The Sister Read Free Page B

saw Bruce. The dog advanced on him, emitting a low growl; it seemed wary of him. The boy closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. His hand closing over his seashell, he pulled it from his pocket and held it out for protection. Where are you, Dad?
    Saliva flew as it snapped at him. He felt the heat of its breath on his face as vicious jaws snatched at empty air, driven back by a mighty kick. It was his dad! His father scooped him up in his arms; a group of men managed to keep the dog contained. The shell, it's magic! It brought my dad to save me.
    The tramping of heavy boots sent loose stones skittering, clattering across the hard-packed surface between the rocks nearby and then abruptly stopped. There wasn't a sound in the air, apart from his heart beating heavily in his ears, and his ragged breathing. Bruce fought to control it. In . . . out . . . in . . . out.
    He heard the rasp of a match and three quick sucking sounds. A waft of cigarette smoke drifted into his nostrils, the urge to cough was insuppressible – he did it inwardly, without opening his lips. His small body jerked with each attempt to keep the sound inside. The tiniest gasp escaped.
    A spent matchstick dropped out of the air and onto the ground next to him.
     
     
    The boy shut his eyes tight, mouthing a silent prayer.
    "Your God doesn't scare me, kid!"
    At that the boy produced a seashell from his pocket, and held it out at arms length, eyes closed, holding it blindly in front of him like a talisman to ward off evil.
    "What's that, huh? You're gonna need more than that, kid!" The killer was about to snatch it out of his hand, when he heard voices. Men calling out! At least two or three of them. They were getting closer.
    "Bruce! Can you hear us? Bruce!"
    Mother of shit! he cursed under his breath, eyes burning into the boy. "Listen to me, kid, today's your lucky day, but if you tell anyone what you saw . . . I'll find you, and I'll kill you all, your mum, your dad . . . all of you. Have you got that, Bruce? "
    He nodded, terrified.
    The killer turned about sharply, rushing back to where she lay, he scooped her up again. Despite his haste, he checked the ground carefully to ensure no trace of her remained.
    His powerful arm clamped her body down onto his shoulder, and he carried her out of sight.
    Hidden by the dense vegetation, the killer worked fast, faster than he would have liked, wrapping the arms and legs of the weighted suit around her, he knotted them together. The voices were getting too close for comfort. He gathered her up and heaved the human parcel into the pond, throwing the rucksack and flower bouquet in after her. The bag filled with water, and then sank. The poem she'd written in memory of her boyfriend, floated up to the surface and unfurled, the blue ink blurring as the paper soaked through: an epitaph for a missing person, penned by another, whom herself would remain undiscovered for a long time.
    On the bank, he found only one of her boots. Frantically looking for the other one, he mentally backtracked - he was sure he'd picked up both - he knew he had. He jammed a large stone into the boot he was holding, and then lobbed it into the dense water. His search for the missing one failed. It has to be somewhere in this long grass!
    With no more time to look, the killer gritted his teeth and spat a curse at the kid and the men who'd rescued him. The boiler suit containing the stone ballast was only half tied to her body. He wasn't worried about that, it was secure enough, but the boot was a trace of her, and if anyone came looking and if they found it . . . It would confirm that she'd been there.
    From where he was watching, he saw the younger of the two men examine the kid's head where he'd banged it, pulling his hair back to look deep into the hairline. Apparently satisfied there was no serious injury, he'd playfully cuffed at his ear.
    The old man remained squatting and spoke to the boy, who nodded. Slowly, he stood and moved away from