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He walked onto the porch and watched as the redheaded FBI agent from earlier stepped out of the car, her eyes locked onto him. She wasn't alone. The male detective, the same guy who had come to his work and told him about Rachel, was with her. He could feel the FBI agent’s gaze boring into him like she knew everything about him—like she could see right through him. He was frozen, unableto move as she approached him. Her eyes were cold and calculating, and he knew he was in serious trouble.
"John, we need to talk," she said, her voice calm and authoritative. "I'm going to have to ask you to come with me."
John's heart was racing as he tried to come up with a response. He knew that he was in no position to argue, but he couldn't let himself be caught so easily. Without a word, he turned and bolted back inside, then through the kitchen toward the back door, his heart pounding. The agent was right on his heels, her footsteps echoing loudly in the big house.
John knew he couldn't outrun her forever, but he was determined to make a break for it. He burst through the back door and into the backyard, then found himself face-to-face with a steep drop as his house was on a canal. The agent was getting closer by the second, and he knew that he had to make a decision. He took a deep breath and made the leap, jumping into the murky water. He swam to the other side, climbed up on the dock of the Peterson's house, picked himself up, and started running again, adrenaline coursing through his veins.
He could hear the agent shouting on the other side of the canal, but John refused to look back. He had to get away, had to disappear before they caught him. He sprinted through the yard, dodging trees and leaping over roots. His lungs burned with exertion, but he didn't slow down. He knew they would be by the Peterson’s house in a minute or so by car, and he needed to make it to the river on the other side.
Finally, after what felt like forever, he emerged from the yard across the street and found himself on the edge of Banana River. He could see a small paddleboard on the dock by the end of the yard, and he knew it was his only chance. He broke into a sprint once more and launched himself onto the paddle board, shoving off from the dock as the agent burst into the yard, her loud voice yelling.
John paddled furiously, his muscles screaming with exhaustion as he put as much distance as possible between himself and the shore. The agent was getting closer, and he could see her drawing a gun from her holster. He knew that he was running out of time.
John's heart was pounding as he paddled, his breaths coming in short gasps, his arms throbbing with pain. He could feel sweat trickling down his back, his arms shaking from the effort. But he refused to give up—not now, not when he was so close.
Suddenly, a shot rang out, and John felt a searing pain in his shoulder. He gritted his teeth, pushing through the pain as he redoubled his efforts. He could see the shore getting further and further away, and he knew that he was going to make it.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he reached the other side of the river. He hauled himself off the paddleboard, collapsing onto the ground in exhaustion. He could feel blood seeping throughhis shirt, and he knew that he needed medical attention, but he couldn't stop now. He had to keep moving.
He stumbled to his feet and looked around, trying to get his bearings. He saw a small, abandoned house, the windows boarded up with plywood, the roof crashed in, and the yard overgrown, and he knew that it was his best bet. He started running toward it, his injured shoulder throbbing with each step.
Finally, he reached the house and stumbled inside, shutting the door behind him, even though it was only on one hinge. He collapsed onto the dusty floor, panting and sweating, his heart pounding. He knew he couldn't stay here long, but he needed to catch his breath… to figure out his next move.
Chapter27
"We searched everywhere; the dogs have been all over the area, and we have had boats out on the river, but there's no trace of him."
Matt's darkly circled eyes showed his exhaustion as he stood in the light from the street lamp. My stomach clenched with fear and frustration. We had been searching for John Baker all day with no luck. I was so angry with myself for letting this happen.
"Dang it," I said. "I can't believe we lost him!"
Matt sighed heavily and ran his hand through his hair in frustration.
"I know," he said. "But we have to keep looking. He can't have just vanished into thin air."
"Plus, he’s wounded," I said. "He can't have made it far. Tell the hospitals to keep a lookout for him in case he tries to get medical attention."
"Already done."
My eyes were fixed on the inky blackness of the river's surface as I silently willed John to appear. The evidence against him was damning—he had rented the storage unit where Rachel's body had been found, and when we arrived to ask him about it, he had run away. We had searched for hours without luck, but I refused to abandon our pursuit. Every minute that passed felt like another page torn out of Rachel’s family's story, a bleak conclusion I couldn’t accept. I didn't know what I would do if we failed, but I needed answers, and I wasn't going to give up. I simply refused to.
"Let's try this side of the river once more," I said and began to walk.
The night seemed to be closing in around us as we walked along the riverbank, straining our eyes for any sign of John. I had seen him on the paddleboard as he paddled to the other side, and we had gone there, driving around the bend, but as we made it there, we found only the paddleboard that he had left. The dogs had found blood on the seawall where he had climbed up and a couple of footprints in the grass, but that's where the trail ended. It was like he had vanished.
Suddenly, I heard rustling in the bushes behind us.
"Did you hear that?" I whispered as I turned to face Matt. He nodded and drew his gun from its holster.
We slowly made our way toward the bushes, scanning the area for any sign of movement. As we neared the place where the sound had come from, a figure suddenly sprang out, making a run for it.
"Stop! Police!" Matt yelled, pointing his gun at the figure's retreating back.
The figure flew through the night like a ghost, leaving Matt and me in its dust. We raced through side streets, gasping for breath as we rounded corner after corner. The figure was always one step ahead, jumping over fences and scaling walls with impossible agility. Finally, we reached an apartment complex and saw a dark figure climbing its fire escape. With no time to waste, we gave chase, scaling the metal steps of the fire escape two at a time before emerging onto the rooftop.
There, we found the figure huddled in the corner, panting and afraid.
"Police, show us your hands," Matt yelled, gun pulled. "Show us your hands!"
