Page 119 of Reading Between the Lines
A growl resonated in my chest, and Tallus grabbed my arm, keeping me in place and simmering my rage before it boiled over. I could have throttled the brat. It was an act. He’d hit us on purpose.
Hercules spoke into his shoulder radio, communicating that his suspects had been involved in a car accident and could the units formally heading to the cemetery redirect to his location.
He removed a pair of cuffs from his belt and motioned to Tallus and me. “I’ve got backup on the way, so we’re goingto take this nice and easy. I want you to step apart from one another and put your hands on your heads. Don’t go causing any more trouble, you hear? We can do this without a hassle.”
“Are you fucking serious? This dipshit”—I gestured to Loyal—“was part of the distraction, you imbecile. It wasn’t an accident. He was camped out on the service road, waiting for us. He’s Daddy’s little prodigy.”
To Loyal, I said, “He planted you here. He told you we might come, and if we did, you were to run us off the road.”
Loyal was as good an actor as Tallus, but his innocent boy persona was a tad overdone. “No. I don’t know what he’s talking about. I didn’t see them,” he told Hercules. “I swear.” His voice quivered as he glanced at the SUV and the crumpled front end. “My dad’s going to kill me. I just got that car for my birthday.”
Hercules wasn’t listening. His whole focus was on apprehending us. He repeated his demand that we put our hands on our heads, edging closer.
“Send your backup to the cemetery,” I said. “Don’t you get it? Abercrombie is out there right now covering his fucking tracks.”
But no. Tallus and I were out-of-towners. How dare we accuse one of their own? A prominent teacher at Port Hope’s only high school would never do something so heinous. Why would Hercules listen to us when they had reports that we’d been trespassing, vandalizing, thieving, and harassing underage kids?
Sirens sounded in the distance. Noise traveled in the middle of nowhere, but I couldn’t tell what direction they were coming from or how far away they were. The minute they arrived on the scene, Tallus and I would be physically removed in cuffs and taken into the station. The only reason Hercules hadn’t already apprehended us was because he was alone and a small-town cop with little experience dealing with hostile civilians who didn’t do as he asked.
Abercrombie would slip through the cracks if we stood here and let his backup arrive. I couldn’t let that happen.
“Tallus.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know the way to that cemetery?”
“We were almost there.”
“Okay. Run.”
“What?”
I snagged his arm and took off down the road away from Constable Hercules. “Run.”
Tallus struggled to keep up, tripping over his feet before he understood what was happening. He was not a runner and made sure to let me know with a long string of curses.
“He’s going to shoot us,” he squeaked.
“He’s not. Go faster.”
“I can’t. I hate cardio. I suck at it.”
A car door slammed, and an engine roared to life behind us.
“Fuck. We need to get off the road, or he’s going to ride up our ass in ten seconds. We’ll cut through the forest at an angle. Which way, Tallus?”
“Fuck me. This way.” He aimed for the ditch and the forest beyond. He stumbled and almost fell more than once, but I kept a secure hold on his arm, ensuring he stayed upright. “I hate you, Guns. My feet… already hurt. My lungs… are… burning. My bones… ah, fuck… So much… hate. You are going to… pay for this.”
“Shut up and run. He’s on our heels.” Constable Hercules abandoned Loyal and any thoughts of chasing us in his vehicle once we diverted into the forest. He was on foot now and about fifty yards behind but gaining ground.
The cemetery was less than a quarter mile away, but the terrain was messy. Roots, mud, fallen branches, and undergrowth prevented us from going as fast as I would haveliked. We crashed through bushes and thick foliage, Tallus spitting more curses about his ruined shoes, his torn clothing, his hair catching on twigs…
The abandoned Holy Oak cemetery was accessible from the county road by an overgrown single-lane dirt drive that wove into the forest. We found it less than five minutes into our flight. Parked at the end of the drive was an out-of-place, sleek black BMW with the trunk open.
Surrounded by an ancient rusted wrought iron fence and a broken gate, crumbling headstones stood in crooked rows of eight and ten. Unlike in the book, it was not a churchyard. There wasn’t so much as a mausoleum or chapel. The forest encroached on the area with creeping vines climbing the fence and windswept leaves collecting in corners. The long-forgotten cemetery was victim to time and weather.
At the single obelisk in the center of all the other headstones stood Hugh Abercrombie, cell phone dangling from the hand at his side. He was not rushing around trying to cover his tracks, but a hefty number of supplies at his feet suggested he’d been prepared to do exactly that.
