Free The Lesson of Her Death by Jeffery Deaver Page A

two.
    The boy was fair-skinned and slight but he was strong as sinew. He worked out constantly, concentrating on many reps of lighter weight rather than going for bulk. He waved back to his father and headed toward the backyard, where he would pitch a tennis ball onto the crest of the roof and snag the fly with all sorts of fancy catches. The expression on his face was the same one that Corde had puzzled over for over a year until he finally recognized it as a look of Diane’s—contentment, Corde liked to think, though also caution and consideration. He was proud of his son—quiet and easygoing, a devoted member of the freshman wrestling team, a B-plus student without trying, good in Latin and biology and math, the secretary of the Science Club.
    Corde believed his boy would grow up to be Gary Cooper.
    Detouring through the Rototilled earth of the side yard, Corde turned on the sprinkler, which began to saturate the patch of mud that the seed package had promised four weeks ago would be luxurious green in six. Corde watched the wave sweep back and forth for a minute, then walked toward the split-level house, aluminum-sided bright yellow. Corde had an acre of land, all of it grass (or soon to be, Ortho assured him), punctuated with juniper bushes and saplings that in fifty years would be respectable oaks. The property bordered the panhandle of a working dairy farm to the north, beyond which was a forest. Surrounding houses, all modest split-levels or colonials, sat on similar plots along Route 302.
    He heard a chug of a diesel engine. Up the road the driver of a White semi, hauling a Maersk Line container, started shifting down through his many gears as the truck rolled over the crest of the highway probably right on the posted speed. Corde watched the majestic truck for a moment then started toward the house.
    A motion caught his eye and smiling still he glanced to the corner of his yard. Something nosing out of the bushes toward the road. A dog?
    No!
    “Sarah!”
    His daughter stood up and looked at him in panic—a deer spotting a hunter. She turned and ran at top speed toward the truck, whose driver was oblivious to the girl.
    “Sarah, stop!” Corde shouted in astonishment. “No!” He ran after her.
    She was squealing with terror, running ahead of herself, tripping as her feet windmilled, her arms flailing in panic. She was aiming right for the truck’s massive rear wheels, which were as tall as she was.
    “Oh, honey, stop! Please!” he gasped, and ran flat out, the Mace canister and a Speedloader falling from his Sam Browne belt, handcuffs thwacking his back.
    “Leave me alone!” Sarah wailed, and plunged ahead toward the truck’s tires.
    She dropped the backpack and made a frantic sprint for the truck. It seemed like she was going to leap right for the huge thundering disks of tires, firing pebbles into the air behind the trailer.
    Sarah was three feet from the wheels when Corde tackled her. They landed, skidding, in a pile on the messy shoulder as the truck rumbled past them, the stack burping as the engine revved and the driver up-shifted, unaware of the struggle he left behind.
    Sarah squealed and kicked. Panicked, Corde rolled to his knees and shook her by the shoulders. His hand rose, palm flat. She squealed in terror. He screamed, “What are you
doing
, what are you
doing?”
Corde, who had spanked Jamie only once and Sarah not at all in their collective twenty-four years on earth, lowered his hand. “Tell me!”
    “Leave me alone!”
    Diane was running toward them. “What happened? What happened?”
    Corde stood. The panic was gone but it had left in its place the sting of betrayal. He stepped back. Diane dropped to her knees and held the child’s face in her hands. She took a breath to start the tirade then paused, seeing the despair in her little girl’s face. “Sarah, you were running away? Running away from home?”
    Sarah wiped her tears and nose with her sleeves. She didn’t respond.