Killman Creek (Stillhouse Lake #2)(82)

I let out a shout and punch the dashboard so hard that I feel something pop in my hand with a firecracker burn, but I don’t give a shit. No, goddamn it, no, not like this, not like this . . .

I type back, Wrong, assholes, she is my problem, and I’m going to find her. You hurt her, I’ll make it my mission to put bullets in every one of you.

That’s my rage talking. I don’t have a clue how to find any of them. It’s an empty threat, but I can’t help making it.

There’s another long pause, and then a message comes back. You want to play? We told you where to find Melvin Royal. Get him fast enough, maybe she lives.

The breath goes out of me. You’re lying.

No. We want you to be there. To see.

My hands are aching. I’m panting for breath, and I want to break the tablet in half, feel that glass shatter and splinter like breaking bones.

But that’s what Absalom does. Taunt. Misdirect. Threaten.

“They want us to go to Wichita,” I say aloud. Mike’s looking at me with real concern when I turn to look at him. “Why?”

“Keeps us from looking somewhere else,” he says. “I’ve been smelling a rat since Atlanta. They’ve been playing you and me. Sending us where they want us, getting rid of their deadwood, like Suffolk; son of a bitch was already on the FBI’s radar anyway. We got too close, and all of a sudden they’re working on dividing us up. Sam, we need to think right now.”

I don’t want to think. It’s the last damn thing I want. But deep inside, I think Mike’s right. They’ve got Gwen. We can’t stop that by chasing bait. We have to get ahead of them.

I take in a deep breath, hold it, let it out. “Okay,” I say. “What first?”

“We rewatch that video you got at the cabin,” he says. “Because I think that’s where they got us heading the wrong direction.”

I stare at him. “You think they meant for us to find that?”

“No. I think they didn’t, and everything since then has been countermeasures. We get that lead and suddenly there’s a video implicating Gwen. Then a second one, when we grab Suffolk—and I’m pretty sure Absalom wanted to get rid of that rank bastard anyway, because he was careless. Somebody’s leading us on a pretty little path, and we need to get off that trail, now.”

I force down the need to argue, to kick Mike out and grab the wheel and drive until I find her. Because he’s right.

Slow down. Cut loose. Reset.

Because that’s the only way we’re going to find Gwen now.

We need to get ahead of them.





21

CONNOR

I hear Lanny go into the bathroom. She likes to take a shower at night, and I wait until I hear the water running before I shut and lock my door, pull out the Brady phone, and turn it on. It takes a full minute to come up and search for a signal, and I get a barely audible chime when it’s ready. The sound of running water will cover my voice, as long as I keep it quiet.

I go in my closet and shut the door. The clothes and blankets in here will muffle things more. I don’t want anybody hearing me. The dark feels comforting, and when I put in the battery and turn on the phone, the TV-blue glow of its screen throws everything into sharp shadows around me. I sit down, cross-legged, and lean against folded blankets in the corner. The closet’s made of cedar, and the warm, sharp smell of it makes me want to sneeze.

I can’t do this, I think, but the bad thing is, I know I can. I know I have to. I have questions, and I want to hear his voice when he answers them. Lying in texts is easy. Maybe it’s not so easy on the phone.

I dial the only number in the phone book. My heart is pounding so hard my chest hurts.

It rings, and rings, and then it goes to a voice mail that just has a mechanical voice that says, Please leave a message, and I hang up. I feel hot and sweaty and disappointed, and at the same time, I feel relieved. I tried, and he didn’t even answer. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to do it again. That was hard enough.

Being in the closet feels like being sealed off from the world. It’s weird and kind of peaceful. I’m wondering how long I can stay in here before someone comes looking when the phone buzzes in my hand, and I almost drop it. I answer the call and say, “Hello?” My voice sounds high and uncertain and quiet. It’s less sure than I am that this is the right thing to do.

Dad says, “Hey, son, I’m sorry. I couldn’t get to the phone in time. Thank you for calling me. I know that’s a big step for you to take.” He sounds like he’s been running. I imagine he had the phone across the room, maybe in a coat pocket, and it was ringing and ringing and then stopped when he reached for it. If he’s out of breath, he cared enough to hurry to get it. That means something. I think.

“Hi,” I say. I’m not quite ready to call him Dad, not like out loud. “Maybe I shouldn’t have called . . .”

“No, no, this is good,” he tells me. I hear something like a door slamming. I hear wind over the phone speaker, like he’s stepped out into the open. “Are you alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” He pauses for a second, and I hear his breath. “How are you?”

“Okay.” I know I should say something more than that, try to really talk to him, but suddenly now that he’s on the other end of the line it feels wrong. The fantasy was better than the reality. So I rush on. “It’s cold out, maybe going to snow or something. I was out for a while today.”