Brian Freeman - Thief River Falls

Lisa realized she had no idea what to do next. They had nowhere to go and no way to get there. They could run. They could take the bridge and cross the river into the park, but it wouldn’t take long for them to be caught out on foot once daylight broke over the town.

Then she heard a woman’s voice from the front of the house.

“Stop! Who’s out there? Turn around slowly, and keep those hands where I can see them!”

Lisa made sure Purdue was protected and invisible behind her. She turned around slowly, her arms in the air. A bright light erupted in her face, a flashlight pinning her like an escaped prisoner. This time, when the voice spoke again, she realized it was Shyla. The woman’s tone immediately relaxed.

“Lisa! Is that you? Are you okay? I heard a noise outside, and I don’t mess around when that happens.”

The porch light clicked on with a yellow glow. Lisa saw Shyla at the top of the steps with an AR-15 cradled in her arms, and she had no doubt that the rifle was loaded and ready to fire. Shyla was already fully dressed in camouflage and had hunting boots on her feet. She came down from the porch and marched across the driveway with the cool readiness of a soldier.

“You’re leaving already?” Shyla asked. “Now?”

“Yes. Sorry. Thank you so much for everything, but we have to get out of here.”

“What about your friend? The old guy?”

“It turns out he’s not really a friend.”

“Where is he?”

“In the backyard. Unconscious for now. I don’t want him to know where I’m going.”

“Well, where are you going?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure,” Lisa said. “Somewhere far away.”

Shyla looked as if she was trying to make sense of the expression on Lisa’s face. “You still haven’t told me what’s going on.”

“If I knew, Shyla, I’d tell you. I don’t. I just know I need to get away from Thief River Falls as fast as I can.”

“You won’t get far on foot,” Shyla said. “You need wheels.”

She hiked past Lisa to the door of the garage, unlocked it, and threw it open. The light came on, illuminating the blue sports car inside. Shyla dug in her pants for a set of keys and tossed them to Lisa, who caught them on the fly.

“Take the Camaro,” Shyla said. “It’s free, and it’s fast.”

“Are you sure?”

Shyla shrugged. “I never drive it. Get it back to me when you can. Or keep it. I don’t care.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Shyla.”

“Hey, I owe you,” she replied. Then she put a hand on Lisa’s shoulder. “Be straight with me — are you in some kind of trouble? You’ve got the look of someone who isn’t safe. I know that look, because I’ve been there myself.”

“You’re right. I don’t think I’m safe.”

“Then let’s make sure you can fight back.”

Shyla opened the driver’s door of the Camaro and leaned inside to pop the trunk. She went over to the arsenal on her back wall and took down two weapons, a semiautomatic pistol and an AR-15, which she put in the trunk without a word. Then she unlocked a large cabinet in the corner of the garage and gathered up several magazines of ammunition for both guns. She loaded those in the trunk, too, and slammed it shut.

“You know how to use these?” Shyla asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay, good. I hope you don’t have to.”

“Thank you, Shyla. I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. Just stay alive, and stay safe. Now go.”

Curtis cupped the back of his head. His fingers came away with a cold, sticky mess of blood. His entire skull throbbed, pulsing with each heartbeat like a hammer rapping against bone.

He supported himself against a tree as he tried to stay standing, and he watched the taillights of the Camaro as Lisa drove away. The woman, Shyla, locked the garage door. He could see her in the glow of the porch light. She stared right back at him, although he wasn’t sure if she could actually see him where he stood in the darkness. Shyla had an AR-15 in her arms, level and ready to fire, and Curtis had no interest in waiting around to see what she did with it. He backed up into the yard and then staggered toward the cross street. When he got there, he sank to his knees and threw up. Then he limped away down the icy street, leaving Shyla Dunn and her guns behind him.

He was alone on the road and still a long hike from Pennington Avenue. The houses on either side were dark. No one was awake.

Curtis retrieved his phone from his pocket and dialed.

“It’s me,” he said. “Change of plans.”

“What do you mean, change of plans? I just talked to you. What the hell is going on?”

County Attorney Denis Farrell had the raspy, impatient voice of someone who hadn’t slept all night and wasn’t in the mood for unpleasant surprises. Curtis had known Farrell for years. He didn’t like him much, but Farrell also wasn’t the kind of man he wanted to cross.

“Lisa’s gone,” Curtis told him.

“Gone? You were supposed to watch her! You were supposed to keep her under control!”

“I know, but she heard me talking to you. She heard what we were planning at the airport. She hit me and took off. You need to get someone out here to pick me up. My head hurts like hell.”

“All right, all right, quit whining. I’ll have someone out there in a few minutes. How did Lisa get away? On foot?”

“No. The woman gave her a car. It’s a blue Camaro with black racing stripes. I don’t remember the license plate, but the thing shouldn’t be too hard to spot.”

“Where do you think she’ll go?”

“She wanted to leave town to protect the boy, so I assume that’s still what she’ll try to do. She’ll probably head to the Cities.”

“All right, I’ll talk to the sheriff and get patrols out to watch the roads,” Farrell replied. “We’ll find her before she’s out of the county.”

“You better hang on, Denis. This thing is a lot more complicated now. Your men need to take it easy.”

“Why?”

“I’m pretty sure Lisa is armed. I told you, this Shyla woman is a walking billboard for the NRA. I think she loaded Lisa up with weapons before she left. Your people need to be prepared.”

“What kind of weapons are we talking about?” Farrell asked.

“Shyla had everything. Pistols. Shotguns. Assault rifles. Heavy-duty stuff.”

Farrell was silent for a long time. “I cannot believe this.”

“Well, believe it,” Curtis told him. “You can’t just pull her off the road and expect this to go well. I listened to how Lisa talks about that boy. As far as she’s concerned, she’ll die to keep him safe and away from us. She isn’t giving up without a fight.”

Denis Farrell put down the phone. He missed corded phones, which you could slam into their cradle.

He pushed back the chair from behind his desk and labored to stand up. His walking stick leaned against the bookshelves, and he grabbed it for support. Over his head, beams groaned in the old house as his wife, Gillian, paced back and forth in their bedroom. Neither one of them had slept. Gillian probably had a drink in her hand, the way she’d had for the last twenty-four hours.

For a man whose whole life was about control, the current situation for Denis was intolerable. He needed someone to blame, someone to be the target of his wrath and rage. Now he had it. Everything that had gone wrong in the past day was the fault of Lisa Power.

“That was your husband,” Farrell told Laurel March. “He screwed up.”

Laurel sat in a wooden chair on the other side of the desk, with the yellow glow of a brass lamp lighting her up. Otherwise, the office was gloomy, filled with long shadows. Her face bloomed with concern, and she leaned forward in the chair.