Ыоуве Been Warned   ::   Patterson James

FrankDelmonico’s here in Connecticut.

That just isn’t possible, but there he is.



Chapter 39



I QUICKLY DUCK BELOW the steering wheel. The detective said he’d find me again. He warned me. But out here?

How did he know? Did he tail me as I followed Michael out of New York? I guess that’s possible, but I sure can’t have him asking more questions. Not right in front of Penley’s parents’ house.

I hear his footsteps now, louder and louder. They sound heavy, deliberate. He’s a man with a mission, isn’t he? But I don’t know anything about those four murders. Why would he think otherwise?

Slowly, I peek over the sun-bleached vinyl of the dash.

The ball cap is pulled down over his eyes. Maybe it’s not Delmonico. Whoever it is – I should get out of here right now.

I reach for the keys, snapping my wrist hard to the right. The ignition sounds with a lazy sputter, the engine cranking and cranking. No! It won’t turn over.

C’mon, old buddy, don’t fail me now! This is important. If Penley sees me -

I floor the gas pedal, my foot thumping down hard.

Don’t flood it, Kris. Bob, help me out here. Bob, ole buddy?

I spot the little chrome knob by the window on the passenger side. The lock. It’s up. The door’s unlocked!

His footsteps are close.

I lunge, my fingertips only inches away from the knob.

But it’s too late!

I hear him gripping the handle outside. The raw squeak of ancient metal hinges drowns out my scream.

He’s opening the door!



Chapter 40



“WHAT THE HELL are you doing here? Are you crazy?”

I snap my head up, looking directly into his eyes.

Not Frank Delmonico’s… Michael’s.

I’ve never been so relieved to see somebody in my whole life. If only the same were true for him. He’s obviously pissed. He’s livid, actually. I’ve never seen Michael like this. He looks as though he might have a stroke, at forty-two.

I don’t say anything. I can’t. I’m still trying to catch my breath, figure out some insane excuse for why I’m here.

He stands in the open door, shaking his head. “Christ, did you follow us out here?”

But for me there’s a much more pressing question. “Is he gone?” I ask when I’m able to speak.

“Is who gone? What the hell are you talking about? There is no one here but you.”

I sit up, peering around like a periscope.