Free Silent Witness by Richard North Patterson Page A

snapped, nearer yet.
    Tony’s skin crawled. ‘Who is it?’ Tony cried out, and then heard someone running toward him.
    Unable to see, Tony braced himself. The thumping footsteps headed for him. Then, quite suddenly, the footsteps veered away. Heart pounding in his chest, Tony listened as their sound vanished in the endless dark.
    Alone, he remembered the other, softer sound.
    Turning, he ran toward the grove.
    A branch lashed his face. The sting of it stopped him only for an instant, and then he crossed onto the Taylors’ land.
    Abruptly, he stopped, looking blindly about him. The house was concrete now, its peculiar shape dark against the sky; to his right, a deep lapping sound came from the unseen lake below. Only when the back porch light came on, casting yellow on the grass, did he see the shadow lying before him.
    He walked toward it, fear growing inside him, not wondering about the light. Curled on its side, the shadow was like a child sleeping.
    Bending, Tony reached out to her. Felt the hair that hid her face, the cheek that was still warm.
    His voice was hoarse. ‘ Alison .’
    Her skirt was pulled up. As though to stir her, Tony touched her bare leg.
    It was damp. Something smelled like urine. A cry formed in his throat.
    The back door creaked open. The beam of a flashlight crossed the grass.
    â€˜Alison,’ her father cried out.
    Stunned, Tony cradled Alison’s face. At first, he could not see her, and then the flashlight found them.
    Alison’s face was flushed, her mouth contorted. The eyes that had held such love for him were wide and empty, pinpointed with red starbursts.
    Mind reeling, Tony crossed himself, tears of shock streaming down his face.
    Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death . . .
    â€˜Oh my God . . .’
    Tony jerked his hand back. It took him an instant to realize that the cry of anguish was not his. ‘Oh my God . . . ,’ her father repeated.
    Nauseous, Tony felt cold metal against his head, trembling with its own life. ‘ You animal – what have you done to her? ’
    Turning, Tony faced a black revolver.
    Behind it stood John Taylor, the white shock of hair faint silver in the light, his face sick with anger and incomprehension. Beyond him, the screen door framed the startled silhouette of Alison’s mother. ‘Katherine,’ her husband’s thick voice cried. ‘Please, call for help. . . .’
    Tony felt himself trembling, unable to comprehend this. Gun in hand, John Taylor knelt beside his daughter, felt for her pulse. As the father’s eyes shut, Tony blurted, ‘It wasn’t me. . . .’
    John Taylor’s eyes snapped open. Like an automaton, he rose from Alison’s side and aimed the revolver at Tony. In his disbelief, Tony could not move.
    â€˜Jack!’
    Katherine Taylor ran from the house and knelt beside her daughter. She saw Alison’s face, cried out. Then she threw herself across the slender frame, as if to protect it from hurt.
    Staring at Tony across the two women, one still, one sobbing, John Taylor’s eyes turned vacant. He raised the gun to fire; Tony covered his face.
    â€˜ Mama – what is it?’
    John Taylor blinked. In a nightdress, Alison’s eleven-year-old sister called from the back porch.
    Stiffly, Alison’s mother rose to her knees, her gray-streaked black hair disheveled, her face ivory. In parched tones, she said to her husband, ‘Don’t hurt him, Jack. Wait for the police.’
    John Taylor did not answer. Instead he turned, as if remembering his duties, and called out to his younger daughter with strained parental authority. ‘It’s Alison, Lizzie. Please stay there.’ Shivering, Tony knew that Alison’s mother had saved his life.
    A siren whined. Tony saw the flashing red lights of one police car, then a second, tires squealing to a stop in