, then abruptly cut off. Chris jumped up from his chair, grabbed his pistol from the coffee table. Standing stock-still, he listened for the sound again. Had a screech owl flown over the house? Maybe one of the baseball fans on TV had made the noise. Maybe. But he didn’t think so. The volume on the television hadn’t been turned up very loud. He pressed the mute button on the remote. Still nothing. Everything was silent. So what had he heard?
As if pulled by an unseen force, his gaze went to the window on the east side of the great room. The front of his home was about ten feet closer to the road than his neighbor’s. He had a clear view of her porch, dimly lit by a single yellow bulb now that the sun had gone down. Everything looked as it had earlier when he’d dealt with the trash. Two cars were still parked in her driveway. There was no sign of any people anywhere. But he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in his gut and the memory of the fear he’d seen in her eyes.
Cursing himself for a fool, he headed toward the screen door, gun in hand. His neighbor was probably going to think he was an idiot for checking on her. But he had to see for himself that she was okay. He shoved the pistol into his waistband at the small of his back. No sense in scaring her with his gun out. After jogging down the porch steps, he strode across the lawn to her house.
The sound of breaking glass made him pause before he reached the bottom step. An angry male voice sounded from inside. Chris whirled around, changing direction. He went to the side of the porch, where he wouldn’t be visible from the front door, then hauled himself up and over the railing. Crouching down, he edged to the first window, then peeked inside.
The layout of the house was basically a one-story version of his own. He’d been in it dozens of times helping out old man Hutchinson before his family moved him to an assisted-living facility. The front door opened into the great room. The kitchen was to the left, through an archway. Both homes had a hallway that ran across the back, with two bedrooms and a bath. The only true difference was the size and the fact that Chris’s home had a staircase hugging the wall on the right.
Boxes were stacked neatly across the left end of his neighbor’s great room. A couch and two chairs sat in a grouping on the right. Standing in the middle of the room was a tall, lean man, his face a mask of anger as he said something to the woman across from him. Pieces of a broken drinking glass scattered the floor. But what captured Chris’s attention the most was what the man was holding in his right hand—a butcher knife.
Chris ducked down, his hand going to the gun shoved into his waistband. No. He couldn’t bust in there pointing his gun. The other man was too close to the woman and might hurt her. What he needed was a distraction, some way to put more distance between the two.
He also needed backup, in case this all went horribly wrong. He didn’t want the woman left facing the man with the knife all by herself. He had to make sure she’d get the help she needed, no matter what.
After silencing his phone, he typed a quick text to dispatch, letting them know the situation. As expected, the immediate response was to stand down and wait for more units. Yeah, well, more units were a good thirty minutes away, best case. That was part of the price of living in the country. Like it or not, he had to go inside the house. If he waited, his neighbor could get hurt or killed by the time his fellow SWAT team members arrived.
He shoved the phone into his pocket, then hopped over the railing and dropped down to the grass. His hastily concocted plan wasn’t much of a plan. It basically involved making enough noise to alert the two inside that he was there, and then going all hillbilly on them. If they were typical city slickers, as the BMW and out-of-town plates on the Taurus suggested, they might take the bait and think he was a redneck without a clue. If his gamble paid off, he’d manage to insert himself between the two and wrestle the knife away—hopefully without getting himself or anyone else killed.
Yeah, not much of a plan, but, since he couldn’t think of another one, he went with it.
He wiped his palms on his jeans, then loudly clomped his booted foot onto the bottom porch step.
A hollow sound echoed outside. Julie jerked around to see the sexy guy from next door stomping up the front porch steps.
“Who is that?” Alan snarled, closing the distance between them.
She swallowed, watching the knife in his hand. “My neighbor. I don’t know his name.”
“Get rid of him.”
He edged halfway behind her, his left hand—the one holding the knife—hidden from view. Its sharp tip pressed lightly between her shoulder blades, just piercing her skin. She gasped and arched away, but the threat was still there. Her only chance was to try to appease him. If she didn’t, he’d kill her, and try to kill a stranger whose only crime was that he lived next door.
A knock sounded. The tall, broad-shouldered man who’d given her so many unreturned smiles and friendly waves peered through the screen door, grinning when he saw her standing in the middle of the great room.
“Hello, there,” he drawled. “I’m Chris Downing, from the house next door. Hope you don’t mind me coming over. I figured it was high time I introduced myself.”
“Um, actually, I don’t—”
He pushed the door open and stepped inside, his white teeth gleaming in a smile that would have been charming if she wasn’t so scared.
She shot a pleading look over her shoulder, then glanced back at her neighbor. “Mr. Downing, this really isn’t a good—”
“Chris,” he corrected, striding toward her. “No point in formalities between neighbors.”
The knife pressed against her spine, a warning that she needed to do something. Fast.
“You sure are pretty, ma’am.” His grin widened. “Welcome to the neighborhood.” He took one of her hands in his. “And what lovely name did your mama gift you with?” He waited expectantly, his green eyes capturing hers, looking oddly serious in spite of his silly grin.
She could almost taste Alan’s simmering anger, his impatience.
“I’m...ah...Julie. Julie Webb. I’m sorry but you really need to—”
“Can’t remember the last time I met a Julie. Beautiful name for a beautiful woman.” His head bobbed up and down while he vigorously shook her hand, pulling her off balance. She was forced to step toward him to keep from falling over.
Alan made a menacing sound in his throat and plopped his right hand on her shoulder, anchoring her and keeping her from moving farther away from him. But her neighbor misinterpreted the gesture. He let go of Julie’s hand and offered his hand to Alan, instead.
“Didn’t mean to ignore you back there,” he said. “Where are my manners? Are you my new neighbor, too, or just visiting?”
The pressure on her shoulder tightened painfully, making her wince. She tensed, fully expecting to feel the bite of the knife sliding between her ribs at any moment. Most people would have read the tension between her and Alan and realized they were intruding. But her neighbor seemed oblivious, his hand still in the air, waiting for Alan to take it.
She could have sworn Alan said “stupid redneck” beneath his breath before he released her shoulder and reached around her to shake the other man’s hand.
As soon as Chris’s much larger hand closed around Alan’s, he gave a mighty, sideways yank, ripping Alan away from Julie. Alan roared with rage and slashed at Chris with the knife. Chris twisted sideways, the blade narrowly missing his stomach. He grabbed Alan’s left wrist, both men twisting and grunting with their hands joined crosswise in front of them.
“Get back,” Chris yelled at Julie, twisting sideways again.
She