“Grant!” Warren shouted. “Get your tail back up here, boy!”
The oak limbs shook as though a huge raccoon were moving in the tree below. Then Grant’s feet hit the floor of the tree house with a bang.
The hand loosened slightly at her throat.
“Pass her up to me!” Warren ordered. “Come on!”
Laurel did. As he lifted Beth through the window, Laurel saw a saucer-size bloodstain above his left collarbone.
“The bullet clipped my trapezius,” Warren said, noticing her gaze. “It’s nothing. As if you care.”
She turned away, fighting a mad impulse to scramble down the roof to the safety of the oak tree.
Then a whir like the world’s biggest fishing reel sounded from below. Laurel looked to her right and saw Grant sailing away from the house like a commando in a POW rescue movie. He was kicking his feet to make the wheel mechanism speed along the zipline. She felt like cheering out loud.
Warren cursed in fury, and something dark moved behind her. Leaning back, she saw his gun come up and steady in his hand, as if to fire at Grant’s receding form. She knocked the gun aside and scrabbled onto her knees, facing Warren in the window like an angry mother wildcat. She was spitting mad, her skin as hot and itchy as if electricity were crackling along it. “Point that gun at him again,” she snarled, “and I’ll
Grant hit the sand clean and started sprinting without even a hitch in his rhythm. Compared to doing a 180 off a half-pipe, it was nothing. He looked over his shoulder as he ran and saw his father silhouetted in the window of his bedroom, staring silently after him while his mother waved from the roof to keep running. The sight scared him more than anything had in a long time.
He ran toward the creek first, because it was downhill, but then he cut left and started making for the Elfmans’ house. As he did, Christy broke out of the trees below and raced to catch him, elated to have someone to run with. The corgi circled Grant as he ran, smiling as she always did. All he could think was that he needed to get to a telephone. He wasn’t sure whom to call, and he had no idea what to tell Mrs. Elfman.
He swerved around some azaleas and kept pumping toward the Elfmans’. He could see Mrs. Elfman herself, standing in her backyard by the pool, wearing a big flowery dress. It looked like she’d already seen him. A second later, her yardman appeared beside her. Grant liked George a lot better than Mrs. Elfman. He was glad George was there. Grant figured he must look pretty scared, because a second later George started running toward him, and even Mrs. Elfman started walking fast in his direction. He
He wasn’t sure what was wrong with his father, but he knew his mom was terrified. He’d never seen her face so white or her hands shaking, and he’d sure never seen her wallop his dad in the face. But what scared Grant most of all was what he’d seen in the TV room upstairs. It was hidden in his dad’s pocket, but the outline was plain as day. Grant’s throat had been tight ever since he realized what that outline meant, and when he heard the shots later, they’d come as no surprise.
“Whoa there, little man!” George called, dropping to his knees so that Grant would be eye to eye with him. “What you running from so fast?”
Grant was breathing so hard that he couldn’t talk. By the time he found his voice, Mrs. Elfman was coming up. She took his hand and looked down at him with all the kindness in the world.
“What’s wrong, Grant Shields? You have to tell us, if we’re going to help you. Did some little boy blow his finger off? I heard firecrackers over there.”
Grant shook his head, trying not to cry. “It’s my dad,” he panted. “My dad’s sick!”
“Sick how?” asked George. “Did he grab his arm or his chest? Is he awake?”
Grant pointed at his own temple. “He’s sick up here. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s got a gun, and I think he shot somebody. My mom tried to get us out, but only I got away.”
“Dear Lord in heaven!” Mrs. Elfman exclaimed. “You poor child. Run call the sheriff, George. Double quick. Tell him to bring every man he’s got.”
Chapter 14
Danny McDavitt was sitting on the elevated deck at the Athens Point Airport, drinking a lukewarm Schaefer and listening to Marilyn Stone give him an informal legal assessment of his custody situation. No alcohol was sold on the premises, but a mechanic friend had come up with a cold six-pack for Danny. He and Marilyn had been talking for over an hour, but he was in no hurry to get home. The only other thing on his mind was what might be happening with Laurel, but he’d checked his cell phone a dozen times, and she’d sent no text messages.
“Bottom line?” said Marilyn. “Starlette can get physical custody of Michael, and she can probably limit you to minimum visitation. Every other weekend. It all depends on the judge. But she will
Danny nodded. “Every other weekend’s not good enough. Michael needs one-on-one attention, all the time.”
Marilyn was obviously sympathetic. “What about his teacher? Laurel Shields would make one hell of a witness for us, if she’d get up and tell the truth about Starlette.”
Danny sipped his beer but said nothing. He was trying not to think about Laurel. After Marilyn landed the Cessna, he had broken down and sent Laurel a third text message, this one an almost panicked plea to alert him as soon as the encounter with Warren was over. But she still had not answered.
“What’s the problem there?” Marilyn asked. “You don’t think Laurel would do it?”
“She probably would. I’ll have to talk to her about it.”
“You do that. Every day counts, Danny.”
He forced a smile. “I sure appreciate you taking this time.”
“Oh, I expect a free lesson in return.”
“I’ll make it two.”
“One’s enough. How’s Starlette acting now?”
“You don’t want to know. Bitch city. Running up my credit cards like the Germans are about to roll into Paris.”
“SOP for a woman who thinks her husband’s about to dump her. You need to get out while you can. Take your chances.”
Danny was about to reply when his legitimate cell phone rang. He checked the LCD and saw that the call was from the Sheriff’s Department. “Excuse me, I need to take this.”
Marilyn turned up her Schaefer and drank it off with an unladylike gurgle.
“Danny McDavitt,” he said.
“Major McDavitt, this is Dispatch. I’ve been told that the sheriff needs the aerial unit to pick him up at Lake St. John. You know where that is?”
“I do.” Lake St. John was a popular recreation spot forty miles up the river. “When are we talking about, Carol?”
“Now, sir.”
“Now? What’s going on?”
“Radio silence on this one, Danny. No specifics on cell phones either. You’re the pilot on the board. Jim’s in Las Vegas with his wife for his anniversary. How soon can you get to the airport?”
“I’m at the airport now.”
“Good. I called Mr. Markle already. They should be getting the aerial unit ready now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s the sheriff doing at Lake St. John?”
