Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(92)

She closes the door, locks it, deadbolts it, and looks at me. I feel stupid holding the poker. I put it back where I found it. When I do, I realize that something’s changed down the hall. Sparks’s office door is now shut.

Well, that’s sensible. In case the cops get past me and Mrs. Pall, he’d want to have the kids behind yet another barrier.

I try the knob. It isn’t locked, so I open it. “Mrs. Pall sent them packing,” I say, but I’m talking to no one.

The room is empty.

That’s impossible. I know Lanny, Vee, and Connor didn’t come past the parlor. And where would they go? Sparks isn’t here either. What the hell . . .

They’re just . . . gone.

I turn around, and Mrs. Pall is standing there with a shotgun in her hands. Before I can react, she reverses it and slams the butt into my head.

And I fall.





16

SAM

I drive the white sedan into the first open space in what Sparks calls a carriage house; I suppose it was, a hundred years ago, before the horse stalls were removed and Model T Fords took their place. It’s a big, spacious barn of a garage with three metal doors, each allowing access to two cars. This remote only opens one of them.

I leave the keys in the car, and as I’m standing beside it, I check my cell again. Nothing from Mike. Nothing from Miranda, either, and that’s ominous; she’d jump at the chance to reestablish contact, I know that. Something happened on their way out of town; I can sense it like blood in the wind. And I don’t know if they’re alive or dead. That all depends on just how far the people in this conspiracy are willing to go.

Well, they went far enough to blow a hole in a woman’s chest for even thinking about betraying them. Killing one person is hard, but once they’ve done it, killing the next will be—in their minds—inevitable. I’m worried for Mike. And even Miranda. Neither of them has any clue what they’ve gotten into.

I’m just turning off my phone when I hear a scrape of shoes behind me, and something cold presses against the back of my neck. Heat tears through me, followed by chills, followed by rage—at myself. Why the hell didn’t I hear this coming? Why did I think we were safe here?

“Easy,” a voice says from behind me. It isn’t Sparks, or Mrs. Pall. I’ve never heard it before. It sounds calm, cool, and utterly in control. “Hands behind you.”

It isn’t the police, or they’d have already announced themselves. I try to take a look. The gun barrel presses closer.

“Nope,” he says. “Hands. Now. Or I leave you dead right here. Where is she?”

“Where’s who?”

“The kid.”

“You mean Lanny? Safe. Where you can’t find her.” I’m lying. All he has to do is walk up to the house. Jesus, why are they after Lanny? I can’t let this happen.

“Who’s Lanny?” He sounds impatient now. “The girl.”

“Vera Crockett?”

“Jesus. Shut up. We’ll sort this later. Hands. Now. If I need to blow your skull across this room and go get your woman in there, I will. And her kids. Understand me?”

He means it. I put my hands behind my back.

He clicks handcuffs on. Shit. “Ellie White. You’re going to catch a beating if you lie to me.”

“Not Vera?” I’m honestly surprised. I thought we were the only ones who’d figured out the Ellie White connection.

“All I care about is the girl. Everybody else is collateral damage, you get me? You, your girlfriend, those kids. I know you know where Ellie is. And you’re going to tell us.”

Us. He’s not alone. I need to get this guy out of here, fast, before he gets the bright idea to search inside the house. I don’t want him anywhere near our kids.

“Who told you I knew?” I ask him. Because someone had to. I figure it’ll be the police, Carr, someone involved in the conspiracy.

But instead he says, “Your buddy.”

Mike. They have Mike. “I’m not saying anything until you take me to him.”

“Works for me,” he says. “We’re going to need some privacy anyway.”

He prods me to the back of the carriage house. I hadn’t seen it before, but there’s a small door back there, and on the other side, a carport. A black SUV is idling there. He puts me in the backseat. For the first time, I get a good look at him; he’s definitely not from around here. He’s tall, lean, olive-skinned, with neatly trimmed dark hair and a devilish goatee and mustache. I’d think he was a hipster, except for the Sig Sauer in his hand. He’s wearing a leather jacket, and under that he has a shoulder holster he uses once I’m in the SUV.

There’s a shorter, paler carbon copy of him in the backseat who has his gun on me from the second I get in. He’s got the calm, dispassionate eyes of someone who’s killed before, and I believe he will again. They need me, I tell myself. And I’m getting them away from Gwen. Lanny. Connor. Right now, that’s a good enough reason to stay quiet and cooperate. Opportunities will come. They always do.

“Who hired you to find the kid?” I ask, as the man who caught me gets into the driver’s seat. He straps in and backs out of the drive without answering.

“Word of advice,” he says, and fixes me with a look in the rearview mirror. “Keep it zipped.”