Cut to a grainy tape aimed at the bank’s parking lot. He saw his own BMW roar into focus. His own face closer to the camera as he slammed on the brakes to cut off the guy running toward the ATM. Then Luke lurched toward Eric, who could not be seen clearly. The BMW jerked out of the camera’s shot, then returned as it exited the lot past the dead man, the license plate grainy but visible. The police must have enhanced the footage to read the plate.
‘The car used in the shooting is registered to Luke Dantry of Austin, stepson of noted political think-tank president Henry Shawcross. Dantry is described as six-foot-two, brown hair, blue eyes, slim build, age twenty-four, a master’s candidate in psychology at the University of Texas-’
The camera cut to his driver’s license picture, a soft smile on his face. He’d never liked the photo but now he looked like one of those people who try to look too sincere and fail.
‘The car was found abandoned at a parking lot near the Dallas/Fort Worth airport. Dantry received a speeding ticket outside Mirabeau a few hours before the shooting, where it was reported by the officer that he was not alone in the car. Dantry’s stepfather had this to say last night.’
Then cut to Henry, gaunt and pensive, as though he’d aged ten years: ‘I hope my stepson will immediately turn himself in to the authorities. Luke is a good kid who has made a few unfortunate choices in his past. Luke, if you can hear this, just turn yourself in, that’s for the best.’ Henry blinked wetly into the camera.
Then cut to some jerk who lived in the condo below him: ‘Dantry is kind of a loner. He didn’t say much to people, didn’t socialize, you know, but I guess I never thought he’d shoot someone.’ Then, with a shake of his head. ‘He should have been smarter not to do it in front of a camera. Grad students aren’t known for common sense.’
He never liked that neighbor, a little snot who he’d had to ask to turn down his stereo several times. Being branded a loner on national television stung. It’s what the commentators always said about the guys a jury would find guilty in five seconds. And Henry, talking about his past mistakes.
Not a single word that Luke had been kidnapped, or a ransom demanded for his return.
Not a hint that he was innocent.
Not a breath that Henry knew he was in danger – only an implication that Luke himself was guilty.
We’re from your stepfather. Luke was sure now that Snow and Mouser had told him the truth.
The betrayal was complete. Not just abandoned, but framed. A rage rose in his chest. ‘I’m going to take you down, Henry,’ he said aloud. The words jarred him; he had never made such a threat in his life. In the quiet of the cottage the words sounded odd, even frail, lacking power. He didn’t know how to start. But he was going to stop this, stop Henry, force him to own up to what he had done. The reason for Henry’s betrayal didn’t matter; Luke could not understand it. Only the reality of it mattered.
What had his father said? You might be called to fight one day, Luke. Think of Michael. Think of strength and know you can win.
One day was now.
He heard the anchor say that the homeless victim’s name had not been released, pending notification of kin.
Eat, get your strength back, think, he told himself. Luke devoured the pizza. He knew if he went to the police, he would be arrested, charged at the least as an accessory to murder. Until he had information that could clear his name, a terrible danger loomed in contacting the police or in asking Henry for help. And how would he explain the Night Road? He had, after all, helped put it together. Would anyone believe that he didn’t know its true purpose?
Eric. Eric was the key. Eric had to know what was happening – why Luke had been grabbed to force Henry’s hand, why the homeless man had to die.
Luke turned off the television. The weight of what he had to do hit him like an avalanche.
His only choice was to hunt down his kidnapper and force a confession.
The victim, going after the kidnapper. Alone, without the help of the police or anyone else.
Luke finished the pizza. He washed the plate and his cup. As he put them back in the cabinet footsteps sounded on the porch.
11
He’d broken a pane of glass on the door facing the river to get inside the cottage. Assuming the owners hadn’t ventured into the torrent to check their weekend property, this was either the police, a neighbor, or worse – Mouser or Snow.
What would they have done when the truck crashed and burned? Run to the bridge to see if Luke was dead. Maybe they saw him surface, and then wash down the river. They could just be following the river – and heading towards the cottage.
He slid open a drawer and found a steak knife, held it close to his hip.
Luke had never fought with a knife, but he’d kept a small blade on him during his runaway days. Knives were easy to come by, easy to hide. He’d only had to use it once, just to show a tough kid in a Richmond alley who wanted his money, and then he’d run like hell.
It was clear he had been in the house: damp shower, his clothes and his shackles in the trash, the stove warm. He stepped back into the walk-in pantry, left the door cracked. He couldn’t hide and hope they just left. He’d have to make a stand.
A man’s hand emerged from under the gingham curtain on the back door’s broken pane, fumbled for the knob. Luke retreated to the kitchen.
The door opened, the volume of the wind rose slightly, then faded again as the door was shut. No call of hello, anyone here, you might expect from a neighbor. The intruder stood still, as if listening for Luke.
He opened his mouth to silence the rasp of his own breathing.
He heard the sound of a foot on floorboard. Approaching.
‘You must be scared to death,’ Mouser said from the hallway. ‘I sure would be. People only have so much courage’ – a pause, and Luke could imagine Mouser swinging an open, loaded gun into the first bedroom’s doorway – ‘and I suspect you’ve burned through all yours.’
All Luke had to do was reach the back door, on the other side of the kitchen, and run. In galoshes. Right. Mouser would put a bullet in him before he was down the driveway. ‘I just need to talk to you, Luke.’
The shelves of the pantry pushed against his back. Mouser was silent. Luke felt the heavy weight of the cans. Thrown or bashing into a skull, they would hurt. They did not require the closeness of the knife. It would give him two weapons and maybe Mouser wouldn’t think he had improvised more than one. He thought of putting the knife in the back of his pants, but there wasn’t room in the pantry to reach. He carefully stuck the knife up the sleeve of his long-sleeve T-shirt, the blade’s tip barely hidden by the cuff. Then he reached carefully above his shoulder and closed his hand on a large can of corn.
‘So scared,’ Mouser said, like he was cooing to a child. ‘Holding onto that truck must’ve exhausted you – swimming in that hellhole of a river…’ Then Mouser moved into view, across the lit inch of open door, one hand hovering over the stove, testing its heat.
Then Mouser looked right at the nearly closed pantry door. Raised the gun and behind it he wore a smile. ‘I spy, with my little eye, a running boy. That was a merry chase. Come on out.’
With one hand, Luke pushed the door open.
Mouser smiled. Now Luke could see his face clearly. He was bigger than Luke, a solid six-foot-six, body knotted with muscle. He had a boyish face – cheeks ruddy from the rain and wind. He wore a shirt streaked with dirt, jeans crusted with mud from the chase. His dark hair was cut in a burr and his brown eyes held a sick amusement but no warmth. Bags under his eyes showed exhaustion.