Джеймс Паттерсон - Liar Liar

I realised the hand that held my weapon was shaking. I drew a deep breath and put the barrel of the gun against the back of his skull.

Chapter

56

‘HARRY?’ SOMEONE CALLED.

Her voice barely penetrated the ringing in my ears. The boy in front of me was cowering, turned as much towards me as he would dare, one wide eye peering over his shoulder at my gun. I was aware suddenly of movement beyond the teenage boy under my gun, towards the front of the house. Melina Tredwell, older than I remembered, hugging a coat around her. The teenage boy bent and sank to the ground. I realised the ringing sound was his pitiful whimpering, the panicked screaming of a teenage girl just inside the window to my left.

‘Harry!’ Melina had been running towards me, and now she slowed, her palms out flat. ‘Harry, please put the gun down.’

‘She’s gonna kill me.’ The boy I’d thought was Regan Banks crouched against the side of the house, trying to make himself as small as possible. ‘She’s gonna kill me!’

I dropped the aim of my gun. My legs felt numb. I staggered, wiped at the sweat on my brow. My jaws were locked together so tightly it took a concerted effort to part them.

‘Harry, it’s me.’ Melina took my arms carefully, her touch gentle, fearful. ‘It’s Melina.’

‘I almost shot that boy,’ I said. My voice was flat. Cold. ‘I thought he was Regan. I almost killed him.’

‘You’re shaking,’ Melina said. ‘Come inside.’

She turned to the boy on the ground. The kid’s enormous, weightlifter-style frame was in stark contrast to his smooth, hairless face and big, innocent eyes. He couldn’t have been older than sixteen. He appeared to have left the house by the window beside me, forgotten something, and was heading back in. In the house, a teenage girl, maybe fifteen, was tugging a robe around herself, eyes fearful, locked on me.

‘You.’ Melina pointed a finger at the boy on the ground, all her softness suddenly gone. ‘Both of you. In the kitchen, right now .’

Chapter

57

I WAS LED into the kitchen, the boy trailing guiltily behind us. I was surprised to see it was 11 pm on the clock above the fridge. Pots and pans were drying on the draining board from their dinner. Suburban bliss. Melina took the gun carefully from my stiff hand. She carried it to the table pinched between two fingers, as if squeezing it too hard might set it off. I sank into a kitchen chair. The teenagers crept to the corner of the kitchen furthest from me, both with their eyes on the gun.

‘Winley –’ Melina shook her head ruefully at the boy ‘– your mother is going to lose her goddamn mind when I tell her I caught you round here in Janna’s room again.’

‘You –’ Janna began.

‘Not a word!’ Melina roared, pointing at the girl. ‘You are in so much trouble right now, girl, you better shut your mouth and pray I don’t slap you senseless.’

The family fell into silence. I had no strength left. All I could do was watch and listen.

‘Who is she?’ Winley gestured to me.

‘She’s no one,’ Melina said. ‘In fact, I want both your mobile phones. Give them to me right now. Neither of you idiots are going to go Snapchatting about this.’

The teens handed over their phones. Melina snatched them and put them in a drawer, muttering angrily to herself as she bustled about the kitchen, ‘… through the bedroom window like a fucking tomcat …’

The teens watched me. I watched them back.

‘Your nose is broken,’ the girl said.

‘Is that a real gun?’ the boy said.

Melina handed me a glass of water. I drank greedily. She sat down across the little table from me, the gun between us.

‘I saw the news last night about Bonnie Risdale,’ Melina said. ‘They’re saying she was one of your old cases. That’s why you’re here. You thought he might come for me.’

I could only nod. The teenagers were whispering to each other, stuck standing against the wall like prisoners caught in a watchtower spotlight. They were putting it together. Bonnie Risdale. I heard the boy mention Regan’s name. The girl’s eyes widened, and she reached for his hand. Melina seemed to be thinking, her eyes wandering over my bruised face.

‘Mrs Tredwell, can I please go home?’ Winley asked.

‘No,’ Melina snapped. ‘You come sneaking around here, you should be prepared to stay. Neither of you is going anywhere until Harry’s safely on the road, with a reasonable head start.’

The girl scoffed. ‘What the hell? We get in trouble for sneaking around and you’re going to help out a wanted criminal?’ Janna pointed at me. ‘Mum, the police are looking for her! Isn’t what you’re doing breaking the law ?’

‘I’ll break something in a minute,’ Melina murmured.

The girl fell back into line, pouting. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I heard her whisper that this whole situation was bullshit. Melina ignored the child, turning back to me.

‘Let’s get you fixed up,’ she said. ‘You’ve got a killer to catch.’

Chapter

58

REGAN WAITED ON the doorstep of the Jansen house, just beyond the reach of the glow coming from the stained glass panel in the thick wooden door. As usual after a killing, he’d left Bonnie Risdale’s house with more than a few nicks and scratches, most notably a claw mark down the side of his neck that he was now trying to hide with the collar of his shirt. He remembered her doing it, a desperate swipe as he squeezed her throat, catching him just as he twisted out of reach. He knew there’d be no fighting tonight. This was going to be a gentle, warm, drawn-out evening. He was smiling to himself as he heard a pair of feet slowly shuffling towards the other side of the door.

She was everything he had envisioned. Small, bent-backed, peering at him through reading glasses that gave her large and bewildered eyes. She turned on a stern frown as he had expected she would, clutching her fluffy dressing-gown around her.

‘Yes?’ was all she offered. An old woman mildly peeved at having to answer the door at such an hour.

‘I’m so sorry to bother you,’ Regan said. ‘My name is Sean Geyser. I’m with the Australian Electric Company.’

‘We’re quite happy with our service.’ Eloise Jansen took the door in hand. ‘And what an inconvenient hour to be –’

‘I’m not selling anything.’ Regan put his hands up. ‘I’m here because your neighbours across the street have been experiencing some unexpected power surges. I wondered if I could come in and check your system. We just want to make sure everyone is safe.’

‘Power surges?’ Mrs Jansen glanced into the hallway behind her, hands fluttering with tension. ‘Oh dear. Of course. Come in. Are we in danger? Should we turn the power off?’

‘Oh no, no, you’re perfectly safe,’ Regan lied. He crossed the threshold and closed and locked the door behind him.

In the living room, collapsed into an ancient recliner covered with a crocheted afghan, sat an old man, his hands on the armrests. Regan stood in the doorway, looking around the room as Mrs Jansen went to the old man and poked him, which only resulted in louder snores.

‘Gary? Gary? It’s the power man. The power man’s here.’

Regan rather liked thinking of himself as ‘the power man’. He strolled to the wall beside the huge, pine-veneer television set and looked at a collection of photographs hanging there. About fifty frames of different sizes and shapes had been arranged in a sort of cloud shape, each perfectly positioned at the same distance from the next, a smattering of faces in every conceiv-able circumstance. There were small, cheery-cheeked toddlers feeding ducks at sunlit ponds and early school-age girls lounging on a rug, playing with dolls, whispering in each other’s ears. Childhood secrets. There were teenagers reluctantly posing for their photograph, holding certificates awkwardly by their corners. Gary, finally roused from his living-room slumber, had shuffled to Regan’s side, a pair of thick glasses almost identical to his wife’s now perched on his nose.