Jeff Abbott - Trust Me

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.

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.’