Trust Me Read online

  A lock bolted the tool shed door shut. He got a rock from the flowerbeds and smashed down on the lock with four jackhammer blows. But the lock held.

  He ran back to the cottage. His conscience made him hesitate at breaking and entering. But he was desperate and this was his new reality. He had to adjust to it.

  He broke the window. No screech of an alarm accompanied the tinkling glass. He fingered the lock, twisted it, and stumbled inside.

  He shivered and turned on the central heating. It vroomed to life and the vents perfumed the air with a dusty burnt smell. The cottage was well furnished; someone’s riverside weekend getaway, he decided. He wanted food, a shot of whiskey to warm him, and to be out of his filthy sopping clothes. But most of all he wanted to be free of the shackles. He searched the kitchen and in a drawer he found a ring of keys.

  He hurried back out to the tool shed and tried the keys. The third opened the lock, chalked with dust from his earlier attempts.

  The orderly wall held a nice array of tools. He saw what he needed: a power drill, nestled in its charger.

  He inserted the drill’s bit into the lock; he had to hold the drill at an awkward angle. It revved to life and bit into the lock’s mechanism. Metal ground, hissed, and began to shred. The shackles shook, dancing to the bit’s beat, and the lock gave way. He uncuffed his right hand and felt the delicious feeling of the weight dropping away. His skin under the cuffs was raw, bloodied, swollen. He freed his left hand in short order.

  Luke put the tools back into place and relocked the tool shed door. He threw the shackles into the kitchen trashcan.

  No phone in the kitchen. He searched the rest of the vacation home, found two bedrooms, two bathrooms and a den, and no phone. Bizarre. But this was a world choking on cell phones, so maybe the owners didn’t feel the need for a landline for their weekend house.

  He went back to the curtained window. No sign of pursuit; no Snow or Mouser emerging from the dripping pines. He was safe, but God knew for how long.

  He kept the lights off. He stripped off his ruined clothes and stood in the stinging spray of the shower. He scrubbed himself raw, hating to leave the reviving heat of the water. When he was done, he wrapped a towel around himself. In the master bedroom closet he found men’s clothes. Luke was six-two and the man’s jeans were surprisingly a bit too long and too wide in the waist. But better, he decided, than too small. He found a gray long-sleeve T-shirt, a flannel shirt and a jacket. He found no shoes but galoshes; he put them on, with a pair of white socks he found, in case he had to leave quickly.

  In the bathroom he slathered antibacterial gel on his hurt hands and wrapped them with gauze. He looked like he was hiding an attempt at slashed wrists. But he felt human again. The medicine cabinet held a few prescription bottles in the name of Olmstead. He was hiding in the Olmsteads’ house. He hoped the Olmsteads were nice, understanding people. A sharp, sudden hunger - dulled for long hours by adrenaline - punched his stomach. He hadn’t eaten since lunch the day he dropped Henry off at the airport, which felt like a lifetime ago.

  He found scant offerings in the fridge - a jar of strawberry jam, expired containers of milk and sour cream, a few bottles of beer. In the pantry he found peanut butter and canned vegetables and soups. In the freezer were several packages of steak, a loaf of bread and two vegetarian pizzas. The steak would take too long. He heated tomato soup and put one of the pizzas in the oven.

  He stood over the soup, the mist of it warming his face, and, in the distance, under the fading thunder, he heard the chop-chop-chop of a helicopter. There and gone by the time he got to the window.

  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 H
enry’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 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?’