Ethan’s fists were clenched in fear.
From his room where he was bound to the kitchen chair, he heard the creeps yelling at his mom. He squeezed his fists tighter and ordered himself to stop crying.
He had a plan and the key to it was in his right hand.
Before the creeps had come into his room and grabbed him, they’d made a noise, which woke him. He’d seized his penknife from his nightstand. The creeps never made him open his hands when they taped his wrists in front of him. Guess they figured he was just a scared little kid.
Ethan could feel his knife, the pearl-handled beauty, like it was part of him.
He very carefully moved it around just so and after a couple of tries managed to open the sharp little blade. He regripped the knife and began cutting at the tape around his wrists, forcing them apart until the tape gave way, freeing his hands.
He sliced at the rest of his bindings, yanked the tape away, stood up and went to the door. He opened it a crack, saw the creeps swearing at his mom. If Ethan stepped into the hall to free Taylor, they’d see him.
He got dressed so fast, put on his shoes, his jacket, quietly unlatched the big window next to his bed and slipped out.
He gulped air.
The rain drenched him and he headed for the winding dirt road, glancing back at the cabin, his heart wrenching at leaving his mother and sister behind, but a voice told him to run.
He ran as fast as he could, praying a car would come.
Anybody.
He didn’t dare stop.
The rain had turned the road to greasy mud. He tried to stay on the shoulder, to get traction from the gravel there, but he fell twice. Soon his legs grew numb from running and falling. His sides and lungs ached. Fear had evaporated all his saliva, and his throat was ragged from panicked breathing.
His prayers for a car were in vain.
No one lived near them. His only hope was to get to Hallick’s store.
He slowed to a trot, then walked as fast as he could. Fear compelled him to keep moving until at last he saw a light in the distance and found his second wind. The light got bigger as the store emerged. Its darkened windows signaled it was closed while the sign on the door confirmed it.
He reached the pay phone out of breath.
Doubling over, he waited until he could breathe and talk, then picked up the handset. There was a dial tone. Ethan punched 911.
“Washington County Emergency—”
“Hello! I’m at Hallick’s store and some bad guys are— hello!”
Static drowned the call.
Ethan hung up and pressed 911 again.
Again static.
He tried three more times without success. Tears stung his eyes; he couldn’t think until he remembered the card that reporter Jack Gannon had given him. It was in his jeans.
It had a 1-800 number.
Ethan found the card and tried it, not understanding why the line rang clear, but it did, loud and clear.
Static-free.
“World Press Alliance, New York,” a night news editor answered.
“My name is Ethan Palmer. I’m ten years old. Some guys are trying to kill my mom and sister right now! I got away and we need help. I need to talk to Jack Gannon.”
“Whoa, hold on, son. Where are you? Is there a number, address?”
“At our cabin by Lake George. I’m at the pay phone at Hallick’s store.”
“Can you give me the number on the pay phone?”
The editor kept Ethan on the line and used other phones to make emergency calls.
Some ten miles south from where Ethan stood, Jack Gannon was in the Evergreen Rise Motel making notes on his laptop for his interview with Lisa in the morning.
He’d put on his sweatpants and a T-shirt, and was digging into cream cakes, potato chips and ginger ale as he worked. Junk food was a weakness when he was on the road, or stressed.
Gannon had been delayed leaving Manhattan and was glad he’d checked in just before the storm hit. Funny, he was just now thinking how the motel clerk had told him he was at the edge of the zone for wireless service, when his cell phone rang.
Is that ESP? He shrugged as he answered the call.
“Gannon.”
“Jack, its Neal at the night desk. You’re not going to believe this.”
As the night editor explained, Gannon got up and started fumbling for his clothes, the map to Lisa’s cabin and his car keys.
“Christ, I’m fifteen minutes from there. I’m leaving now.”
“Be careful. We got the New York State Police and some locals rolling.”
“Call Frank Morrow at the FBI. Here’s his cell.”
Gannon rushed to his Pontiac Vibe and roared off for Hallick’s store and Lisa’s cabin.
As Lisa’s hopes melted she took stock of her life, all that was good, all that she’d endured and all that she’d dreamed.
It wasn’t right. She did not deserve this. Ethan and Taylor did not deserve this.
As Lisa regarded the bastards who wanted to take away everything from her, her fear turned to anger. She had to fight.
“Why are you doing this to us?”
“We bled and died for our country overseas, then we went back to hunt terrorists and do dirty, secret jobs for our governments. They betrayed us and left our men to die.”
