Jeffery Deaver - Roadside Crosses

Travis had asked. But the man had only pointed out the bucket to use for a toilet, the food and water. And had warned, "My associates and I are going to be checking on you, Travis. You stay quiet at all times. If you don't…" He showed the boy a soldering iron. "Okay?"

Crying, Travis had blurted, "Who are you? What did I do?"

The man plugged the soldering iron into the wall socket.

"No! I'm sorry. I'll be quiet! I promise!"

The man unplugged the iron. And then clomped up the stairs. The basement door had closed. More footsteps and the front door had slammed. A car started. And Travis was left alone.

He remembered the following days as a blur, filled with increasing hallucinations or dreams. To stave off boredom-and madness-he played DimensionQuest in his mind.

Now, Travis gasped, hearing the front door opening upstairs. Thumps of footsteps.

His captor was back.

Travis hugged himself and tried not to cry. Be quiet. You know the rules. Thinking of the Taser. Thinking of the soldering iron.

He stared at the ceiling-his ceiling, his kidnapper's floor-as the man roamed through the house. Five minutes later, the steps moved in a certain pattern. Travis tensed; he knew what that sound meant. He was coming down here. And, yeah, a few seconds later the lock on the basement door snapped. Footsteps on the squeaky stairs, descending.

Travis now shrank back on the bed as he saw his captor come closer. The man normally would have with him an empty bucket and would take the full one upstairs. But today he carried only a paper bag.

This terrified Travis. What was inside?

The soldering iron?

Something worse?

Standing over him, he studied Travis closely. "How do you feel?"

Like shit, you asshole, what do you think?

But he said, "Okay."

"You're weak?"

"I guess."

"But you've been eating."

A nod. Don't ask him why he's doing this. You want to, but don't. It's like the biggest mosquito bite in the world. You have to scratch it; but don't. He's got the soldering iron.

"You can walk?"

"I guess."

"Good. Because I'm giving you a chance to leave."

"Leave? Yes, please! I want to go home." Tears popped into Travis's eyes.

"But you have to earn your freedom."

"Earn it? I'll do anything… What?"

"Don't answer too quickly," the man said ominously. "You might choose not to."

"No, I'll-"

"Shh. You can choose not to do what I'm going to ask. But if you don't, you'll stay here until you starve to death. And there'll be other consequences. Your parents and brother will die too. There's somebody outside their house right now."

"Is my brother okay?" Travis asked in a frantic whisper.

"He's fine. For now."

"Don't hurt them! You can't hurt them!"

"I can hurt them and I will. Oh, believe me, Travis. I will."

"What do you want me to do?"

The man looked him over carefully. "I want you to kill somebody."

A joke?

But the kidnapper wasn't smiling.

"What do you mean?" Travis whispered.

"Kill somebody, just like in that game you play. DimensionQuest. "

"Why?"

"That doesn't matter, not to you. All you need to know is if you don't do what I'm asking, you'll starve to death here, and my associate will kill your family. Simple as that. Now's your chance. Yes or no?"

"But I don't know how to kill anybody."

The man reached into the paper bag and took out a pistol wrapped in a Baggie. He dropped it on the bed.

"Wait! That's my father's! Where did you get it?"

"From his truck."

"You said my family's fine."

"They are, Travis. I didn't hurt him. I stole it a couple of days ago, when they were asleep. Can you shoot it?"

He nodded. In fact, he'd never fired a real gun. But he'd played shooting games in arcades. And he watched TV. Anybody who watched The Wire or The Sopranos knew enough about guns to use one. He muttered, "But if I do what you want, you'll just kill me. And then my family."

"No, I won't. It's better for me if you're alive. You kill who I tell you to, drop the gun and run. Go wherever you want. Then I'll call my friend and tell him to leave your family alone."

There was a lot about this that didn't make sense. But Travis's mind was numb. He was afraid to say yes, he was afraid to say no.

Travis thought of his brother. Then his mother. An image of his father smiling even came to mind. Smiling when he looked at Sammy, never at Travis. But it was a smile nonetheless and seemed to make Sammy happy. That was the important thing.

Travis, did you bring me M's?

Sammy…

Travis Brigham blinked tears from his eyes and whispered, "Okay. I'll do it."

Even without the benefit of excessive lunchtime Chardonnay, Donald Hawken was feeling maudlin.

But he didn't care.

He rose from the couch where he'd been sitting with Lily and embraced James Chilton, who was entering the living room of his vacation house in Hollister, carrying several more bottles of white wine.

Chilton gripped him back, only mildly embarrassed. Lily chided her husband, "Donald."

"Sorry, sorry, sorry." Hawken laughed. "But I can't help it. The nightmare's over. God, what you've been through."

"What we've all been through," Chilton said.

The story of the psycho was all over the news. How the Mask Killer wasn't the boy but was really some crazy man who'd been trying to avenge a posting that Chilton had put on his report several years ago.

"And he was actually going to shoot you on camera?"

Chilton lifted an eyebrow.

"Jesus our Lord," said Lily, looking pale-and surprising Hawken, since she was a professed agnostic. But Lily, like her husband, was a bit tipsy too.

"I'm sorry about that boy," Hawken said. "He was an innocent victim. Maybe the saddest victim of all."

"Do you think he's still alive?" Lily wondered.

"I doubt it," Chilton said grimly. "Schaeffer would have to kill him. Leave no traces. I'm heartsick about it."

Hawken was pleased he'd rejected the request-well, from that Agent Dance it had almost been an order -to go back to San Diego. No way. He thought back to those dismal days when Sarah had died and James Chilton had sped to his side.

This is what friends did.

Breaking the pall that had descended, Lily said, "I've got an idea. Let's plan a picnic for tomorrow. Pat and I can cook."

"Love it," Chilton said. "We know this beautiful park nearby."

But Hawken wasn't through being maudlin. He lifted his glass of Sonoma-Cutrer. "Here's to friends."

"To friends."

They sipped. Lily, her pretty face crowned with curly golden hair, asked, "When're they coming up? Pat and the kids?"

Chilton glanced at his watch. "She left about fifteen minutes ago. She'll pick the boys up from camp. Then head up here. Shouldn't be too long."

Hawken was amused. The Chiltons lived close to one of the most beautiful waterfronts in the world. And yet for their vacation house they'd chosen a rustic old place in the hills forty-five minutes inland, hills that were decidedly dusty and brown. Yet the place was quiet and peaceful.

Y ningunos turistas. A relief after summertime Carmel, filled to the gills with out-of-towners.

"Okay," Hawken announced. "I can't wait any longer."

"Can't wait?" Chilton asked, a perplexed smile on his face.

"What I told you I was bringing."

"Oh, the painting? Really, Don. You don't need to do that."

"It's not 'need.' It's something I want to do."

Hawken went into the guest bedroom where he and Lily were staying and returned with a small canvas, an impressionistic painting of a blue swan on a darker blue background. His late wife, Sarah, had bought it in San Diego or La Jolla. One day, while Jim Chilton was in Southern California to help after her death, Hawken had found the man staring at the painting admiringly.