Killman Creek (Stillhouse Lake #2)(88)

“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.