He clicked on the television while he drank the hot soup, surfed to a twenty-four hour Texas-based news channel. The heavy rains drenching east Texas and western Louisiana were the lead story. Apparently there’d been a derailment of a train carrying chemicals in the small town of Ripley and a massive chlorine leak, and the rainstorms had helped ground the poison. Thirty dead, hundreds hurt, the entire town and everything around it for twenty miles temporarily evacuated. But the storm had stopped the threat.
‘Of course, whether this was an accident, or as some sources on the scene have suggested, a bombing of the rail line itself to cause the leak…’
A bombing. And here were Mouser and Snow, talking about bombings.
Luke sank to his knees before the TV, the soup tasteless in his mouth. The story went back to the wider effects of the wide-ranging rainstorms: two people drowned in Lufkin, another swept away in Longview, and a dramatic truck crash near Braintree – they went to an aerial shot of a semi, junked in an engorged river. The truck driver was missing, a search was underway.
Missing. Please be okay, he thought. Please. But he knew, from the shot, from the force of the crash, that it was a forlorn hope.
He ran to the sink and waited for the wave of nausea to pass. He looked up at the screen as the anchor returned. ‘A brutal street shooting near downtown Houston is caught on an ATM machine’s camera, and the stepson of the leader of a prominent political think-tank is implicated.’ Cut to a reporter, standing in the rain-soaked morning daylight of the bank parking lot where Eric had gunned down the homeless man.
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
