Free Thriller by James Patterson Page B

failures have made pursuit and apprehension difficult. John Parker was found guilty in the slaying of Patricia Reeves of Miramar last year. He is suspected of the
    murders of at least seven other women in the southeastern states.
    He is a man of approximately—”
    Keith couldn’t believe it when another earful of static slammed
    him instead of statistics on the man. Headed south?
    Not this far south. Only a suicidal maniac would have at- 73
    tempted to drive down into the dark and treacherous keys when
    a storm of any magnitude was in gear. Still, it felt as if icy fingers
    slid down his throat to his heart.
    Beth was alone at the house.
    He was tempted to turn back instantly. But Mrs. Peterson’s
    trailer was just ahead now. All he had to do was grab the old
    woman, hop back in the Hummer and turn around.
    The first thing he noted was that her old Plymouth wasn’t in
    the drive.
    He hesitated, then reached in the glove compartment for the
    .38 Smith & Wesson he was licensed to carry. He exited the car,
    swearing against the savage pelting of the rain.
    “Mrs. Peterson!” he roared, approaching the trailer. Damn, the
    woman was lucky the thing hadn’t blown over yet. He could hear
    the dog barking. Yappy little creature, but hell, it was everything
    in the world to the elderly widow.
    “Mrs. Peterson!” He pounded on the door. There was no response. He hesitated, then tried the knob. The door was open.
    He walked in. Mrs. Peterson’s purse was on the coffee table.
    Cocoa could be heard but not seen. “Mrs. Peterson?”
    The trailer was small. There was nowhere to hide in the living room or kitchen. He tried her sewing room, and then, not
    sure why, he hesitated at the door to her bedroom. He slipped
    the Smith & Wesson from his waistband, took a stance and
    threw open the door.
    Nothing. No one. He breathed a sigh of relief, then spun around
    at a flurry of sound. Cocoa came flying out from beneath the bed.
    The small dog managed to jump into his arms, terrified. As
    Keith clutched the animal, he heard a noise from the front, and
    headed back out.
    A drenched man in what was surely supposed to be a waterproof jacket stood just inside the doorway. “Aunt Dot?” he called.
    The fellow was about thirty years old. Dark hair was plastered
    to his head. He stood about six feet even. He saw Keith standing with the gun and cried out, stunned and frightened.
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    “Who are you?” Keith demanded.
    “Joe. I’m Joe Peterson. Dot Peterson’s nephew,” he explained.
    “How did you get here?”
    “Walked.” The fellow swallowed. “My car broke down.
    Um…where’s my aunt?” he inquired.
    “You tell me,” Keith demanded warily.
    “I…I don’t know. I was on my way down here…the car gave
    out. Man, I went through some deep flooding…walked the rest
    of the way here. Um, who are you and why are you aiming a gun
    at me?” There was definite fear in his voice. “Wait, no, never
    mind. I don’t want to know your name. Hey, if you’re taking anything, go ahead. I’ll just walk back out into the storm. I’ll look
    for my aunt.”
    “We’ll look for her together,” Keith said.
    He indicated that Joe should walk back out. The fellow hesitated uneasily and then voiced an anxious question. “Aunt Dottie…she’s really not here?”
    Keith shook his head. “Move.”
    Joe moved toward the door. “Back out into the storm?” he demanded.
    Keith nodded grimly. Outside, he put the dog in the car, stuck
    the gun in his waistband and opened the driver’s side. “Get in,”
    he shouted to Joe Peterson.
    “Maybe I should wait here,” Peterson shouted back.
    “Maybe we should look for your aunt!”
    They both got into the car. Cocoa scampered to the back seat,
    whimpering. Keith eased the Hummer out of the drive. “Search
    the sides of the road, see if she drove off somehow!” Keith commanded.
    “Search the side of the road?” Peterson repeated. He looked
    at Keith so abruptly that water droplets flew from