Kate stared at the clock. Three-thirty and still no word from Jon. She’d called the sheriff, but Swanson wasn’t interested. Not until Jon had been missing for twenty-four hours. The police in town were no more anxious to help her. The school hadn’t seen him. Daegan had gone out searching for Jon but hadn’t found hide nor hair of the boy. She drummed her fingers on the counter and thought she’d go mad with worry. Outside the snow continued to fall, and as night was approaching, she could only wonder where he was, with whom, doing what? She’d called all his friends once they were home from school, but no one had seen him all day. Daegan had even driven over to the Neider place, but no one was home. “He’ll be all right,” Daegan said, standing at the window and staring toward the end of the lane. Kate had wanted to throw him out, to tell the liar to just leave and let her worry about her boy. But the lines of strain on his face, the way he’d called his travel agent and changed his flight, convinced her that he cared, if only a little. And she liked having him around, damn it, even if she did feel a little like a weak woman who was finding her strength from his. He’d made coffee for her, built a fire, taken Roscoe and Houndog and searched the places where he’d expected a boy to hole up. And now they waited. The phone rang and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Dashing to the kitchen, she picked up the receiver before the second ring. “Hello?” she said and met Daegan’s dark gaze. Though he was still in the living room, she could see the worry in his eyes. “Kate?” Laura’s voice sang over the wires. “Are you all right? You sound breathless.” “It’s Jon. He’s missing.” She shook her head at Daegan, silently communicating that there was no news about her boy. “I—I can’t tie up the phone too long in case he calls.” Quickly she told her sister what had been going on, only holding back on her in volvement with Daegan. To think that while Jon was missing, she was making love in the snow to Daegan... When she was finished, there was a weighty pause on the other end of the line. “Maybe this isn’t a good time for me to give you my news,” she said. “What news?” “About Daegan O’Rourke.” Kate’s gaze flew to the living room, where Daegan was standing glaring out at the dark sky. Her heart pounded with dread. Not now, oh, please not now! “Tell me,” she said, her insides already beginning to shred. “Okay, but it’s not pretty. It turns out that the Daegan O’Rourke from Montana did grow up in Boston, the son of Mary Ellen O’Rourke and Frank Sullivan. Mary Ellen was Frank’s mistress and he, being already married, didn’t divorce his wife. Instead he k ept Mary Ellen as his mistress in a small apartment over some dive of a tavern.” Kate’s heart twisted for the little boy Daegan had been, but fear curled in her heart. Who was this man? What did he want? Was he the criminal— Jon’s natural father? “Anyway, Frank Sullivan’s a real bad egg, the worst. Treated Daegan like he didn’t exist.” “You found all this out through records?” Oh, God, now what? She loved Daegan, trusted him, believed in him. A part of her began to wither as quickly as a flower in the desert.
“Nah, I dug around a little bit on my free time. I have a friend who’s a PI who used to work for the police d epartment as a detective. She did some snooping and this is what we came up with.” Kate swallowed back her dread and listened. “Anyway this kid—Daegan O’Rourke—was really messed up and tried to shoot his old man once, but the shot went wild and the Sullivans managed to swe ep it all under the rug—nothing in the papers, no charges filed.” “None?” “That’s right. A while later the legitimate Sullivan offspring got together with their bastard cousin and the fireworks really started.” Kate leaned against the cupboard for support. Her palms were sweating, her mind racing with images of Daegan teaching Jon to ride a horse, showing him how to box, lying above her ready to make love in the middle of a snowstorm. As if sensing something was wrong, Daegan gave up his post and walked to the kitchen. He was reaching for the coffe epot when his hand stopped in midair, and as if by silent communication, he divined the tenor of her conversation. Laura continued blithely on, unaware that Kate held Daegan’s stare and noiseless messages were being passed. “O’Rourke and his cousin Stuart got into a huge fight, though no one apparently knows or remembers why. Knives and a crowbar were in volved, and Stuart, the heir apparent to the Sullivan fortune, ended up dying on the docks before the police, whom O’Rourke had called, showed up.” Kate’s blood turned to ice water and she hardly was able to look at the man she’d so recently given her body. “Who is it?” Daegan demanded. Laura wasn’t finished. “Once again O’Rourke got off for lack of evidence or something. Again, no charges filed. Then he disappeared. Left Boston for good.” “How’d you find this out?” Kate asked. “If there was nothing in the papers...?” “My friend talked to one of the employees in Frank Sullivan’s household. Then he looked up O’Rourke’s mother, Mary Ellen. She wasn’t too happy about it, but admitted that the last time she’d heard from Daegan, he was in some small town in Montana.” “Oh, God.” “The guy’s bad news, Kate. I was wrong about him.” “And why is he interested in Jon?” Kate asked, her blood rushing in her ears, her world tipping precariously. “I don’t know. I think you’d better ask him.” “Thanks, Laura, I will,” Kate said. “So call me when you find Jon,” Laura said, her voice edged in worry. “And let me know what kind of game O’Rourke’s playing.” “As soon as I find out.” Kate hung up and tried to contain the rage that gnawed at her gut. Daegan had lied to her, lied to Jon, and used them both. Over and over again. As if their feelings were meaningless.
“What do you want from me?” she asked as she advanced on him and looked into eyes as dark as obsidian. “And what have you done to my son?” “Nothing.” “Who are you?” she demanded, then let the dam break. Pointing to the phone, she said, “That was my sister, Laura. She told me all about you, how you’re related to some Sullivan family, how you ended up here. I just don’t know why!” Daegan’s eyes squeezed closed for an instant, and he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “You lied to me. To Jon!” she accused him, barely able to voice the words. “I’m sorry.” “Why, Daegan?” “Because I’m Jon’s father.” The room seemed to shrink, his admission bouncing off the ever-closer walls. Kate had trouble catching her breath. She loved this man? This liar? This man who had tried to kill his own father and probably did murder his cousin? The stranger who had stalked her and her boy. Jon’s father! “You’re not, you couldn’t be...” she whispered but she felt the truth as surely as if he’d driven a stake in her heart. “I didn’t believe it either. But it’s true.” “Why would I believe you? First you’re single, then you’re married and divorced with a son, and now you’re Jon’s father.” “I’m single, never married, and Jon’s my boy.” The words ricocheted through the house as if they were bullets from a rifle. “I can’t... I don’t...” She wasn’t making any sense, couldn’t think straight. Finally the one question that was important formed in her mind. “Where is he?” “I don’t know.” “Where, damn it?” she demanded, nearly hysterical. “I want to find him as much as you do.” “So you can take him away from me!” Raw emotion tore through her, and she wanted to hit and scream, to wound him. She flung herself at him, ready to do physical damage, but his arms circled her, strong and protective, and she couldn’t do anything more than sob wretchedly and strike his shoulder with a weak fist. “I wouldn’t do that,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “Like hell!” Horrified that she’d fallen into his trap again, she pushed away from him and her fears gave way to fury. His jaw tightened and he tried to touch her, to lay a calming hand on her shoulder, but she backed quickly away, standing on one side of the table, he on the other. “Who are you, you son of a bitch, and what do you want?”
He raked his hands through his hair, then poured two cups of coffee. “Okay, Kate, I suppose you deserve the truth.” “I deserved it from the first time I met you.” He handed her a cup, which she ignored, then walked into the living room to warm the backs of his legs against the fire. As she sat rigidly on the edge of the couch, he explained everything, from the time Bibi had given him the news to yesterday when he’d decided to go back to Boston and have it out with his uncle to protect Kate and Jon. She wanted to believe him, to think that there was a small streak of nobility in his heart, but she didn’t. Even all the attention he lavished on Jon was for his own ulterior motives. Nothing he did was anything but selfish. The fact that Daegan had conceived a son with his cousin didn’t bother her nearly as much as the thought that now Jon had two biological parents, one who wanted him desperately, the other who preferred he never show up. Her ears were still ringing, her head pounding in pain, as she listened to Daegan and wished she could hate him. It would be so much easier to feel nothing but loathing and abhorrence for this man who had taken her love and abused it. Rage was a much safer emotion than despair. “So I’m afraid I underestimated this investigator Robert hired— Van Horn. He probably snatched Jon and it’s my fault,” Daegan admitted. “I must’ve led him here. I should never have stayed as long as I did, it wasn’t part of the plan, but then I met you and... Oh, hell, I got caught up in something I had no right to.” Her heart constricted. “So—where is Jon?” “If Neils has him, and since he hasn’t come home that’s a real possibility, then he’s on his way back to Boston, to Robert.” Kate was off the couch in a second. “Then what are we waiting for? We should call the FBI and go—” She saw the sheriff’s car rolling through the powdered snow covering her drive. Her heart leaped. Maybe Daegan had been wrong. Maybe the police had found Jon... But a lone d eputy slid from the interior and slogged his way to the front porch. Kate was already at the door. “Ms. Summers?” “Yes.” He was tall and dark skinned with a black moustache and a grim expression. “D eputy Brown,” he said in a short introduction. Her hopes plummeted and she was suddenly scared. More scared than she’d ever been in her life. Had Jon been hurt... or worse. “Have you found my son?” “Not yet, but an anonymous tip came into the office. Someone claims to have seen your son with Daegan O’Rourke. He moved into the—” “I know who he is,” Kate said, st epping away from the door, allowing the d eputy to enter and motioning to Daegan, whose every muscle was tense. His eyes collided with that of the law. “He’s here now.” “Someone called in and said they’d seen you with the boy early this morning, Mr. O’Rourke. A little before eight, driving west.” “A lie.” “You were—?”
“At home, feeding the stock. I got over here just after eight, I think, and been here ever since.” “That... that’s true,” Kate added. The d eputy rubbed the back of his neck. “Anyone see what time you left your place?” “No.” Kate’s heart was hammering. The d eputy couldn’t be serious... or could he? Hadn’t she, herself, accused Daegan of knowing where Jon was? “Maybe you’d like to come down and make a statement,” D eputy Brown suggested. “Just so we can clear this up.” “I don’t think, I mean Daegan’s been here with me...” she protested, wondering why she was protecting a man who had no heart, no soul. A man who would use her as well as his own son. For all she knew, he could’ve been sent by Robert Sullivan, and this Neils Van Horn character was just a figment of his imagination. But she didn’t believe it. Daegan was too passionate, too caring. He loved Jon. He loved her... or did he? “I’m just doin’ my job,” the d eputy reminded her. “You’re the one who r eported that your boy was missing.” He turned his attention back to O’Rourke. “Now, just for the record, you’re saying you haven’t seen the boy today.” “That’s right,” Daegan said through tight, flat lips. “And you’ve got a ranch in Montana, but originally hailed from Boston, right?” Daegan hesitated a heartbeat. “Y ep.” “And a long time ago you were the primary suspect in an unsolved murder case, the victim being your cousin Stuart Sullivan?” A tic developed at the corner of Daegan’s jaw. “You’d have to ask the Boston police about that.” For the first time D eputy Brown smiled. “We have,” he said in a voice that was oily as contaminated water. “I think you’d better come with me...” Jon strained against the metal handcuffs, tears stinging his eyes at the pain caused by the harsh manacles digging into his raw skin. If only he could collapse his fingers a millimeter more, roll his thumb into his palm a bit tighter. Getting out of these cuffs was the first st ep to surprising the slimy man named Van Horn—Jon had gotten a glimpse of the name on his credit card when he’d pulled it out at a gas pump—and es caping. “Hey, take it easy,” Van Horn called to the back of the van, his beady eyes flashing in the rearview mirror. “Who do you think you are— Houdini?” He snickered, as if he’d just cracked a hysterically funny joke. Asshole. Jon stopped pulling on the cuffs and gritted his teeth. What a fool he’d been, falling into the smarmy guy’s trap. Ever since the man had closed him into the van, Jon had been watching and waiting, poised for es cape. But in two days and nights trapped in the van and chained to the bed in a cheap motel room, his chance never came. Van Horn was always careful to lock him up to the metal grating in the back of the van. Even when they stopped to take a piss, the cre ep stood behind Jon, gun pointed at his back to ke ep him from bolting. Jon figured the man would slip up soon, as he’d been driving over forty-eight hours without sle ep. Van Horn’s once-clean shaven jaw was mottled with blond stubble and his eyes were starting to sag.
The man was ripe for a mistake. And the moment he slipped, Jon would strike. Somehow, he would es cape. He had to get away, because the alternative... He didn’t want to think about the man chasing him... the killer of his nightmares. He took a de ep breath against the wave of sickness that made him sag against the dark glass of the van’s windows. Although he was too exhausted to be terrified at this point, every muscle in his body was cramped and the burger he’d been given from the fast-food drive-through now burned in his gut like a ball of flame. He stared out the passenger window and noted the acres of wire fences and frosted, plowed-over fields that stretched across the flat horizon. From the road signs, he figured he was in Ohio somewhere, though he never was very good at geography, and exc ept for the lack of hills, the miles of farmland out here didn’t look much different from the countryside back home. Home. It was hard to believe he could be so desperate to get back to Oregon, back to the life he hated, but then the instinct to survive was a strong one. Even when all the odds were against you. As they seemed to be now with this lowlife private detective “returning” Jon to his legal family. A clan of rich people back East, according to Van Horn. That was about as much information as Jon had gotten out of the man, who’d shut down when Jon had asked him what kind of parents would have their own son kidnapped at gunpoint. Now, with Van Horn’s energy fading, Jon figured it might be a good time to get the guy talking again. “You know, you could let me go right now and no one would have to know anything,” he said, pressing his face to the grill of the divider behind Van Horn’s head. Jon had seen some true crime shows on TV that showed victims who had actually gotten away by talking firmly with their captors. He figured it was worth a shot. “Drop me at a train station or a bus d epot or something, and no one would be the wiser. I’ll ke ep my mouth shut. I can say you k ept me blindfolded.” “Sure, kid.” Van Horn’s grin was almost jovial. “I’ll just drop you off and turn away a bundle of money. Why don’t I just find the nearest airport and you can fly home, first-class?” he snorted. “Thing is, you’ll be flying first-class once you hook up with your real family. First-class all the way, with their kind of money. Believe me, you’ll thank me when you get a load of them.” “My real family is back in Oregon,” Jon said, thinking of Kate’s dark brown eyes, the way her forehead crinkled when she worried about something. The way she hummed when she baked in the kitchen. He ached to be back there now, safe at home. “Not so, kid. Kate Summer’s not your mother, remember? That adoption was as phony as a three-dollar bill. You knew that, right?” Van Horn’s eyebrows elevated in mock surprise. “No?” Jon swallowed hard. “I don’t care if it was legal,” he lied. “Ooh, got to respect the law,” Van Horn said. “Because, and here’s the thing, if Kate Summers actually isn’t your mother, then she kidnapped you years ago. So what I’m doing now? It’s not kidnapping, per se. I’m just a Good Samaritan bringing a boy home to his real family.” “Yeah, right.” Jon’s voice was flat. “My parents who decide they need me fifteen years later.” “Don’t start getting all warm and fuzzy about your long-lost parents,” Van Horn said. “They’re not in the picture anymore.”
“Then who’s paying you to do this?” Jon asked in disbelief. “Your fat-cat granddad, for one. He wants you to come and rule the family empire. Of course, there’s another bidder in the auction. Your sweet Aunt Alicia. She wants to see you out of the running as heir to the family fortune. Seems your existence screws up her kid’s chances of inheriting the family fortune. Too bad you were born a boy.” Jon squinted, shaking his head. “What the hell are you talking about?” “Elimination. You ever studied history, kid? Do you know how Henry VIII got rid of some of those bothersome wives?” A thread of panic se eped into Jon’s veins at the thought. “He killed two of them.” He pretended not to care. “So what...? Are you going to kill me?” “Nah... I’m just delivering you to the highest bidder,” Van Horn said casually. “I’ll have you know, I never killed a man. But I have done some damage, messed some guys up pretty bad.” He wrenched his neck around to glare at Jon face-to-face. “Which is what I’ll do to you if you ever cross me, kid.” Jon’s throat went dry at the blatant threat, and his mind opened to the image of running from the man. Running, running... Racing through the dark streets, his sneakers slapping against the wet pavement, his heart pounding in his chest. Running from a killer... “You’re a fucking liar,” Jon said, shivering despite the heat blasting from the front seat of the van. “Do ya think?” Van Horn just lifted his eyes to the rearview mirror, his stare as cold as ice. “Maybe I am, kid. Maybe I am.” The plane landed with a jolt as the first rays of morning were visible in the eastern sky. Kate’s throat caught as she realized she was finally back in Boston, the city where it all started. The flight had been long and nerve- wracking, not because of turbulence or any delays. No, her worries had been focused on her son and the man she’d so recently loved. Jon had been gone over two days and a cre eping sense of panic clutched at her throat. She couldn’t lose him, not now. Not ever. She didn’t know Robert Sullivan, couldn’t imagine what the man had planned for her son, but she was bound and determined that she’d find out. Rather than contact him by phone and let him have the chance to hang up on her or flee, she planned to meet him face to face in his own home, and she wasn’t about to leave until she had answers. Laura was expecting her, and thankfully her sister had done a little more digging, determining that Robert Sullivan usually spent most of his workdays at his office, sometimes stopped off at his club for a drink or dinner or workout, but was always home by nine in the evening. Tonight he’d have company. For a second as the decelerating jet screeched down the runway, she thought of Daegan, just as she had all during the flight, but she wouldn’t let her wayward mind dwell on him. He’d callously used her and toyed with Jon’s emotions. Under the guise of the friendly neighbor, he’d burrowed his way into her home as well as her heart. He’d admitted to flattening her tire, to lying about his need to use her phone that first week, to wanting to get to know her because of Jon. But he did save Jon from Todd. He did teach him to ride.
He did laugh so de eply the mountains seemed to ring. He did touch her as no man, not even Jim, had. And there was a slight chance that she could be pregnant with his child. “No,” Kate whispered though the thought wasn’t unpleasant. She’d always wanted another baby, and she was more than willing to raise that baby on her own. The plane taxied to the gate, and she unbuckled her seat belt. Through the small window she watched snow fall from a pewter-colored sky while a ground crew scurried under the belly of the plane. She grabbed her single piece of carry-on luggage and filed with the rest of the passengers into the behemoth that was Logan International Airport. Soon, she’d face the grandfather of her son—the rich self-serving son of a bitch who had done everything he could to get rid of Jon fifteen years ago and now wanted him back. Her fingers tightened over the handle of her bag, and cold determination steeled her. No one was going to take her son away. Not even Robert damned Sullivan. There was no disputing the fact that Jon Summers would be killed. In Alicia’s mind, the only issue that remained was how best to get the job done. The question had thrummed in her mind for days, ever since she’d planted the seed in Van Horn’s puny brain. She had expected the man to take on the task, baited by the promise of a tumble in the sack, but Van Horn, like most men, had proved disappointing. Alicia Sullivan Mc Givens let out an exhausted breath and rolled away from her husband, Bryan, who was hogging the sheets again, damn him. How difficult would it be to kill a person? Really... how hard could it be? Just make sure he was dead and get rid of the body... as easy as that. And when the victim was a naive fifteen-year- old, he would certainly be unsuspecting, especially when it came to a woman like Alicia. Not that Alicia relished the thought of snuffing out a life. She’d always recoiled at having to smash a spider in Wade’s room or, God forbid, swat a fly. The crunch of their fat insect bodies sickened her, and the dark stain left behind on the woodwork was so disgusting. How much worse would it be to kill a person? Not that Bibi’s bastard was destined to make any great contribution to humanity. Really. An orphan child growing up in some godforsaken pasture out West? His intelligence was probably on par with the pigs rolling in the muddy pigpen. Didn’t Van Horn say the boy had been raised out in the middle of nowhere? A hillbilly misanthrope. Too bad old Robert hadn’t left well enough alone. In any case, she had come to think of the bastard boy as not so much a human being who mattered as a nonperson, a family problem, an obstacle to Wade’s success. With the bastard under Robert’s wing, the whole chain of inheritance— everything Alicia had worked so hard for—would be ruined. Currently, without a male heir on Robert’s side, the fortune would fall to Frank, then to Collin, who would certainly never have children. Which left her beloved Wade next in line for the Sullivan mantle. My Little Lord Fauntleroy, she thought, clasping her hands under one cheek as an image of her apple-cheeked prince danced in her head. Well, she wasn’t about to let the bastard get in the way of Wade’s future.
Her son was the crown prince of the Sullivan dynasty, and he was going to rise to power and wealth without this traitor in his kingdom. Which meant someone would have to get rid of the bastard. How hard could it be? She’d spent the last few nights in bed, staring at the crown moldings overhead and fantasizing over the perfect murder as Bryan lay softly snoring beside her. She’d seen enough detective shows to know the pitfalls of murder, the stupid ways people got themselves caught and convicted. Fingerprints, blood and hair samples left behind in cars, witnesses... and motive. Well, it would be hard to tie her to the bastard, especially since she had never seen his face, never been seen with him. And she would ke ep it that way. She hated to dirty her hands, but if Neils Van Horn was going to wimp out on her, she would get the job done. Hiring another private investigator or some sordid contract killer would only widen the path of evidence and cost her another chunk of her son’s inheritance. No, she didn’t need some low-life blabbermouth out there owning a sensitive piece of information about her. It wouldn’t be fitting for the mother of a future CEO, governor, perhaps even president. If she had to, she would do it herself. Neils could deliver the bastard to the summer house, blindfolded, of course. If the bastard was bound as well, it would be a piece of cake. She could loosen him up by lacing some of her tranquilizers into a nice soothing drink for him. Then, she would take him on a little lake cruise—after dark. The lake would be empty this time of year, and once she got out to the de epest part, it would be so easy to push him over the side. Of course, she’d need to attach some weights. A couple of those minibarbells she’d been training with would work—wiped clean of fingerprints. She wasn’t about to slip up and leave prints, and fortunately, this time of year, no one would question her wearing gloves. That settled it. Tomorrow night when she met with Van Horn, she would tell him to deliver the boy to the lake house and she would take care of the rest. What was that old adage? If you want something done right, do it yourself. She took a de ep, relaxing breath and felt soothed by the image of the bastard securely anchored to the bottom of the lake. Safely tucked away. Contented at the thought of all her problems buried in a watery grave, Alicia Mc Givens stretched out her legs amid the Egyptian cotton sheets, closed her eyes, and drifted off to sle ep. Boston. It was not the city Jon had seen in movies, not the place he’d imagined when he’d spoken to his aunt on the phone, but then, he didn’t think Laura lived in the rundown neighborhood Van Horn had brought him to when they’d checked into the Ivy Motel. Through the grimy window he’d gotten an occasional view of a dark alley lined with trash cans and the drab shingled building that backed up to the motel. This place was a hell-hole, made worse by the fact that he felt like he was sitting here on death row, waiting for Van Horn to sell him off to the “aunt” who wanted him dead. A sitting duck, that’s what he was. But not for long.
If he’d learned anything from Daegan, it was that he didn’t have to cower and take abuse... not from anyone. He was going to fight back, es cape, go to the police and Aunt Laura. If everything went according to plan, Van Horn would return to his room tonight to find cops waiting for him. That would be sweet. But first, he had to get the hell out of here. Reaching under the mattress, his fingers searched for the small bar of soap he’d tucked away when Van Horn wasn’t looking. It was something of a long shot, but with just one hand cuffed to the bed, he planned to soap his way out of the other manacle. Carefully, he used his free hand to douse his wrist with water from a bottle Van Horn let him ke ep by the bedside. The soap stung the abrasions on his skin as he worked it into a lather, but he winced and rubbed the bar over the inside of the cuff, trying to make it as slippery as possible. Then, it was a matter of collapsing his hand, pulling and tugging until the cuff tore into his bruised swollen skin, scraping and pulling despite the excruciating pain. He tried to block out the pain by reminding himself of the freedom ahead. Es cape from the man who was ready to sell him off like a slave; Van Horn had told him as much. “Well, boy,” Van Horn had said, cackling. “You’re my gold mine. I’m going to sell you off to the highest bidder. And no doubt that’ll be your auntie. She’s got everything to lose, and I enjoy doing business with her. Thing is, she’s promised me a few perks your old grandfather can’t offer, if you know what I mean.” And as Van Horn had begun to close the handcuff over Jon’s wrist that night, Jon had caught a glimpse into the man’s dark soul. “You won’t be safe in Mexico,” Jon had said. “What?” “Or Canada, either. You can’t sell me off to a killer and get away with it.” Van Horn’s mouth had dropped open a second. “How did you know...?” And he’d backed away warily, before he’d had a chance to crank the cuff closed to the tightest notch. Which was why Jon might have a chance to es cape now, despite the throbbing pain in his swollen wrist. As he pulled, it felt like he was going to shave the fingers right off his hands, but he couldn’t stop now, not with the cuff now squeezing the base of his thumb. Bracing himself against the dizzying pain, he pulled hard. With an agonized groan, the cuff slipped off. At last... he was free. With no time to lose, he unlocked the door and fled down the rickety st eps covered in rock salt, careful to avoid the icy edges. Not sure which way to run, he squeezed between two parked cars and bolted across the small motel parking lot. On the corner a handful of men gathered around a trash can fire, laughing as someone threw something in and stirred sparks in the night. Now that he was outside, the edginess of the neighborhood was more apparent, with its boarded-up windows, doors covered by wrought- iron gates, walls of graffiti, and cracked, peeling paint. He had to get out of here—fast. He hit the sidewalk running and didn’t slow when two headlights loomed down the dark street. Just a passing car.
Then why was it screeching to a stop beside him? The door flew open and Jon gasped as the familiar man emerged, his face red with fury. Van Horn. “What the hell are you doing?” Van Horn shouted. But Jon backed away and raced down the street, his shoes scraping over rock salt, his legs pumping. Run, run, run! Adrenaline shot through him as he tore through the dark streets, his sneakers slapping against the wet pavement. His heart pounded so hard he thought it would explode. Piles of dirty slush lined the unfamiliar streets. This city was so foreign to him... Exc ept that he’d dreamed of it. He knew this citys cape. He was living out his worst nightmares, but he had to run. Es cape from the killer. Behind him a siren wailed, and he plunged on, toward the lights, the music. Christmas music. “God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay...” Here the streets were better lit. Buildings gleamed with shiny glass windows, their doors adorned with wreaths and winking Christmas lights. It was the sort of neighborhood Aunt Laura might live in. The door of a pub opened, and laughter and music drifted out with two patrons. Jon had to lunge to the left to cut around them, though the couple didn’t seem to mind. A man walking his dog looked up and shook his head. “What’s your hurry, kid?” Running, Jon panted, the cold air fire in his lungs. From my killer. God, help me. “... to save us all from Satan’s power when we have gone astray...” Breathless, Jon glanced over his shoulder. No sign of his pursuer. He ducked into the doorway of a shop that was closed, trying to catch his breath and think. Reality didn’t have to mirror his vision. He could control the outcome, es cape Van Horn, get himself back home to Oregon. Right now he had to believe that. He was going to get away. Hearing only the animated conversation of two passing shoppers, he leaned out of the doorway. No sign of Van Horn. Feeling relieved but cautious, he st epped out and strode down the street behind the two women. I can do this, he thought, easily falling into st ep behind them. I can lose him and find the nearest police station... “Jon...” The voice slammed into his consciousness as a dark figure st epped out of the shadows of a store-front behind him. Oh, God! Cold steel pressed into his shoulder blade—the gun. The cold tip of the weapon stopped Jon in mid-stride as Van Horn’s thoughts flashed into his mind. He wants to kill me. He’s seriously considering squeezing the trigger.
Just kill the boy now and be done with this... “That’s where you’re wrong,” Jon said aloud. “If you shoot me now, you’ll never be done with this. You’ll be paying the rest of your life.” “Just shut up,” Van Horn said with a low growl. Jon felt something clamp on his shoulder—his jacket. Van Horn was using it to hide the gun. “You left without your jacket, son.” Van Horn’s voice oozed with paternal concern. Two women in hooded jackets and boots passed by unfazed, unable to smell Jon’s panic as they ducked into the door of a boutique strung with tiny white lights. “You can’t run around here without a coat,” Van Horn reiterated in a cheerful, booming voice. “You’ll catch your death of cold.” “It’s not a bad way to go,” Jon muttered under his breath as the pistol jabbed into his ribcage. Caught. Deflated. And running out of time.