Greyson Gray: Deadfall (Thrilling Adventure Series for Preteens and Teens) (The Greyson Gray Series Book 3)

by B. C. Tweedt

  But a breeze blew through and gave him a chill. The reality came back again.

  “Okay, okay,” he sniffed and wiped at his tears and the slobber. He held the dog at arm’s length, suddenly returning to the situation at hand. He was lost, alone, and far from his goal. But he wasn’t finished.

  “You’ve got a long way to go, buddy.”

  His dad leaned out the car window, watching him as he shuffled along the gravel road, wearing a backpack full of sweet corn. The dare had been ten miles, and he had gone three. But he was tired. His feet dragged through the gravel, his shoulders ached, and he’d slowed to a shuffle.

  “Put your shoulders back, chin up – eyes forward. Keep your form or it’ll keep you down. You can do it.”

  Greyson rolled his shoulders back and lifted his chin.

  Enough crying, Greyson. He had to admit that it had made him feel a little better, but now wasn’t the time. The cops could come back at any moment. “Think, Greyson. We’ve got to get out here and find somewhere to sleep – well – I’ve got to. You do what you want, but you should probably stay home where you’re safe and stuff. I only have so much jerky.”

  The dog cocked its head again and pawed at his pant legs. He wanted to come with. “No. Well, you know what? I’m not taking you back. What do I care? It’s your own dumb fault. You broke the chain.”

  He eyed the chain, still connected to his collar. “And it’s not doing you any good anymore.”

  He took off the animal’s leash and threw it toward the graves. But he left the collar. The nametag gleamed in the faint moonlight.

  KITTY.

  “You’re free, Kit,” he said, deciding on a suitable name the dog would still recognize. “I don’t know where I’m going. I’m just going. And I don’t have much food. You have a bowl of food back home, but with me you don’t need a chain. Your stupid choice.”

  Greyson trekked toward the gate, turned the corner, and headed south. Kit followed at his heels.

  Chapter 11

  “I’m home!”

  The sharply dressed man set his briefcase and Redmond Aerospace Defense badge on the entry table, hung his keys next to his wife’s, and closed the door behind him. There was no response. That was odd. She had said she was looking forward to him coming home.

  “I’m home! You here, babe?”

  No response. He sighed. Should have got the intercoms.

  He set his shoes in the coat closet. The maid got a little too miffed when he would leave them in the hall, but she was better than the last maid by far. The hardwood floors were polished and bright, the chandelier sparkled, and he could understand her despite her accent. He didn’t want to ruffle her feathers any more than he already had.

  Walking through the dining room, he checked the hedges outside, wondering if his wife was talking with the neighbors. He walked past the pictures on the china cabinet, peeked inside the study where she would read late into the night, and made his way to the kitchen.

  For the first time, he began to worry. There was a half-eaten ham sandwich and a lip-stained glass of milk.

  “Heather?” He turned from the dishes and rushed to the glass door that led to the back yard. “Heather?”

  The birdfeeders were swaying with the breeze. The garden was empty, except for a shovel and a pair of gloves.

  He took out his cell phone and dialed Heather as he paced from the kitchen to the main hall. It rang once. Twice. Three times.

  “Geez!”

  He stopped and jerked back. He’d been so distracted, he’d nearly run into it. But what was it?

  He leaned closer, inspecting it. A long string – no – fishing line dangled from the second floor balcony above. And at his eye level, there was a golden fishing hook, sharp and dangerous.

  And on the hook was something that made him smile. Something his wife knew he liked very much.

  A ripe strawberry.

  At first he thought it was a few of his coworkers playing a prank on him, but the strawberry sent a very different message. Maybe she had seen him coming home.

  He hung up the phone and reached for the strawberry. But it yanked upwards, just out of reach and then slowly rose to the second level’s railing and disappeared, pulled by some invisible force.

  “Oh. That’s how it is?” he asked playfully, turning at the bannister and padding up the stairs with a goofy smile. “I can play along.”

  He was whistling for her when he made it to the landing. The strawberry seemed to be stuck by the bedroom door. For a second he was surprised she would risk the stains on the carpet, but he let it slip his mind. Instead, he quietly snuck to the door and peeked inside.

  The Fisherman, a leather-skinned man with a scraggy beard and a drooping fishing hat, watched from the other end of the hall as the prey approached the bait.

  He raised the harpoon gun and aimed its arrow tip. It would expand after entering the prey and stick, like a hook in a fish’s mouth. The thin rope trailing from its end allowed him to reel in whatever it had hooked. It was a beautiful contraption. Practical, reliable, and deadly if he wanted it to be. He pulled the trigger.

  SHINK!

  The Fisherman watched with a blank expression as the rope rippled from his gun like a streamer, and the harpoon found its target. Setting the gun down, he opened his rusty, green tackle box and helped himself to a strawberry. Then, humming to himself, he pulled on the rope, reeling the flopping prey in one foot at a time.

  But he stopped. He was getting a call through his smartwatch. With a gruff Spanish accent, he answered. “Hola?” He listened to the man on the other line. “Sí…sí. Un niño? Nassau? Sí. No problema.”

  He ended the call and continued pulling the line. “Here fishy, fishy, fishy.”

  Chapter 12

  The next morning

  The sun beamed onto Greyson’s face as he bent back and threw the cornhusk. The dog zipped through the field, kicking up soft dirt in its wake. Kit had been the perfect companion throughout the long night and into the morning. He provided fun with fetch; he made Greyson feel a little safer – like Kit was his very own bodyguard – and he was easy to talk to.

  “I’m just confused,” Greyson divulged when Kit returned the mangled and slobbery husk. “It’s not like I blame her for everything…but in a way it’s totally her fault, right? I mean, if it weren’t for her escaping with Sam, we would have gotten out of the fair with no trouble. Reckhemmer would have made a deal with Emory to get Sam back and maybe the bomb wouldn’t have gone off. And…and the whole thing with Liam. I know it’s not right to think so, but if she hadn’t been there, I would have saved Liam, you know? Can I blame her for all that?”

  Greyson looked down at Kit and Kit looked back at him with his wet nose and flopping tongue.

  “You’re a good listener,” Greyson said, smiling. “But don’t be afraid to speak.”

  RUFF!

  “Yeah. That’s life.” Greyson smiled and patted him on the head. “But this isn’t so bad, right? We’re free of the bus…I don’t have to hide my face. I can do this, Kit. We can do this.”

  Greyson adjusted his hat, rubbing his forehead. They walked on together through the corn graveyard, where stalks stood up as foot-long spikes from the sprawling fields of western Illinois. Mud was sticking to the soles of his feet, but it was better to stay off the main roads. He hadn’t seen any signs of being pursued, but he also didn’t know how madly the FBI would be after him.

  He took in a deep breath and raised his face to the sun. A smile fought with his heavy cheeks, powered by the feeling of the sun and a new kind of fuel that invigorated him. Whenever the fear of the unknown crept at him, or anger at himself drew him to grit his teeth and kick at the ground, the new fuel would counter it. The fuel was hope. It was no longer the faint, fake hope he used to have when he would wait at home for a phone call or a letter. This was hope he could feel. It was based on something true – that he knew was real.

  “See that horizon, Kit?” he pointed to t
he fields beyond, pockmarked with only a few gravel roads and farmhouses. “My dad’s over there. You’ll like him.” He smiled at Kit for a few moments and then tripped on a stalk. He turned back to kick it and sighed sheepishly. “Just a little farther.”

  Once they reached another gravel road, he kicked at the gravel to clean off his shoes and did his best with Kit’s paws. Taking a breather, he swung his backpack to the ground, pulled out a map and unraveled it on the side of the road.

  Finding the small town where he’d been robbed on the map, his finger moved only an inch to the exit he’d seen when the sunrise had given them their first light. It was only another inch or two to where he thought they were now – just a half-mile off the main highway. His eyes glazed over as he saw how many more inches he had to go – just to get through Illinois.

  He couldn’t walk the whole way. Without money, without an ID, and being something like a fugitive were a few factors limiting his options. And he couldn’t risk asking anyone for help. He was completely on his own. There was no flying, no bussing, and no driving. A railroad would be nice, but they weren’t on the map. Perhaps he could find a bike? Or a horse?

  The map’s lines and scrawl marks grew blurry; he was suddenly feeling very lost and very tired. His feet were already sore and his back was aching from carrying the pack for hours. Though he still had a few swigs of water left, they were already running low. The beef jerky, trail mix, granola bars, and a few other goodies were going fast. The dog was an eater. The food could last them for a little while. But how long was a little while?

  Breathing a heavy sigh, he let his head sag to his chest. He would need to find a place to sleep tonight. He could skip one night, but he was nearly spent.

  Kit growled.

  At first he just put his hand on Kit’s head and gave him a few pats. “I’m okay, buddy. Just thinking.”

  But Kit kept growling; Greyson looked up and matched his gaze. The fright jerked him to action. He scrambled to fold the map, but the folds weren’t right. Quickly abandoning the idea, he balled the map and shoved it in the backpack, glancing toward the oncoming vehicle. They had to have spotted him already. He was toast.

  But suddenly he had an idea. Since he was already spotted, it was the only thing he could think of doing.

  Greyson pointed his thumb toward the highway. He was shaking, imperceptibly from the vantage of the passenger, who seeing him, pleaded with the male driver to pull over. The four-door sedan drove past, sending a plume of dust washing over him, but stopped soon after with a little squeak of the brakes.

  Smiling at Kit out of relief, Greyson picked up his backpack and ran to the car through its dusty trail, pulling his hood over his hat and low on his brow. This was a risk, but he had to take it. There was no way he was walking to Florida.

  The woman’s window rolled down and she leaned out. “Hi! Need a ride?”

  Greyson inched a little closer, not wanting to show his face. “Uh…yes, please. South?”

  The woman leaned toward the driver and whispered something to him. Greyson eyed Kit and he let out a small whimper.

  “We’re going to St. Louis. That okay?”

  He recalled St. Louis on the map. It would take him a few inches in the right direction at least. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  He reached for the door handle, but it clicked locked. The man leaned over the passenger. He was young – thirty maybe. “You running from home?”

  Greyson gulped and shook his head ‘no’. The less he said the better. He was a horrible liar.

  “We can’t just pick up a kid. We’d be accused of –”

  “I’m an orphan.”

  The couple shared a look.

  “You carrying any weapons?”

  “Eric,” the woman scolded. “He’s just a boy.”

  Eric shook his head, ignoring her, and kept staring at Greyson. “Are you?”

  “No, sir,” he lied. “But my dog needs a ride, too.”

  “Does he bite?”

  “Only to chew.”

  The man chuckled and raised his eyebrows at the woman. She gave him pouty lips and it was all over. The lock clicked undone and he opened the door for Kit. He jumped in; the backpack went in next, and then Greyson. It took an extra ounce of courage to close the door behind him, but he did, slamming the interior into silence.

  “So,” the woman said, breaking the silence. “What’s your name?”

  “Nolan. And this is Kit.”

  “Ah. I’m Alyssa, and this is my husband, Eric. He’s sorry about all the questions.”

  “Okay.”

  An awkward silence finally led to a longer period of quiet where Greyson could think and the couple could whisper their private conversations. Petting Kit, he watched the field whizz by, imagining the time he was saving each second that passed.

  Minutes passed and Greyson would catch Eric glancing at him in the rear view mirror, still wary of having an unknown passenger behind him and his young wife. Greyson couldn’t help but to think that he was right to be nervous. He himself had just been robbed by a kid only a few years older. And he also had a weapon in his pack that had severely injured several people. Perhaps it had killed one. He had seen the man at the fair drop like he had died, but he might have just been knocked out cold. And there was the redhead, but he hadn’t pulled it back near as far as the other one.

  “You bored back there?” Alyssa asked with a tone that told she was smiling.

  “Um…not really.”

  “You aren’t playing any games or anything. Most kids would have their game tablet or whatever out, killing zombies or throwing birds at pigs or whatever.”

  Eric laughed at her between glances at the road.

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Really? No phone either?”

  “Nope.”

  She turned in her seat as much as her seat belt allowed, trying to look at him to make sure he knew how weird he was. “Can I ask you something? What’s your story? Why are you heading south?”

  A few stories popped in his head, but he was no Jarryd. Maybe the best story would be the truth.

  “I’m a refugee. Mom died in Des Moines. I have family down south, but they can’t travel.”

  That was actually pretty good.

  “Oh. Sorry.” She paused and turned back to the front with a sympathetic look toward Eric. After another long, awkward silence, she tried again. “How about the radio? You like country, Nolan? Or are you more of a pop kinda kid?”

  “Uh…whatever.”

  Alyssa shrugged and turned the radio on.

  When the pop music clicked on, he gave Kit a regretful look. How much more of a drive did they have until St. Louis?

  Suddenly a buzzing siren interrupted the music from the radio, followed by an announcement from a soothing female voice. “This is a government broadcast. Please be on alert for a missing child in your area. He is a male of 13 years old with short brown hair. He was last seen wearing a red baseball cap with a white ‘G’ on the front. If you have seen this child, please call 911 immediately. We repeat, this is a government broadcast…”

  “I-I’m sorry. T-turn it off,” Greyson said, his slingshot loaded and pointed at the back of Eric’s head. The band creaked as he held it back as far as he could in the narrow backseat.

  I have to. There is no other option. But he still hated himself. “Pull off the road…and let us out.”

  Kit growled, sensing Greyson’s alarm.

  “Whoa…easy kid. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “You, either.”

  Before long, Eric pulled onto another gravel road. There was an uneasy silence in the car. Greyson was so ashamed, so nervous, that his hand trembled; he felt he might lose grip of the slingshot’s ammunition pocket.

  “Nolan – we can help. Whatever’s going on, it doesn’t matter. We can-”

  “Throw your phones, wallet, and keys out the window – passenger side. Please.”

  I have to!

  “What?”<
br />
  “I’m sorry! Just…just do it.”

  “If you’re in trouble, we can help – ”

  “NOW!” The scream startled them and Kit growled ferociously. His voice had cracked and come out like he had two different voices. It had startled him as well.

  Once the items were thrown out, Greyson eyed Eric in the mirror. “I’m going to leave now. You can’t let anyone know you’ve seen me. Just let me go.”

  “Sure,” Eric said coolly. “Whatever you want.”

  Releasing the pressure on the slingshot, Greyson pushed the car door open and exited with his backpack and his dog. Finding the phones, he smashed them on the ground and put the car keys in his fanny pack. They couldn’t turn him in. And they couldn’t follow.

  What if they knew how to hot-wire the car? Or they had a spare key?

  Just to be sure, he pulled out his slingshot to put a ball into the tire.

  ZIP! PLING!

  The ball bounced off. Should’ve remembered. Frustrated, he pulled a multi-tool from his fanny pack and stabbed a back tire with its knife; with a blast of air, the car’s corner leaned to the ground. Inside, Alyssa was crying; Eric was trying to comfort her.

  “Now, get out and…and walk away! Down there,” he pointed into a cornfield with a wavering finger. “And don’t stop.”

  After some debate, Eric held Alyssa’s hand and tread into the muddy field. Greyson watched them for some time, until they were small figures in the distance, and then decided it was time for him to leave as well.

  As he walked away, he felt horrible pangs of guilt. They’d been nice to him, just wanting to help. And he’d repaid them by destroying their stuff.

  But he’d done what he had to. If he had to do that again – he would. Maybe someday he’d be able to find them and explain it all to them – or pay them back somehow to make it all better. Maybe he could make up for a lot of the bad he’d done once he found his dad. His dad would know what to do – how to make the guilt go away.