by Rachel Caine
That's safe. Kind of. And it doesn't give anything away.
So I tell him, "Come to our old house at Stillhouse Lake. You know where that is?"
"I can find it."
"When?"
"I told you, I'm not far. So . . . how about in a couple of hours?"
I'll have to walk to get there, which means it'll take me at least an hour. Less, if I run, but I'm not like Lanny. I don't enjoy it.
"You're that close?" Suddenly I feel weird. Like I really shouldn't have said anything. Shouldn't have asked for this. I want to throw away the phone and go inside and tell Kezia what I've done. I never knew you could want something this bad and still be afraid of it, too.
He must have heard it in my voice, because Dad says, "I don't want to push you, kiddo. If you want to wait, I can wait. I won't come looking for you, I swear. Just like I don't call you. You call me when you want to meet. Is that better?"
I suck in a breath so deep it hurts to hold it. I let the cold air get warm, and it comes out white when I breathe again. "Okay," I say. He sounds completely normal. I'm the weirdo here. Dad's doing everything he can to make me feel like I can trust him, and I'm being the asshole. "I'll be there in two hours. But Dad? I'm bringing the dog."
He laughs. "I'm glad. I want you to feel safe. You bring Boot. You have your sister on speed dial. You do exactly what you have to do to trust this is okay. I don't hold any of that against you." He falls silent for a second, and his tone shifts. Gets quieter. A little darker. "But, Brady . . . if you tell your Mom, or another adult, or even Lanny, you're putting me in serious danger. These cops, I'm telling you that they'll shoot me on sight. I'm trusting you with my life. You have the power here. I'm in your hands, son."
I feel like I'm drowning. I want to do the right thing, but I don't know what that means anymore. He's my father. He hasn't asked for anything. I asked him. He's willing to put himself in danger for me.
And he loves me. I can hear it in what he says, how he says it.
"Okay," I say. I still don't sound like I'm sure, so I try again, louder. "Okay. I'll meet you there."
"I love you, Brady," he says.
I gulp down another wave of nerves and say, "I love you, too."
I shut the phone down and put it away. Boot crawls over, still destroying the tennis ball, and puts his warm weight over my legs as I sink down to the ground. I hug him, and he squirms and turns his big, brown eyes on me with his jaws crushing the tennis ball, then drops it and licks my face clear of tears.
"Am I stupid, Boot?" I ask him. He just keeps licking. "I shouldn't go. I should go tell somebody."
If I'm going to do this, I have to be smart about it. So I go back into the house and tell Kezia that my stomach hurts, and I want to lie down and go to sleep. She asks me if I want anything to help with the stomachache, but I say no, as politely as I can, and then I go into my room. I make my bed messy and pile clothes in to make it look like I'm there, and then I write a note that says, I'm sorry, but I'm going to meet Dad at our old house, please don't be mad. I've been talking to him, and I think I need to see him. I'm being careful. I took Boot. I put the note on top of my clothes. That way, someone will find it if anything happens and I don't come back. I put the number of the phone Dad gave me on the bottom of the page, too. Just in case. Then I lock the door, turn on the TV, open the window, and climb out. I close it behind me. I whistle Boot around to the side of the house, and I clip on one of the leashes that Javier keeps for when he takes him out for walks outside the yard. Boot seems excited, but he balks when I lead him to the gate and open it.
"Come on, boy," I whisper. "Come on!" We can't stay here. If Lanny or Kezia looks out . . .
But Boot decides it's okay and romps through the gate like it's a great adventure. I close the gate, and we run into the shadow of the woods.
It's a long walk to Stillhouse Lake.
I run.
The house is trashed. I guess Lanny said that, but I wasn't really listening. I didn't bring any keys, so I don't go inside; I lurk in the shadows on the side of the house, trying to look like some local kid who's just out for a walk with his dog. I don't see anybody. The cold and the feeling that the snow will start any second keep people away from the lake.
Kezia's already called twice. I haven't answered.
I've missed the lake, and I sit against the side of the house awhile and stare at it. It's got a slow, drifting mist on top, but the water's starting to take on a thick, opaque look. It's already slushy, and by tonight it'll have a crust of ice on top. It won't freeze very deep. It's pretty here, and quiet except for the birdcalls and the distant sound of somebody using a chain saw on some logs. Storing up firewood for the storm.
I fiddle with Brady's phone, and I think about calling Dad and saying, Don't come. This idea sounded okay before, when I was angry and scared and upset. Now it feels weird. I don't know when things are right, but this feels like I've made a mistake.
I'm about to call him when the phone rings again. I quickly dig it out of my coat pocket and look at the number.
Oh shit. I seriously consider not answering it, but I press the button and put it to my ear.
Lanny is already yelling before I can even say hello. "What the hell do you think you're doing, bonehead? Where are you?"
"Lanny--"
"I got your stupid note. I went in to wake you up for dinner and, Oh my God, Connor--where are you? Kezia's freaking out!" My sister's still yelling, but I can tell she's scared. Really scared.
Brady, I think. My name is Brady. But I don't say it. "I'm okay," I tell her. "I just want to see him. He'll be here in a few minutes. I just want to talk to him, and then I'll come back. Besides, I have Boot. I'm okay."
"Dad is a murderer, and you don't know him! You barely remember him! Connor, I want you to promise that you'll come back, right now--"
She's cut off. Well, she's still talking, but there's static, and the phone moves away from her voice, and I realize someone's taken it. I hear voices in the distance: Lanny, and Kezia. What's going on? Where is he?
Lanny didn't tell Kezia she found the note before she called me.
There's another few seconds of silence, maybe while she reads the note, and then Kezia's calm voice says, "Connor, are you at the old house right now?"
"Yeah," I say.
"Is your father there yet?"
"No."
"Okay. Here's what I want you to do. I want you to walk over to the closest neighbor's house and knock, and get inside if you can. I'm sending a patrol car out, and I'm coming as fast as I can, too."
The way she says it, it's not even an order, it's a fact. I'm going to follow her orders. She seems cool and confident and in control, and it reminds me of how my mom says things sometimes.
"But I want to talk to him," I tell her. "That's all. Please don't send the police." I know she's going to, she's a police detective, and now I've screwed everything up by leaving that note because she'll have to report it. I've put my dad in danger. "Please don't shoot him!"
"Connor, nobody wants to hurt him," she tells me, which is a lie. She's moving. I hear the door slamming, and Kezia's breath is coming faster now, but her voice is still level. "Your father's been convicted of real serious crimes, and he's a dangerous man. He needs to be in jail so he can't hurt anybody. Are you walking? Because I can't hear you walking. You need to be heading for the neighbors, right now."
I take about three or four steps away from the house. The nearest house is over the hill, near the cutoff drive. I move slowly. "I'm going," I tell her.
I hear a car start on her end. "Connor, I'm going to stay on the phone with you," she says. "Hey, did you walk all the way from the cabin? That's a long way. Aren't you tired?" She's talking to keep both of us calm, I think. I go another four or five steps, and then I stop, because I hear her whispering to my sister. She probably thinks I can't understand, but I have very good hearing. Like a bat, Lanny says.
She's telling Lanny to call the Norton
police on her own phone.
It hits me then that I'm bait now, that they're going to get my dad, and it's all going to be my fault. Because I did this, and when he comes and gets trapped, he's going to blame me.
I don't go toward the neighbor's property. I hang up on Kezia. I stop in front of our house, and I think for a few seconds. Somebody broke the front window, and the curtains are blowing in the cold breeze off the lake. Rustling like dry leaves. I dial my dad's number. He doesn't answer. I get voice mail, and I tell him not to come, but to text me when he gets the message.
Minutes go by. Long minutes. I keep checking. No text from Dad. No calls. Kezia keeps calling, but I just keep sending it to voice mail.
Fifteen minutes. Kezia won't take much longer to get here, even if the Norton police take their time.
I dial my dad's number again. Come on, come on . . .
It goes again to generic voice mail, and I blurt out, "Dad, please don't come, I'm sorry, don't do it, please don't, the police will be looking for you--"
The phone rings, and the phone asks if I want to hang up and accept the call. Kezia. I ignore it, take the phone, and run forward, to the edge of the slushy lake. I try Dad's number again. Again. Again. When I get voice mail the last time, I say, "I'm getting rid of the phone, Dad. I don't want them to find you with it! Please don't come here!"
I throw the phone as far as I can out into the lake.
It lands, then breaks through the hardening crust on top of the water. It disappears without a sound, and without a ripple. It's too cold for ripples.
I hear a car engine. I think, The police are here, and I turn around, ready to take my punishment. Boot has gone still at the end of the leash, and he's facing the road.
It isn't a police car. Not even an unmarked one, like Kezia drives. It's a white van, a big, long one with no windows on the sides. It's got muddy stains all up on it, like it drove through a lot of slush.
There's a man in a black coat with the hood up behind the wheel. He parks on the road and gets out, and I can't see his face, but I know who it is. Who it has to be.
Time slows down. I know time doesn't really do that, but that's how it seems, like I'm in one of those movies where everything goes slow motion and the hero steps out of the path of a bullet. Only there's no bullet.
I can't think what to do. Part of me says run, and that part is strong enough to make me take a couple of steps back, but where can I go? The lake's behind me. I should run left, around the van, and head for the neighbor's house, like Kezia said. But the other, bigger piece of me says, Stay. It's your dad.
The man stops about five feet from me and puts down his hood.
It's not Dad.
The man's old, with thick white hair on the sides, bald on top. His eyes are a mean, muddy brown, and when he smiles at me, it's just teeth. "Hey, there, Brady," he says. He has a Tennessee accent, like he's from somewhere close. "Your dad sent me to get you. You just come on with me now, and I'll take you to meet him."
I hear a distant wail. A police siren. This is all wrong, and I don't know why Dad isn't here. Was he scared? Didn't he trust me? Maybe he was right, because I screwed it all up by leaving that note. This is my fault.
The sirens seem a long way off.
Boot growls. It's a low, rumbling sound I've never heard before, not like this. The growl he gave us back at Javier's when we first came was just playing, but this isn't. When I look at him, he's staring at the man, and Boot's lips are pulled back from his long, strong teeth.
"Son, you need to tell that dog to stop." The man tries a smile. "I done told you, your dad sent me. But I'm not going to fight that dog. I'll kill it if it comes near me."
He has a gun. I see it now, shoved in the waistband of his jeans. He puts his hand on it.
Boot lets out a loud, scary series of barks and lunges to the end of the leash. He's big, and strong, and I can't hold on.
"Boot, no!" I yell, but the dog isn't listening to me. He's jumping forward, hitting the ground, jumping again. Like flying.
The man jerks his gun out, but it isn't a gun at all, because when Boot lands on his chest, he puts it up against the dog's chest and I hear something like sizzling, and Boot yelps, high-pitched and awful, and rolls off. He falls, all his legs twitching and his head jerking. His eyes are wild and round.
I scream and run toward him, but the man is right there, in the way, and he grabs my arm and swings me around. His fingernails are long and dirty, and he isn't my father, and something's all wrong, Boot's hurt, and I can't get in that van, Mom always told us to never get in anybody's car, to shout and yell and fight every step.
I try to pull free, but he wraps me in both arms and lifts me off the ground. I'm struggling, but he has my arms pinned under his. I kick at him. Boot's still twitching, yelping like he's in pain.
"Shut up, you crazy little shit," the man shouts. I can smell toothpaste on his breath, and coffee. "You shut the fuck up or I will knock you out, you hear me? Cops are coming! We got no time for this. Don't you want to see your daddy?"
I keep kicking. He can't cover my mouth if he's going to keep my arms pinned, and I start yelling again, but the man is rushing me toward the van, and even if someone hears, they won't get to me in time, and I have to do something.
Mom wouldn't let this happen to her. I don't think about Dad at all. I remember my mom, who always, always stood between us and danger. She wouldn't give up. I'm not giving up, either.
I kick again, harder, and this time, my boot heel connects hard with the man's groin. I hear my knee click, and I get a flash of pain, but I don't care, and when he yells and lets go, I start running. I can hear the sirens. I can see dust coming up in the air just on the other side of the hill. They're almost here.
He hits me from behind with something before I'm more than half a dozen steps away. I stagger a couple of steps, and then I fall down.
Everything goes gray and soft, and then red with pain, and I can't think. I can feel him dragging me by the feet.
I hear the siren get louder and louder, and I think it's just in my head until I see Kezia's black car come flying over the hill and barrel toward us, with built-in blue-and-red lights flashing in the front grille.
I can't let him get me in the van. I know that. I twist and try to jerk the man off balance as he pulls me.
I see Kezia throw open her door and lunge out almost before the car stops. She has her gun drawn in the next second, and she's aiming, and shouting, "Police officer, let the boy go!"
The other door is opening, too, and Lanny hits the ground running. She shouldn't come at us, but she does. She's running straight for us.
She's getting in Kezia's way.
Lanny is screaming my name--Brady, not Connor, because she's so angry and so scared--and she tackles the man trying to pull me so hard it knocks his grip loose, and I bang my head hard into the road from the recoil. Everything goes soft. I scramble up, but the world keeps moving, and I can't get to Lanny because she's fighting with the man in the coat. I see Boot; he's trying to stand up on shaking legs now, and he's barking, but it sounds frantic, strangled, and he can't help much, either.
Kezia fires into the air and yells, "Lanny, goddammit, get down!"
Lanny tries, but then the man grabs her by the hair and yanks her backward to hide behind her. He climbs backward up into the open doors of the van and pulls her in with him. I hear the sizzling sound again. He's shocked her.
I try to get to her, I do, but he's dragged her all the way up front, and now he's dropping into the driver's seat, and I can't reach my sister . . .
The van screeches away. He hasn't even closed the back doors, and they flop around until they slam closed as he accelerates around the turn by Sam Cade's cabin. He's going around the lake.
He's going to get away.
Kezia is suddenly there, and I feel her warm hand on my face, turning me to see how much I'm hurt. I think I'm bleeding. I don't know. All I can think is, I did this. I must say it ou
t loud, because Kezia presses her hand to my forehead, and says, "No, baby, you didn't. You're okay. We're going to find her. You just relax, it's all right." Her voice is shaking, and she takes her cell phone and dials. "Goddammit, where's my backup? White van, heading around the lake! Confirmed child abduction, I repeat, confirmed child abduction, victim is Lanny Proctor, white female, fourteen years old, wearing jeans and a red down jacket, black hair, do you copy that?"
My head hurts so much I throw up. I can feel Lanny's old book digging into my ribs.
I can feel when Boot limps over and starts licking my face.
Then I don't feel anything else.
22
GWEN
Pain comes in a slow, thick wave.
It's just a red wall at first, an announcement by my entire body that things are not okay, and then it recedes a little, and I begin to identify specifics: my right ankle, throbbing in hot pulses. My left wrist. My right knee. My jaw, and I don't remember being hit there, but you don't in a real fight; it all becomes a blur. My shoulders ache horribly.
There's something in my mouth, tied tightly enough that it's forced between my teeth. Cloth. A gag. That's why my jaw hurts.
I remember . . . what do I remember? The motel room. The man in the Melvin mask. Taser. Van. It all feels distant and smeared, but I know it's real, because it terrifies me. Nightmares aren't frightening once you wake up.
Memories are.
I remember being in the van. Tied up with . . . something. I remember the rattle of chains. We drove, and then we stopped. The van went up a sharp incline, and then it was all very, very dark, and we started to move again.
I remember a flashlight in my eyes, so bright it hurt, and a sting on my arm. He's injected me with something, I realize. Maybe more than once to keep me sedated. That accounts for the horrible, bitter taste in my mouth, like poisoned chalk. I'm so thirsty my lips are cracked, and my throat aches horribly. I can't summon up enough spit to swallow.
I'm in the dark, and I'm so cold that I'm shivering convulsively, even though there's a blanket wrapped around me. I'm not in a van now.
I'm in a box. I'm curled up, legs pressed against my chest, and my hands are still cuffed behind me. That's why my shoulders hurt. My head throbs so badly that I wish someone would cut it off and spare me the agony, and I think that's the aftereffects of the meds. It's pitch black, and I can't see the box I'm in, but when I scrape my fingers over the surface, I feel rough wood. Splinters. The air smells stale, but I feel a breeze coming in on one side. There are airholes, and when I twist and look in that direction, I can see a dim glimmer of light.
