Read Cooked Goose for Free Online

pleased with himself as he stood, grinning like a billy goat eating briars, on Savannah’s front porch.
    “Dirk Coulter/treat. That’s a contradiction in terms,” she said, looking for the legendary pepperoni and mushroom pie. By the porch light she could clearly see both of his hands. They were predictably empty.
    “Hey, are you implying I’m cheap?” He honestly looked crestfallen; Dirk lived in a world of self-delusion, in which he was generous, optimistic, well-dressed and articulate.
    “Dirk, I love you, but you’re as tight as my Granny Reid’s Sunday-go-to-meetin’ girdle.”
    “Hey, don’t even kid about a thing like that... mentionin’ me in the same sentence as women’s underwear.”
    She grabbed his sleeve and gave it a playful yank. “Come inside and bring your imaginary pizza with you.”
    He trudged into the living room, his lip protruding in a semi-pout. “I really was going to call and order a pie,” he said. “I got this five-dollars-off coupon, and if we don’t ask for any toppings and we don’t tip the delivery kid—they’re always late anyway—it’ll only wind up costing me a couple of bucks.”
    “Gee, you shouldn’t have.”
    “I know. But I thought it was the least I could do, considering your generous offer on the phone a while ago.”
    “I didn’t know it was you.”
    “That’s kinda what I figured, but since you offered, I thought the least I should do was show up in case you change« your mind and—”
    “Forget it. It ain’t happenin’. How about a beer instead?”

    * * *

    9:50 p.m.

    It took nearly five full minutes for Charlene Yardley to realize she was still alive.
    When the darkness had closed around her, bringing temporary relief from her nightmare, she had thought she was dying. And she had slipped into that black emptiness willingly, eagerly. Anything to escape. Death had become a friend.
    But now Charlene could feel herself rising out of that blissful, womb-like void, in spite of her efforts to stay there. The pain in her torn, battered body, the grave-cold dampness, the residual terror that she couldn’t... wouldn’t name, were claiming her again.
    She was re-awakening to her nightmare.
    Through shock-dulled senses she tried to determine where she was. But all she could discern were the most elementary of sensations: pain, cold, darkness, a foul taste in her mouth, a vaguely familiar smell.
    Slowly, minute by agonizing minute, Charlene realized she was lying on the ground. The taste in her mouth was a combination of dirt and her own blood. The smell was that of oranges, both fresh and rotting, nauseatingly sweet. The wet cold that had seeped through her clothing and into her aching bones was simple evening dew.
    It was night. She was lying facedown in an orange grove. Her hands were bound behind her back.
    What had happened to her?
    Even as the confused, fear-frozen half of her brain asked the inane question, the rational, coming-to-full-consciousness half replied in a language all too clear.
    She had been raped and murdered.
    No, not quite murdered. But nearly.
    Charlene could still see his face as he had dealt her that final blow to the head. Even through his ludicrous disguise, she had seen the wildness, the rage in his eyes.
    Yes, he had fully intended to kill her. She had no doubt about that—not then, not now.
    Did he think he had?
    Where was he?
    With that last question, a sense of urgency swept through her, and Charlene Yardley realized that she didn’t really want to die after all.
    Despite the pain and the spirit-crushing awareness of what had happened to her, she really, really wanted to live.
    Far away—she couldn’t tell how far—she could hear the occasional, faint, swooshing sound of a vehicle passing. Traffic. A road. Help.
    But she had to get to it. Before he returned.
    Maybe he was still there. Nearby. Watching her. Waiting for her to move.
    Charlene strained to hear any movement, the intake or exhalation of breath. But the