Dismember

“It must have only charged a little bit. Come unplugged when we were moving furniture,” he said and punched at the floor. “Stupid.”

“You don’t have another phone?”

“You know I don’t.”

Actually, Libby hadn’t known, but it wasn’t a point to press. “Isn’t there a speaker phone on the base?”

“Nope, nothing that fancy.”

“Then plug it in,” she said. “It can’t take that long to charge.”

Mike did but said, “It doesn’t matter. Even if I could call him back, there’s nothing he can do. Says he’s at a crime scene and can’t leave. He promised to send everyone he could, but there’s probably nobody else within thirty minutes of here. By the time they get to Trevor, he could be dead.”

Libby thought about Trevor in the bathroom stall, thought about the announcement that had come too late: TREVOR PULLMAN, IF YOU CAN HEAR THIS, PLEASE COME TO SECURITY. YOUR MOTHER IS LOOKING FOR YOU. “So what do we do?”

Mike didn’t answer. He hurried out of the living room, down the hallway, into his bedroom. Libby followed. In his closet, he rummaged through clothes and pulled out a pair of jeans and some old boots. Without looking back at Libby, he pulled off his lounge pants and replaced them with the jeans. He found some dirty socks, yanked them on (one of them inside out) and stepped into the boots.

“Mike?”

He turned away from the closet. “It might be hours before anyone gets to him. I can’t risk that. He needs help now.”

“So what are you going to do?”

Mike frowned at her like she’d just asked him the stupidest question he’d ever heard. “I’m going to save him.” He opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out a set of keys and his wallet.

Libby stood, grabbed his arm. “You’re taking me with you.”

“Like hell,” said Mike. “Stay here and wait for the cops. I only got halfway through the directions. They’ll probably come here first.”

“No,” said Libby. “I’m not asking, I’m telling. We’re going together. Don’t try to force me on this.” She thought about Marshall, thought she’d kicked enough balls today and hoped she didn’t have to kick any more.

TREVOR PULLMAN…YOUR MOTHER IS LOOKING FOR YOU. How long would she have waited if she’d stayed with the security guard? How long before somebody found Trevor sobbing in the bathroom with a pair of dirty pants?

“I’m going.”

Mike sighed. “Let’s hit the workshop on our way out,” he said. “Grab something we can use for weapons.”

Libby nodded. “And let’s take the Honda. I don’t trust that truck.”

Without hesitation, Mike said, “Okay.”

They left the house together.

THIRTY-FIVE

Hank watched the boy flip the phone open and closed several times before sticking it into his breast pocket. He hadn’t said goodbye, seemed to have been cut off mid-sentence. Lost his connection, Hank thought. It surprised him that the kid had managed to make a call from way out here in the first place. Of course, he didn’t know much about all these newfangled electronics. Maybe they had special phones for country folks, better antennas or something. He waited for Davy’s reaction.

The boy only stood there looking clueless, staring at the sky as if he thought he could fly away. Hank wished he could tell him there was no place to go, that if there had been he’d have gone himself, but that was something the boy would have to learn on his own.

Tell Mommy I love her, the boy had said.

Hank had smiled at that. The logical thing for the Pullmans to do, of course, was call every cop in the state and send them Hank’s way with a gun in each hand and a grenade pin between their teeth. But it was hard to be logical when you thought your little boy was in trouble. Hank knew. They’d call the authorities, of course—any good parents would—but they wouldn’t be able to stay put afterward. They’d come. They’d both come. And long before the cops. Fate wouldn’t screw him over a second time. Not today. It just wasn’t possible. Hank pushed out from his hiding spot feeling like he’d won the lottery. His toothpick bobbed, and he flipped it around with his tongue.

Davy didn’t see him at first, but when he did, he jumped back and fell onto his rear end, screaming and looking like he might wet his pants. Hank wouldn’t have been surprised—Davy didn’t exactly have the best control over his bladder. Not that it was the kid’s fault, of course.

“You’re a sneaky little guy, aren’t you?” Hank closed in on the boy, who had stopped screaming, who stood stiller than a headlit animal in the middle of the road. Hank shuddered a little and wasn’t quite sure why. “How in the world did you out?”

Davy had his hand on his breast pocket, as if the phone might still do him some good.

“Hand it over,” Hank said and flapped his fingers. The toothpick slid from one side of his mouth to the other.

The kid pretended not to know what he was talking about, and Hank could admire him for that, but he wasn’t in the mood for playing games. He rushed the boy, pried his hand away from his pocket, and pulled out the cellular phone.

Although Hank was in most ways glad for the phone call Davy had made, he couldn’t let it show. Fathers had to maintain a certain level of respect. He spun around and whipped the phone at a nearby tree. It spun through the air three times and smacked. Hank was no Nolan Ryan, but he’d definitely gotten some heat on the throw, and he hit the tree dead center. The cell phone exploded. One second it was a high-tech piece of equipment, the next a plastic cloud raining down springs and hinges and shards of cheap casing.

Hank turned back to the boy. “What about Georgie?” he said coolly, as if the phone-throwing outburst hadn’t happened at all. “He loose, too?”

Davy shook his head.

“Good.” Hank chomped his pick. He didn’t especially believe Davy, but he touched the boy’s shoulder, gripped it but didn’t squeeze it, and said, “Let’s get back,” as if everything was hunky dory and they were at a father-son picnic headed for the three-legged race instead of in the woods at night, Hank covered in blood and Davy nearly stiffer than the severed leg in the station wagon back yonder.

“Wait,” Hank said. “First, you need a replacement.”

“A what?”

Hank didn’t respond. He found a thick piece of bark on the ground and handed it to Davy. “Here.”

“What—”

“Put it in your pocket. Where you had the phone.”

“Why? I—”

“Just do it!”

Davy cringed but took the bark and slipped it into his pocket.

“Okay,” said Hank, “now move.” And for a wonder, Davy did.

Trevor let himself be led back through the woods. He’d done what he could, and although he would have preferred to stay away from the bad man until help came, he guessed he could tough it out a little longer. It wasn’t like the guy was hurting him, really, just squeezing his shoulder. Trevor guessed he’d bring him back to the room with no windows, back to Zach, lock him up again, and that was fine. When they came to rescue him, a locked door wouldn’t keep them out. They’d get the key, and if not the key then they’d break the door in, and it would THWACK against the wall just like in one of his comics.

He saw the house through the trees, the parked truck and the chopping block. Trevor wished he were a big guy, a grownup. He’d have knocked the bad man to the ground, punched him in the face until he bled, then gone