Scott Free Read Online Free PDF Page A

movie where the good guy leaves another good guy to bleed to—
    The plane pitched again, more violently this time. “Oh, God, Scott!” Cody shrieked. “Oh God, help me! It’s hurting! Aw, fuck, oh, Jesus, it’s hurting!” His words came in a rush as the aircraft continued to pivot in its cradle.
    Scott didn’t know what to do. As the whole world shifted around him, and debris tumbled everywhere, he scrambled for something to grab hold of. The pilot’s unspeakable screams drove him even faster. The flashlight tumbled from his hands as he grabbed for something solid enough to hold his weight, and as the beam swept past Cody Jamieson’s face, Scott caught the shutter-flash glimpse of a shimmering gout of blood lurching from the pilot’s nose and mouth.
    Now, the screams all came from Scott. Something cracked, with the sound of a pistol shot, and then the plane was falling. It was a hesitant, slow-motion fall, twisting and tumbling on all axes at once as branches and pieces of wreckage slammed into him from all directions. It was all shadows and noise and pain. He saw only varying shades of blackness, dark black against light black, and it all revolved at a speed that seemed too slow for the noise and debris it generated.
    Through the confusion, Scott saw a rectangle of charcoal gray. His brain saw it as a window, and his body reacted without him even thinking. A tree limb would hold his 145 pounds a hell of a lot more easily than it would hold the wreckage of an airplane. As the rectangle passed, he dove for it, and just like that, he was out in the bitter cold, tumbling on his own through the limbs and branches, desperately reaching into the blackness for something to hold on to. He managed to snag a big branch in the crook of his elbow, his legs bicycling in the air. The odor of Christmas trees filled his head as the Cessna fell farther and farther away. Finally, the noise of the impacts stopped.
    And then he was alone.

3
    B RANDON O’ T OOLE PRESSED THE BUTTON to lower the garage door, and dragged himself through the mud room into the family room. It was nearly ten o’clock, and it had been one hell of a day. He could barely focus his eyes as he sifted the mail. Junk, junk and more junk. Somewhere in this world there was a master mailing list, and when he found where it was located, he swore to God he’d burn the place down himself.
    He missed Scott. For crying out loud, the kid had only been gone for five days, yet it felt like a month. He’d spent a week away lots of times—every summer for camp. What was it about this week that made it seem so impossibly long?
    No Ph.D. required to answer that one.
    The SkyTop trip was classic Sherry. She hated skiing. The whole time they were married, she’d refused to go, even though Brandon’s status as a volunteer ski patroller got them free lift tickets at any of the nearby resorts in Virginia or Pennsylvania. Skiing was what the guys did for fun, and it drove Sherry nuts. This was her most despicable move yet. Not just skiing, but skiing at SkyTop Village—for Brandon’s money, the most beautiful spot on earth. He’d made the mistake of mentioning his intention to take Scott there one day, and Sherry had beaten him to it.
    Look up “controlling bitch” in the dictionary, and there’s a picture of Sherry. For an entire week, Scott would be treated to a nonstop litany of what an asshole his father was. Who’d be bitter about such a thing as that?
    What had he ever seen in Sherry? He often questioned himself about that, and as best he could tell, it was something akin to a lucrative business arrangement. She had her Ph.D. in psych with enough of her own personal problems to keep three practitioners in business, and he had his career at Federal Research, and together, they’d be able to live a great life, sustained by really great sex.
    And for ten years, it worked; until Scott stopped