The Heart of the Jungle, стр. 2

He stopped at an intersection and counted to three, careful to check both directions, though he could clearly see there was no opposing traffic.

"One one-thousand, two one-thousand...."

Messy hair was one thing, but a traffic violation was something else entirely. If he'd learned anything about living with an attorney, it was that you always, always followed the rules---especially those that had the justice system behind them. Deviation from a standard or statute was worse than unacceptable; it was blasphemy of the highest order.

He checked the clock again. No doubt about it. He was definitely going to be late. Michael was going to kill him.

Flashing lights rose over the hill behind him. Oh, great. Lovely. He was going to get a speeding ticket. At least he didn't have to worry about the messy hair sparking a tirade. Michael would absolutely have a mouthful to say about a moving violation.

Cautiously, yet with due haste, he crossed the intersection and pulled over to the side of the road, waiting impatiently for the cruiser to slide in behind him.

He was surprised when the police vehicle approached the stop sign at full speed and blew past him in a fury of pulsing red and screaming sirens. A second raced by right on the tail of the first. Now that was something you didn't see every day---especially in this neighborhood.

Because of the police activity, he curbed his urge to speed when he got back underway and kept the needle just under twenty-five.

As he rounded a curve and started to ascend another rise, he spied the flashing lights on the next block---his block. What were the police doing on his street?

He turned right onto Crestmont, dutifully signaling his intent one hundred feet before the intersection. The pulsing lights drew closer, and he could just make out the thin wail of a siren. Pedestrians clogged the sidewalk and spilled over into the road. He stopped and waited for them to cross.

Couldn't these people see that it was going to rain? They shouldn't be out. Yet out they were, and in force.

Mrs. Johnson passed in front of him, her forlorn-looking poodle Mitzy cradled under one arm. Mr. Jacobs, in his robe and slippers, followed close behind.

At the sight of them, Chris felt the first faint stirrings of alarm. It was the way they looked at him as he passed. Something was definitely not right.

Once the road was clear, he accelerated to ten miles per hour and crawled past Mrs. Abernathy. For a brief moment, their eyes met. Hers widened, and a trembling hand rose to her throat. Her face was geisha-girl white. If he had been alarmed before, it was nothing compared to the icy shaft of fear he felt now. From the look on the old woman's face, he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that whatever horror had happened, he owned it.

In the next instant, a scene out of his worst nightmare rose up before him. His heart dropped sickeningly as he came around the final turn. There was his house, awash in alternating flashes of amber, blue, and red, tied up in yellow crime scene tape and surrounded by a throng of curious onlookers.

He jammed the shifting lever into park, heedless of the fact that the car was still in the middle of the thoroughfare. He leapt out and dashed across the road. Ignoring the yellow boundary, he hurried across the damp lawn toward the house, nearly losing his footing in his haste.

He didn't even make it halfway.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" A brick wall in a Seattle Police Department uniform barred his way forward.

He tried to shove around the man who stood between him and the house. He had to get to his daughter. "Get out of my way."

Beefy hands clamped down on his shoulders and held him fast. He tried to jerk away, but he might as well have been attempting to defy gravity. The strong grip held him firmly in place. "This is a crime scene."

"My daughter is in there, damn you."

The restraints relaxed just enough for him to escape. He got no more than two steps before his legs were swept from beneath him.

His head hit the ground and he saw stars. Since when had a concrete pad been poured under the lawn? Senselessly, he groped his way forward, spitting dirt. He was getting to that house. He had to get to Brianna. What if she was scared or hurt?

No. Oh, please, no. Please let her be okay.

"I told you, this is a crime scene. You're not going in there."

"Let me go," he shouted.

"If you don't calm down, I'll be forced to restrain you," the officer said, struggling to maintain his grip on Chris. The warning fell on deaf ears.

Suddenly, he became a lot more familiar with the grass. He struggled to draw breath as a heavy weight constricted his chest. One arm was wrenched behind him, his hand shoved painfully into the small of his back. The cold kiss of a steel cuff latching onto his wrist was sharp everywhere except the scar---he hadn't had any feeling there since the run-in with the razor blade seven years ago.

His free hand whipped out and clawed at the wet turf. He couldn't breathe.

"Are you deaf or something?"

"Can't... breathe."

The weight lifted.

He could not form a coherent thought, so consumed was he with the need to get to Brianna. He struggled to his knees, pulling for all he was worth against the handcuff that kept him from his destination.

The front door was open. A burst of light from a camera flash illuminated a grisly scene within the foyer. Blood was everywhere.

He might have screamed. Later, he wouldn't remember for sure.

The world went white as the full horror of the scene overcame him.

His last conscious thought as he fell into oblivion was of Brianna's smiling face the last time he'd seen her.