Mission road - By Rick Riordan Page 0,86
nights she’d awakened and found him sitting at the foot of her bed.
She knew now that Frankie had killed those women. She’d even toyed with the idea of talking to the police.
In art class, she’d made a clay sculpture of his face. The counselors said it would make her feel better if she smashed it, to get power over him. Most of the kids were younger than she. They’d all been sexually or physically abused before they did whatever violence got them committed. Their clay images were crude little voodoo dolls which they smashed with enthusiasm. But Madeleine was an artist. She made Frankie’s clay bust with the same care as the blue self-portrait she’d drawn him for Christmas.
The bust looked just like him. Even the counselors said so. But she couldn’t smash it. Every day they would encourage her to do so, but the clay hardened, drying in splotchy white patches like mold.
The counselors must’ve broken confidentiality to warn Frankie. They’d probably taken his money just like that son-of-a-bitch security guard.
Frankie turned onto Mission Road, a crumbling stretch of blacktop that led nowhere except into deeper darkness.
Then the cop pulled them over.
Frankie grabbed Madeleine and shoved her back against the door. “Not one sound. Whatever happens, you stay in this fucking car or I’ll slap the shit out of you. Understand?”
Now, looking down at his body, she could still feel the electric charge of his rage, the promise of violence that made her skin tingle.
I’m going to make you understand.
She knelt. The policewoman’s baton lay next to Frankie’s motionless hand.
She thought about her classmate, the girl in the locker room who’d teased her about Frankie being a psychopath. Rumors were all around town, the girl said. Frankie raped women. He got off on strangling them. The girl asked if he’d tried anything with Madeleine.
Madeleine remembered picking up the nearest heavy object, a biology textbook. She remembered hitting the girl in the face, then slamming her to the floor, pummeling her, not realizing until her friends pulled her off that the girl wasn’t fighting back.
She had done that to someone she barely knew, yet she couldn’t touch a clay mask of Frankie’s face.
She realized she should be doing something—running, calling the police. But she couldn’t call the police. The police had done this.
Cicadas chirred in the woods. Water was trickling somewhere—a stream out in the fields. Far off in the direction the police car had gone, a single streetlight gleamed.
This was the place Frankie had killed those women. Madeleine was sure of it.
And he had brought her here, his own sister.
If the lady cop hadn’t come . . .
The wound was just behind Frankie’s ear. His hair was sticky with blood.
Madeleine felt no anger toward the policewoman. Instead, she felt a strange kind of awe. One quick strike . . . was that really all it took to stop him?
A siren wailed in the distance. Maybe another police car, maybe something else.
She didn’t want the policewoman to get in trouble. Frankie had made a world of trouble for all those women he’d hurt. She didn’t want Frankie to ever get up.
She tried to think of what to do. She couldn’t go home. Her father would never believe Frankie had meant to hurt her. He would somehow turn this into her fault.
The hospital was just over those fields.
She would have to walk miles in the dark, but she could do it. The security guard would let her in. He’d keep quiet. What choice did he have? He couldn’t say anything without getting himself in trouble. The counselors may have betrayed her, but Stokes-McLean was still the safest place she’d ever known. She would just have to be more careful. She couldn’t talk about her family anymore. Nobody could help her but herself.
She’d leave Frankie, pretend she was never here. As long as he stayed motionless, as long as he couldn’t hurt her anymore . . .
Then he groaned. Madeleine started to tremble when Frankie rolled onto his back.
His face was unmarred, his eyes—so like hers—were dazed, searching the sky. He didn’t look exactly conscious, but he was trying to make a fist, like he was trying to grab hold of life, pull himself back.
In that instant, Madeleine knew what would happen. Frankie would live. He would get better. He would punish her. The lady cop, whoever she was, would die for daring to touch him, just like the other women had.
It wasn’t fair.
She looked down at her brother’s face, pale and perfectly sculpted, so much like the clay bust. She heard her counselor’s voice: Take control. You’ll never be free of him otherwise.
She picked up the policewoman’s baton.
• • •
AFTERWARD, SHE RAN DEEP INTO THE woods. Cactus tore at her legs. Branches scraped her face.
She didn’t look back.
She stumbled in a stream, dropped the baton in the water. She kept going, running from the sound of the police siren somewhere behind her, impossibly thin and weak, but growing steadily louder, like a lament from the other side of the world.
Rick Riordan is the author of six previous award-winning novels. He lives in San Antonio, Texas, with his wife and two sons, where he is at work on his next novel.
Also by Rick Riordan
Big Red Tequila
The Widower’s Two-Step
The Last King of Texas
The Devil Went Down to Austin
Cold Springs
Southtown
MISSION ROAD
A Bantam Book / July 2005
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2005 by Rick Riordan
Bantam Books is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Riordan, Rick.
Mission road / Rick Riordan.
p. cm.
1. Navarre, Tres (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Private investigators—Texas—San Antonio—Fiction. 3. Married women—Crimes against—Fiction. 4. Policewomen—Crimes against—Fiction. 5. Fugitives from justice—Fiction. 6. Police murders—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3568.I5866M577 2005
813'.54—dc22
2005046404
Published simultaneously in Canada
eISBN: 978-0-553-90169-6
v3.0