Drawn

by James Hankins

  “Looks kind of rough,” Nathan had said.

  Boone had agreed that it could be rough.

  Now, twenty minutes later, Nathan asked again why Boone was going to a state park hours after it had closed and Boone had to choose to be a bit rude so as not to end up out on his ass by the side of the highway again.

  “Sorry I can’t say more,” Boone said. “It’s just a little personal, and a bit weird, I guess. Okay?”

  “Guess it’ll have to be,” Nathan said and Boone didn’t think he sounded annoyed.

  “What about you, though?” Boone asked. “Where are you heading? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  Nathan was quiet a moment, then said, “Personal, too, I guess.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I think there’s a rest stop where I can drop you coming up in just a couple of miles,” Nathan said. “You’ll be all right there, I’d think.”

  “I’m sure I will. Thanks.”

  They rode a while in amiable silence while Boone kept hoping he wouldn’t hear Nathan start to snore.

  TO NATHAN, BOONE seemed like a decent young man. He’d clearly had more than his fair share of troubles, yet he hadn’t let them break him. Nathan wasn’t sure how he himself would have played the hand Boone had been dealt. Cursed with a face like that, on top of nearly total blindness, added to whatever anxiety issues were twisting him up every now and then—Nathan had noticed two episodes so far—Nathan wasn’t sure he could have coped as well as Boone apparently had. Boone must have been a strong person. Nathan couldn’t help but be reminded of Jeremy when he looked at the younger man beside him.

  “Don’t let him go,” a voice says.

  Nathan keeps his eyes on the road and says, “What’s that, Boone?”

  “Don’t let him go.” Same voice, just north of a whisper, and Nathan realizes that it’s not Boone’s voice.

  Nathan looks over. Boone is sitting in the passenger seat, his eyes closed.

  “Don’t let him go.” It’s the same shadowy voice Jeremy had spoken in earlier.

  Nathan flicks his eyes up to the rearview mirror. Jeremy is there again in silhouette.

  “He can help. Don’t let him go.”

  “Who, Jeremy?” Nathan asks. “Are you talking about Boone?”

  “Don’t let him go.”

  Nathan considers reaching back with one hand, reaching into the backseat, trying to touch Jeremy, but he knows if he does, Jeremy will be gone. It would be like putting his hand through smoke. He’ll wake up and the backseat will be empty. Jeremy will be gone again.

  “I thought he was you, Jeremy,” Nathan says. He feels a tear slip from his eye, down his cheek.

  “He can help. Don’t let him go.”

  Why the heck won’t Jeremy just show his face, just tell Nathan what he needs to know, where to find his son, what Nathan can do to find him and help him?

  “Boone can help me find you?” Nathan asks. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Just don’t let him go. Don’t let him go.”

  “He’s got someplace to be, it sounds like.”

  “You can’t let him go.” Urgency had crept into Jeremy’s voice.

  “Okay, Jeremy,” Nathan said, “I won’t.”

  “Uh…Nathan,” Boone said, “who’s Jeremy?”

  Nathan opened his eyes. He looked up at the mirror. The backseat was empty, of course. He’d gotten lucky that time. Again. Not only had he avoided driving off the road and crashing into a tree, but he apparently hadn’t even swerved. Boone didn’t seem to have noticed that he’d drifted off again for a moment—or was it longer than that? Just how lucky had they been? How lucky had Nathan been throughout this drive?

  “Jeremy?” Nathan said.

  “Yeah, you said the name ‘Jeremy.’ You remember my name is Boone, though, right?”

  “Sure I do. I was just thinking about someone else for a moment.” He paused. “My son.”

  “Oh. Is he…I mean, he isn’t…where is he?”

  “I’m not sure where he is at the moment,” Nathan said, “but I hope to find out really soon. Maybe even tonight.”

  To his credit, Boone, who must have had questions about that, said nothing.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  WITH ROUTE 3 long behind them, as the road became more rural and the houses grew farther and farther apart, Alice began to question the wisdom of following a stranger into an area she didn’t know, without telling a soul where she was going or what she was doing. She’d stayed as close behind the Audi as she dared, but as the road became twistier as it meandered through the heavily wooded area, she’d been forced to keep him in sight as much as possible—which meant that her headlights would have been in his rearview mirror. She hoped that he had no reason to think he was being followed. He’d moved with such a carefree walk through the rest-stop parking lot that she didn’t think he’d ever imagine that someone was watching him. She prayed she was right.

  “Should I call Daniel?” she asked herself.

  She thought a moment.

  “And tell him what, Alice? Exactly how would you explain this? No, better just stick to the plan.”

  The plan, such as it was, consisted of following the Audi to wherever it was going. When it finally stopped, she’d drive past, park somewhere close but out of sight, then sneak back as quickly as possible and see what she could see. If Audi Guy had a boy or, God forbid, a body in the car, in the backseat or the trunk, she’d waste no time in calling the police. To be as ready as possible, she opened her cell phone and predialed 9-1-1 so she’d have nothing to do later but hit the send button. Then she noticed that she wasn’t getting a signal. She recalled hearing from friends in college that cell reception in the White Mountains of New Hampshire was very spotty. Fantastic.

  New plan: if she saw something incriminating, she’d hurry back to the car, drive until she got reception, and call the cops. If that took too long, she’d knock on someone’s door and beg to use a phone. And if she didn’t see anything suspicious, Alice would wait a while to see if the little blond boy appeared to give her a signal. If he didn’t, well…

  “Hey, if the kid gives up, maybe I should, too.” But she didn’t know if she could do that, not after everything that had happened. She decided to play it by ear.

  Suddenly, up ahead, the Audi’s brake lights flared and the car turned down a driveway. Alice slowed, letting it get a ways down the drive before passing. When she reached the driveway, she took her foot from the gas so she’d coast past slowly but wouldn’t light up her brake lights.

  She looked down the driveway, which sloped downhill for some thirty yards before leveling off near a simple A-frame house. The Audi braked to a stop in front of the house—Alice couldn’t see a garage—and Alice stepped gently on the accelerator before the driver of the Audi could get out of his car. Fifty feet past the driveway, the road curved to the left. As soon as she rounded the bend, Alice pulled onto the grassy shoulder, as far off the road as the trees growing near would allow. She opened her door and was about to step out when she reached back, opened her purse, and pocketed her pepper spray. It was the only weapon she had; she might as well take it along. She slipped out of the car and closed the door as quietly as she could. Then she hustled back around the curve to Audi Guy’s driveway.

  The moon was big and bright tonight, just a day or two away from being full, but its light barely penetrated the thick leafy cover above and all around. Alice stood behind the thick trunk of a big tree. She was too far away and the shadows were too thick for the Audi driver to see her, but she still wished she wasn’t wearing a long-sleeved yellow shirt. At least her blue jeans were dark.

  Alice peered around the tree. Audi Guy had a backpack over one shoulder and was pulling a small suitcase from the backseat of the car. He put the suitcase down, shut the door, and did a curious thing. He leaned over and patted the lid of the trunk twice. Then he picked up the suitcase and started for the front door. Alice pulled herself back aroun
d the tree…and nearly screamed. Standing a few feet away was the little blond boy, his pale hair frosted by what little moonlight filtered down through the trees. His face was in shadow. He raised an arm and pointed down the driveway.

  “Maybe it’s time to get back to my car, drive somewhere and call the police,” she whispered.

  The boy shook his head, pointed at her hand…no, at her watch, then pointed down the driveway again. Alice understood. No time for that. She took a deep breath and peeked around the tree again. The front door of the house stood open. She saw the suitcase and the backpack on the floor just inside the door. She looked over at the car. The blond boy was somehow standing right next to it now, thirty yards away in a blink, one hand on the trunk, the other waving to Alice, calling her to him. She turned and looked where the boy had been standing near her just a second ago, but he was gone, of course. Alice looked down the driveway again. The blond boy was nowhere in sight.

  “Well, Alice,” she whispered, “you wanted him to tell you what to do next.”

  She couldn’t simply saunter down the driveway hoping not to be spotted, so she stepped into the trees. She walked quietly, several feet in from the tree line as she walked down the slope, parallel to the driveway. She kept one eye on the house and the other eye out for a log or rock or something that might trip her up. It was a little colder up here than it had been down in New York, so the trees had started shedding their leaves earlier. She moved as quietly as she could so as not to announce her approach with every crackling step.

  In half a minute Alice had covered the distance from the road to the house. From where she crouched, behind a tight knot of trees just fifteen feet from the Audi, Alice could see into the house through the front door, which the driver had left open. He passed through a hallway toward the back of the house. The open door made it obvious that he intended to return to the car. He’d taken a backpack and suitcase from the car, so what else could be in the Audi that he needed? More luggage? Maybe. A little blond boy? Maybe. The way he’d patted the trunk lid…

  Alice looked at the car. Then she looked at the house. How long did she have to check out the vehicle before the driver came back outside? Her little ghost boy had seemed to be directing her to the trunk. Did she have time to open it?

  Her mind was spinning away the few precious seconds she had. She knew, though, that she’d need to act quickly when she finally sprang into action, so she wanted to consider each likely scenario. If she saw a body in the backseat or in the trunk, she’d try to check to see if the boy was alive. If so, she’d try to get him out and lead him through the woods to her car. If, God forbid, he were dead, she’d run like mad back to her car and call the cops as soon as she could. And if she found nothing but dirty laundry, she’d thank God and drive back to New York feeling relieved and stupid.

  She took a final look at the house, didn’t see Audi Guy, so she sucked in a deep breath and hurried to the car in a crouch. When she reached it, she dropped to her knees. She was exposed between the trees and her car for no more than three seconds but it felt like ten minutes. She wanted to collect herself but she knew she didn’t have that luxury, so she quickly lifted her head and peered into the car. There was no one inside. Through the car windows she snatched another glance at the house. Still no sign of the man. She knew what she had to do next. She had to open the trunk. That meant she had to lift the trunk latch inside the car. Assuming there even was a latch in the car. Maybe the trunk could only be opened with a key. She prayed that wouldn’t be the case as she reached up and tried the passenger-door handle. It was locked.

  “Of course it’s locked,” she hissed under her breath. Which meant she’d have to go around to the driver’s side, where she’d be momentarily exposed to the light spilling from the open front door.

  IT HAD BEEN a couple of minutes since Larry had rapped on the trunk lid and said to Miguel, “It won’t be long now.”

  Since then, Miguel had managed to free his fingers and had started in on the tape around his wrists. His hands were slick with blood running from several gouges he had dug into his flesh. Once he freed his hands completely, he’d tear the tape from his legs, then from around his head. But the hands were his priority. He had to free his hands and he had to do it fast, because when Larry opened the trunk Miguel wanted to be able to surprise him with a tire iron to the head. And once he was down, Miguel would keep hitting Larry until he was dead. But that first blow was the important one. Miguel had to make it count, because if he missed, he wouldn’t get a second chance.

  He rubbed his taped wrists furiously against the sharp corner of the tire iron, ignoring the pain when he slipped and tore into skin or banged into bone. He might have only seconds. Larry would throw the trunk open at any moment and, when he did, Miguel had to be ready to cave in his skull.

  ALICE SNEAKED A peek over her shoulder. Audi Guy was still nowhere in sight. She thought she might have heard a toilet flush somewhere inside the house. She hurried around the front of the car and didn’t even hesitate as she scurried into the light. Still in a crouch, she tugged the driver’s door handle and wasn’t surprised to find the door unlocked. She opened it softly, fumbled around for the trunk release, and gave it a tug. The trunk popped open a few inches.

  WHEN THE TRUNK opened, Miguel’s heart stopped. His legs were still bound but the tape binding his hands had separated just a second ago. Lying on his side, he wouldn’t get much power behind a swing, but if he aimed it right and connected with Larry’s head, he might stun the pervert long enough for him to follow up with enough blows to turn Larry’s head into jelly. He gripped the tire iron with blood-slicked hands and waited for Larry to lift the trunk lid so he could crush the bastard’s skull.

  KNEELING BEHIND THE back bumper, Alice held her breath. “Please just be dirty laundry,” she whispered. She pushed the lid up, and as it rose, a shape exploded from the trunk and something whooshed over her head. If she’d been standing, it would have taken off her head. Instead, she fell onto her backside in surprise as the shape in the trunk writhed frantically, grunting like an animal, finally twisting its way up to its knees, waving something around in front of it.

  Alice stared in surprise. It was a boy. But it wasn’t the blond boy with the pale skin that she’d been following, that she’d been seeing and drawing and painting for weeks. This boy was Hispanic, with dark skin and dark hair. And he was several years older than her little ghost boy.

  But this boy had tape around his mouth and sweat-plastered hair and panicked eyes and blood running down his arms. He was poking a tire iron out in front of him.

  Alice read the situation quickly.

  “Shh,” she whispered. “Calm down. We have to get you out of here.”

  The boy stared down at her uncomprehendingly.

  She couldn’t see the front door but knew the driver would be back out here any second. He’d flushed a toilet. Maybe he had just dried his freshly washed hands on a towel and was on his way back outside at that very moment.

  “Do you speak English?” she whispered.

  The boy snapped his head from side to side, obviously looking for the driver.

  Alice rose to her knees and held her hands up, palms out, to calm the boy.

  “Listen to me,” she said softly but with urgency, “we have to get you out of there fast. The driver will be back for you any second. Do you speak English?”

  Finally, the boy focused his eyes on her. He nodded.

  “Okay, good, now you have to come with me. I have a car nearby. We can—”

  She heard footsteps. He was coming. Walking, not running, so he must have his head down or turned to the side, must not have seen that the trunk was open.

  She had no time to run. She wouldn’t have left the boy anyway. She pushed the trunk lid down but stopped just before it closed all the way.

  “Stay down, kid. When you hear me yell, come out swinging.”

  Without waiting to see if the boy understood, she slipped around the back o
f the vehicle and crouched on the far side of the car, willing herself to be as small as she could. Moving as quietly as possible, she removed the pepper spray from her pocket.

  Footsteps crunched on gravel, closer and closer. The man was humming tunelessly to himself. Then Alice heard him say, “Okay, Miguel, it’s party time.”

  Alice’s heart thundered. The blood roared in her head. The man’s footsteps stopped behind the car.

  “Let’s go, little buddy,” the man said.

  Alice rose from her crouch, took three steps around the car, and when the man turned to her, blinking in surprise, she hit him full in the face with a long blast of pepper spray. He howled and she screamed, “Now, kid.” Immediately, the trunk burst open and the boy was up on his knees, swinging the tire iron like a baseball bat. Alice didn’t hear a satisfying crack of skull or even a solid thump, but the blow seemed to have connected because the man howled again and spun away, staggered, and fell to the ground. A stream of garbled obscenities spilled from his mouth.

  Alice turned to the boy, who was tearing at the tape binding his legs. She hadn’t seen that. That would slow them down. She turned. The man was getting to his knees, pawing at his eyes, swiping at his mouth, and cursing like a demon. But his words were strangely formed, like his mouth was full of marbles, but more probably blood. Alice snatched the bloody tire iron from the floor of the trunk. As the man rose, Alice saw that Miguel’s blow had indeed hit home. His right cheek was torn open, a three-inch slice running from the corner of his mouth toward his ear. It wasn’t just a cut—the cheek was torn all the way through. The boy had added three inches to the width of the man’s mouth. Blood flowed like a waterfall down his jaw. He squinted at her through red-rimmed, watery eyes and stumbled toward her, arms outstretched. She swung the tire iron as hard as she could, aiming for his head but connecting with the side of his thick neck. He cried out and dropped to the ground again, rage and fury and blood bubbling from his wreck of a mouth.