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.
‘Drop whatever’s in your hand, buddy,’ Mouser said.
Luke dropped the heavy can of corn to the tiled floor. It rolled to Mouser’s feet. Mouser laughed at him. ‘Corn is a lethal choice. Step out slowly. Hands on head. So we can have a nice talk.’
Luke shook his head. The steak knife, parked in his sleeve, felt looser than he’d like, as though it might just slip out of its hiding place. The blade lay cool against his skin.
‘We need to have a nice calm talk. The trucker was… not planned,’ Mouser said, as if contrition would erase the idea of murder. ‘My partner got overeager.’
Luke said nothing.
‘I want you to tell me who kidnapped you, Luke.’
Luke said nothing. Make him talk, he thought. Make him tell you more.
‘I don’t repeat myself.’ Mouser slapped him. It was a hard, vicious blow that felt like it would part the flesh from Luke’s cheekbones. Luke slammed against the refrigerator but steadied himself back onto his feet.
Now Luke spoke. ‘Murder’s worse than kidnapping. You were going to kill me.’
‘Were we? I myself just wanted to talk to you. Now. Your stepfather wants you back in reasonably good condition. Don’t make me pound the living hell out of you, boy.’
‘I’m sure Henry’s worried I’m going to kick his ass when I see him.’
‘I hate family squabbles. So. Back to facts.’ He raised his hand for a second slap, fingers wiggling in anticipation, laughing when Luke flinched. ‘Who grabbed you?’
‘I don’t know his name.’
‘Just one guy?’
‘Yes.’
Mouser looked at him as though allowing himself to be kidnapped at gunpoint by a single assailant was a moral failing. ‘Tell me what he looked like.’
‘Let’s say I do. What happens then?’
‘Then I don’t beat your ass into the ground and I take you to your stepfather.’
‘You’ll kill me. You already tried. I got shot at in the woods and that trucker got shot.’
‘Are you sure?’ Mouser put on a hurt little frown. ‘That was sure a noisy storm. You’re exhausted. You don’t know what you heard.’
Luke decided to give Mouser enough to maybe get him to talk, but not enough to make Luke expendable. He realized this was no different from the online prodding he’d done with the extremists. Except he was facing a gun instead of a computer screen.
Luke cleared his throat. ‘The guy grabbed me at the airport. Forced me to drive to Houston; he shot the homeless man.’ He paused. ‘Do you know who the homeless man was?’
Mouser said, ‘Keep talking, or I’ll break your nose. With your can of corn.’
First attempt deflected. ‘He made a phone call and we drove to the cabin. He took a photo of me, emailed it. We found a woman chained to the bed. He left me in place of her. Then he called my stepfather. Who stabbed me in the back.’
‘Yes, I’m aware of your Greek tragedy family dynamics. What else?’
‘He’s not my dad. My father’s dead.’
‘I don’t care. Everyone dies.’ Mouser slapped him again; the pain throbbed up his jaw, down his neck. He’d drawn close, his breath sour against Luke’s nose. ‘Now let’s stay on topic.’
‘He got a call earlier in the day from a British woman.’
Mouser frowned. ‘Who is she?’
Luke decided to keep Jane’s name to himself. If he gave too much, he might not be useful any more. ‘I don’t know. He never mentioned a name.’
Mouser tented his cheek with his tongue. ‘Physical description of your kidnapper.’ Now Mouser raised the gun. He didn’t aim it at Luke, but he inspected it, as though admiring its steel.
Luke took a deep breath. Eric was tall; Luke said he was medium height. Eric had dark hair; Luke said it was dirty blond and thinning. Eric had no accent so Luke gave him a thick Boston inflection.
‘I want to show you something.’ Mouser pushed him into a chair at the kitchen table. He reached inside his jacket and handed Luke a black and white picture, printed from a computer. It was Eric.
Mouser sat across from him. ‘Now. Revisit your description. Think hard. He look familiar to you?’
‘No.’
Mouser smiled. ‘You’re a psychologist, right? You know there are physical clues to lying. A shift of the eye, a twitch of the mouth. Especially apparent in the exhausted and over-educated.’ Now he aimed the gun straight at Luke. ‘Yes or no, you see this guy?’
‘Yes.’ He stared at the gun, wondering if the answer was going to result in a bullet in his chest.
‘Did he mention money?’
‘Just the insane amount of money he wanted from Henry.’
‘Did he mention any names? Dates? Say anything about a Road? Use the word Hellfire?’
This is where he decides to let you live or die, Luke realized. Luke bit his lip. ‘I… I can’t remember what all he said, not with you pointing a gun at me…’
‘I’m going to let you live, Luke. Trust me. Henry’s eager to see you, to explain.’
Trust me. Fat chance. Henry had said the same to him the last time he’d seen him. Trust me, we can change the world. Eric had said it too, assuring him that he’d be released if he cooperated. Trust was dead to him. ‘Tell me. Did I find you on the internet for Henry?’
Mouser studied him. ‘I don’t waste much time on the web. Others, yes, not me. Now. What names did he mention?’
‘Names. Yes. But… let me think for a minute.’ He could feel the weight of the knife hidden in his sleeve.
‘Concentrate. You’re supposed to be such a smart boy.’
Luke hunched over the table. He dropped his arms and he fake-shivered, and the knife began to work its way down into his hand, below the table’s edge.
‘He mentioned my stepfather… he mentioned a Night Road, but I didn’t understand, it was a name I made up for Henry…’
‘He did?’
‘Yeah, he said something about Hellfire… is that a code name?’ That was a lie but it worked.
‘Tell me what he said.’ The cool evaporated from Mouser’s voice.
Under the table, the handle of the knife slid into his hand. And for a moment fear stopped him. You have a knife, he has a gun. Seriously. How do you think this is going to end? ‘… Can I have paper and pen to write down everything I remember?’ He put a tired whine in his voice.
Mouser stood and walked past Luke toward the kitchen drawers and Luke drove the knife hard into Mouser’s leg. The knife sliced through the denim, the blade sliding into Mouser’s flesh.
‘Jesus!’ Mouser screamed as he doubled over in surprise. His hand instinctively grappled at the knife’s handle. But as Luke bolted past him, Mouser let go of the knife and got a steel hand on the back of Luke’s neck. He worked his fingertips into a claw that pushed expertly against nerve juncture and artery.
The agony staggered Luke. He reached back and twisted the knife’s handle and Mouser released him with a
