Even Steven Read Online Free PDF

They'd never believe him; not in a million years.
    But they didn't see his eyes. They didn't hear the boy's reaction to the sound of his voice. Even with all of his doubts and all of his questions, Bobby couldn't escape the notion that the cop wasn't there to help anyone. He was there to hurt people; specifically, the little boy. And if he did that, then he'd have to do something about Bobby and Susan, too, wouldn't he? Of course he would.
    It was self-defence, dammit. Bobby had nothing to hide. Why the hell was he acting like he did?
    If he'd been anybody but a cop . . .
    Yeah, if only.
    If he stepped forward, people were going to want to know why his first instinct had been to run. He could explain it as panic, he supposed. How was he to know that the stranger didn't have an accomplice out there in the woods with him? Somebody named Samuel?
    Well, tell me, Mr. Martin, if there were an accomplice, wouldn't he have well helped a little? Maybe stepped in sometime between the start of the fight and your killing his friend?
    These people wouldn't understand that thoughts get all jammed up in your head when you're fighting for your life. Not everything was going to make sense in the calm afterglow of hindsight. Things that
    seemed perfectly logical were going to sound ludicrous. Surely they would all understand that. They'd have to understand it, because it was the truth.
    Innocent people don't run, Mr Martin.
    And that's the truth, too. Ask anyone, and they'll tell you the same thing. The truth is a powerful weapon, they say. It will set you free.
    So long as the evidence bears out your story.
    And so long as your victim is not a cop.
    Holy God Almighty, what was he going to do?
    Bobby had been tracking neither the mileage nor the time, but his gut told him that he was still a good hour, hour and a half, away from home, and the gas gauge had dipped below the one-quarter mark. The lighted Amoco sign consequently caught his attention more readily than it might otherwise have. He slowed the Explorer smoothly, slapped the turn signal, and slid behind the row of pumps closest to the road.
    Sensing the change in direction, Susan mumbled something he couldn't understand and then set her head back down on the headrest. An instant later, her jaw dropped, and she was back asleep.
    "Must be nice," he grumbled as he carefully and quietly opened his door. The way he felt now, he doubted that he'd ever get a restful night of sleep again. He walked with one foot on the curb as he slid between the truck and the pump, reaching for his wallet as he went. He had his credit card in his hand, ready to insert it into the gas pump when the sensibly paranoid lobe of his brain reached out and gave him a good slap.
    If ever in his life there'd been a bad time to use a credit card - with all of its traceability - this was it. It'd have to be cash. He checked his reserves, found two twenties, and went ahead and set the pump. He lifted the nozzle, flipped the lever, just as he was supposed to, and nothing happened.
    It shouldn't be this complicated, he thought, and then the speaker popped in the roof of the pump island, startling the bejesus out of him. "You've got to pay first," said a groggy adolescent voice. Bobby peered through the windows of the Explorer to see a zit-faced kid behind the glass, waving at him.
    Leaving the pump handle dangling out of the tank, Bobby stepped over the hose and made his way toward the squatty glass building that advertised itself as a Mini-Mart. An electronic bell pinged as he opened the door, and the kid behind the counter wrestled himself to his feet.
    "How much do you want? Whoa, are you okay? What happened to your face?"
    Clearly the visual effects of his fight were worse than the physical ones. "I was just born ugly, I guess." No way was he going to explain anything to this kid. "Let's shoot for twenty bucks' worth. You'll give me change, right, if it doesn't take it all?"
    "Course," the kid said. "Wouldn't stay in