MOLLY: I have a feeling Caleb will always remember this trip, but not for the reasons Devon believes. Rico—if that’s his real name—has obviously implemented phase one of his plan. We may not know what the entire plan is, but we know it can’t be good. Here’s another diary entry.

  7.2.5

  DIARY

  I slept hard. Woke up twice to cough, but I knocked out again as soon as I was done. It was the best night’s sleep I’d had in a long, long time. Prison is loud. Men snore, talk in their sleep, and make other even more unfortunate noises. You hear it all night long. The cabin was silent under its blanket of snow.

  I lay on my side now, staring at the cold fireplace. I should get a fire going, but I felt too lazy to do it. Devon wasn’t happy about putting me up, but what was he going to do? Throw me out in the cold? That’s the thing about civilized people. They want to be polite. Generally, you can push them pretty far before they crack, and by then, it’s usually too late. You’ve already got the upper hand.

  Speaking of upper hands, or winning hands, before he woke up was the time to stack the deck. I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. Question number one: What did I want?

  Chuck had a dream, a big dream with lots of zeros in it. I’d been willing to go along with it for a while, but that was no longer necessary. My needs were more modest: a car and enough cash to make a fresh start.

  Question two: what cards did I hold? I took inventory and decided I didn’t have enough. The element of surprise and freedom from the constraints of polite society weren’t enough.

  I pushed myself off the couch and wandered into the kitchen. In ten minutes or less, I’d armed myself with a very nice butcher knife and removed the rest of the sharp implements. I also rounded up glass bottles and anything that could be fashioned into a shiv without a ton of filing—which I’d notice.

  Next, I hit the bathroom and grabbed the aspirin and a bottle of peroxide. I didn’t know if either of those could be used to poison somebody, but why take a chance?

  The master bedroom hadn’t been slept in yet. I rummaged around through Devon’s suitcase and a backpack that sat next to it on the floor, but the most dangerous thing in either of those was a stupidly mongo flashlight. I took that and headed toward the living room. My gaze fell on the fireplace poker sitting next to the hearth. Now that was a weapon. I added it to my collection in the kitchen.

  The mudroom contained some useful things—an old pair of boots, a brown jacket hanging on a peg, and a box of plastic zip ties. I left the zip ties in the cupboard where I’d found them, put on the boots and jacket, took my stash outside, and glanced around. Where to hide it all?

  My gaze fell on an old kettle barbecue half buried in snow. It would do just fine. I opened it without knocking all the snow off its top, tossed the potential weapons inside, and closed the lid.

  Now for question number three: how to present my dilemma to Devon and help him understand why it would be in his own best interest to aid me?

  I walked inside, took off the jacket and boots, and lay down on the couch to ponder when the boy came peeking into the living room.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hello yourself,” I said. The kid slipped around the couch and stood by the fireplace. He didn’t talk. Just looked at me. “You hungry?” I said.

  He nodded.

  I stood and stretched like it was my first time off the couch that morning. “Let’s get some grub.”

  Caleb stared at me through serious eyes while I got the coffee going and pulled eggs and bread out of the fridge. He made me nervous. I wasn’t used to kids.

  Then I had a brainstorm. I found a quarter in my pocket and pretended to pull it out of his ear. That did it. He grinned like a Halloween pumpkin. He was still grinning when his daddy came into the kitchen looking like his hair was on fire. He must have slept later than he’d intended.

  “He got a quarter out of my ear,” Caleb told his dad.

  “A little magic trick I picked up as a kid,” I said.

  Devon seemed to relax a bit but started up on finding a tow truck and driving me to town a second later. When we sat down to eat, he pushed his phone across the table. I think he wanted me to start making calls. Instead, I checked the news. I almost got sick.

  They found Chuck. I’d thought it would take them longer. I didn’t think about helicopters. Stupid mistake. I could’ve covered him with brush like I did the car. Now they’d know which way I was headed, and they’d be all over this mountain like fleas on a mutt. My dream had just become a bit more complicated.

  MOLLY: When Rico said his wants were more modest than Chuck’s, I began to relax a little. Then he armed himself with a butcher knife, and my nerves started singing again. Neither the butcher knife nor the fact that the police have found Chuck’s body bode well for Devon. Let’s get back to his perspective and find out what happens next.

  7.2.6

  DEVON

  Devon’s eyes sprang open, and he sat up all in one motion. He had figured, somewhere around three in the morning, he wasn’t going to sleep. The stranger on the couch had been like a sliver in his finger. He’d worried it and worried it but couldn’t shake the throbbing discomfort. Apparently, he’d slept anyway.

  He glanced at the other bed, expecting to see Caleb, but his son was gone. A shot of anxiety hit his bloodstream like the first cup of coffee in the morning. He threw back the blankets and hurried into the living room.

  A child’s gasp sounded from the kitchen. Devon bolted through the doorway. Instead of seeing a fearful Caleb as he’d expected, his son’s eyes were bright, and a smile spread across his face.

  Caleb turned those eyes on Devon. “He got a quarter out of my ear.” He held up a coin.

  “A little magic trick I picked up as a kid,” Rico said.

  “That’s, that’s amazing.” Devon’s heartbeat slowed, and he glanced around the kitchen. Eggs bubbled in a frying pan on the stove, coffee filled the pot, and the scent of toast was in the air.

  “Hope you don’t mind.” Rico waved around the room with a spatula. “But your little guy woke up looking for breakfast.”

  Devon ran a hand over his short-cropped hair. “No, no. That’s great. Thanks.” He walked to the cupboard, took a cup and filled it with coffee. “Sorry I stayed in bed so late.”

  Devon sat at the table in a patch of sunlight streaming through the kitchen window. “Did you sleep okay?” The question was directed at Rico. “That couch⁠—”

  Rico cut him off with another wave of the spatula. “I was dead to the world.”

  Caleb’s nose wrinkled. “Like Grandpa Hank?” Grandpa Hank was Fiona’s deceased father. Rico cough-laughed.

  Devon put a hand over Caleb’s. “No. It’s just an expression. It means you slept really good.” He turned his attention to Rico as Caleb puzzled over that. “So, what’s the plan?”

  The toaster popped, and Rico busied himself with buttering toast and filling plates with eggs. Once they were all seated with food in front of them, Devon tried again. “Were you able to reach a tow company this morning?”

  Rico glanced at him from under his lashes. “I don’t have a phone.”

  “Oh, right.” Devon snorted a laugh. “I forgot.” He fished his cell from his sweatpants pocket and placed it on the table.

  Rico grabbed the phone, but tucked into his food like a starving man, head bowed low over his plate to create the shortest distance for the fork to shovel. He slowed down a long minute later to type something into the phone and read the results. His appetite seemed to leave him then. He set his fork down before finishing his food.

  Devon’s nighttime worries returned. He pushed his food around on his plate, appetite gone. “Thanks for breakfast.”

  Rico only grunted an answer. He was upset, and that made Devon upset. First order of the day, get rid of Rico.

  When he was done eating, Devon stood, picked up the empty plates, and carried them to the sink. “Want to make some calls while I clean up? I can drive you to your car, or home, or wherever you need to go after that.”

  Rico pushed his chair onto its rear legs, pulled a toothpick from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth. “About that. We need to talk.”

  A chill whispered over Devon’s skin. He froze for a long moment, then in the most casual voice he could muster said, “Don’t worry about putting me out. I’m on vacation. No agenda.”

  “I’m not worried, but unlike you, I do have an agenda.”

  Devon filled the frying pan with water, put it on the stove to warm and dried his hands on a towel before speaking. “Caleb, you done?”

  Caleb kicked his feet and nodded his head. Eggs and breadcrumbs dotted his face and pajama top. Devon wiped him down with a damp paper towel, lifted him from his seat and set him on his feet. “Why don’t you play with your puzzles. I’ll be there in a minute, and we can get dressed.”

  He waited until he heard Caleb’s footsteps disappear, then turned to Rico. “What’s your agenda?” His voice was cold.

  Rico moved the toothpick to the corner of his mouth with his tongue. “I wasn’t entirely forthright last night.”

  Devon waited.

  “I came here to see you.”

  Do you know what it’s like to lose a child? Myron’s words filled Devon’s head. “Why?” The word stumbled across his lips like a drunken man. He held up a hand. “No, don’t tell me.” Years of working in law had taught him it was better not to know some things.

  He left the kitchen in search of his wallet. This was about money. Rico was probably an old client, or new client of Myron’s. He’d hit hard times—a constant condition for most of these guys—-and Myron offered him free services or cash to shake Devon up. He didn’t believe Myron would order a kidnapping, or worse. Probably just wanted to scare Devon.

  Either way, this wasn’t personal for Rico. Why go to all the trouble of committing a crime when you could make money for doing nothing? Whatever Myron was paying this man, he would pay more.

  He entered the bedroom where Caleb sat on his bed busily building something from b bricks, took his wallet from the bedside table and returned to the kitchen. He gazed into Rico’s bloodshot eyes. “I’d like to pay for your car repairs. What do you think it’ll take to fix it?”

  Rico blinked several times. “That’s mighty generous of you.”

  Devon opened his wallet and took out a hundred and two twenties. “I know this isn’t enough, but it’s a start.” He threw it on the table.

  The stranger shifted the toothpick again but made no move to take the bills. “You’re right. It’s going to take a lot more than that to fix things.”

  Anger bubbled in Devon’s gut, mixing with the coffee and the eggs. “Instead of paying you, I could go to the cops.”

  Three things happened in such quick succession, they seemed simultaneous. Rico’s chair hit the floor. Devon’s arms were pinned to his sides. A knife—long, sharp, and deadly—was pressed to his throat.

  “No cops,” Rico said.

  Sweat broke out on Devon’s forehead. “All right. Calm down. No cops.”

  “I don’t want to hurt your boy.” Rico’s breath was hot and fetid against Devon’s face.

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Can we work together, then?”

  “Yeah, yeah. We can work together.”

  Rico’s grip loosened and the knife dropped. “Let’s go to town.”

  Devon rubbed his arms. “It’s Sunday. All I have access to is the ATM until tomorrow.”

  Rico seemed to ponder this for a long moment. “As long as you’re doing the best you can,” he said and headed for the door.

  Devon parked in front of the bank, exited the car, and opened the rear door where Caleb was buckled into his car seat.

  “No,” Rico said.

  “What do you mean, no?” Devon said.

  Rico gazed at the roof of the car showing the yellow of his eyes. “What does no usually mean?”

  “I’m not leaving Caleb here.”

  The stranger trained his eyes on Devon. “I think you are.” His voice was as cold as the day.

  Devon glanced at the ATM in the niche of the building, back at the car, then reached into the front seat and snagged the keys. Rico couldn’t go anywhere without the keys.

  The ground was frozen. Devon slid across the lot in his new hiking boots and almost went down but caught himself. The last thing he needed was an injury. He didn’t think it would come to it, but just in case, he needed to be fit enough to grab Caleb and make a run for it.

  He pulled his debit card from his wallet and stuck it in the machine. He walked through the prompts: Savings or checking? Checking. Deposit or withdrawal? Withdrawal. Amount? He paused.

  How much should he ask for? He didn’t want to set off any alarms by requesting too much, but he also wanted Rico to go away. If he got a couple of thousand, maybe he’d take it and leave.

  Devon punched in 5,000. Amount exceeds your maximum withdrawal.

  Damn it. He placed a hand on his head and rubbed his hair. How many tries would he get before they shut him out? Okay, okay. He’d try for a grand from this account and a grand from the savings account.

  He changed the withdrawal amount to $1,000 and held his breath. It worked. A pile of hundred-dollar bills appeared in the plastic window.

  Would you like another transaction?

  Yes, yes he would. He hit savings, withdrawal, and put in $1,000 again.

  You have reached your daily withdrawal limit.

  “What?” He tried again but got the same message. His massaged his forehead. “Think, think.”

  He could get cash at the grocery store, but how much would they give him? A hundred? Two hundred? Not enough to make a difference. He had the money to make this problem go away, if only he could get to it. He shoved the bills into his jacket pocket and felt something solid.

  An image of cutting tree branches the day before with Caleb emerged in his mind. His pocketknife. Comfort warmed him like whiskey. He had a knife. It wasn’t big, but he kept it sharp.

  He slid behind the wheel and handed the wad of bills to Rico, being careful not pull the knife out along with the money. “It’s all I could get.”

  The stranger counted the cash, and a dark cloud covered his face. “A thousand? You only got a thousand? I thought you were a big money man.”

  “It’s all the machine would give me.”

  Rico raised his voice. “Man if you’re—” He broke into a coughing fit.

  Devon rolled the windows down. “Can’t you take that outside?”

  His answer was a deeper, painful sounding paroxysm.

  “Stick your head out the window, Caleb,” Devon ordered, but Caleb had nodded off. Cars were like sleeping pills to his son.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Devon asked.

  Rico breathed heavily for a moment before answering. “Cigarettes.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a smoker’s cough to me.”

  “What are you, a doctor?”

  Devon didn’t bother answering. He sat listening to the labored breathing of the man beside him, and a prickle of nerves ran up his arms. The situation struck fear into him.

  What could he do? He took in shallow breaths, illogically fearing deeper ones, and tried to slow his racing heart. Caleb should be okay. He’d read children rarely got the virus, and Devon had been vaccinated. They’d be fine.

  “Where can I drop you?” he asked.

  Rico raised an eyebrow. “I guess I’ll be staying with you until I can afford to... ” He paused. “Fix my car.”

  Devon closed his eyes. This was untenable. He couldn’t bear having this man in the cabin for another night. “I can send you the money.”

  Rico coughed, or laughed, Devon couldn’t tell which, but he didn’t bother responding.

  Devon’s phone rang as he started the ignition. It was Fiona. “I’d better get this. It’s my wife. She’ll worry if I don’t.”

  “Best you don’t mention me to Fiona,” Rico said. “She’ll want to leave your cozy house in Dana Point and come up here. That would be a mistake.”

  Devon stared at him. He’d uttered his wife’s name and the location of their home as threats. Even if Devon was able to escape, to take Caleb and run, Rico knew where Fiona was. He knew where they lived. The horror of that permeated his mind as he reached for his phone.

  7.2.7

  FIONA

  Fiona was awakened by a thunderclap on Sunday morning. Her eyes opened, and she had a moment of disorientation. Why was she on the couch? Why was Crackers coiled into a tight black ball next to her?

  She rolled her head from side to side and groaned. A sharp pain jabbed her in the neck, and the night before came rushing back. She’d tried to stand guard, or sit guard, but had nodded off.

  Crackers lifted his head without effort and gazed at her. There was hope in his eyes.

  “Want to go out?” she asked.

  His tail thumped against the cushions, and he leaped from his spot with a grace and ease she envied. Fiona pushed herself up with more effort. “You’re going to have to go out back. I’m not dressed for walking.”

  He followed her to the dining room. She slid aside the wide door that opened onto the backyard, and he stuck his head out. It was pouring. He hesitated, then ran for the shelter of a bougainvillea and did his business in record time.

  While he was outside, Fiona grabbed an old towel from the hall cupboard. She dried him when he came in again, and he wagged his gratitude. The two padded to the kitchen, and she set about making coffee.

  Why would you think the dog is grateful? The question came to her in Devon’s voice. The next thing he’d say was that she was anthropomorphizing. He’d find a book or a blog or a nature video that delved into the science of dog body-language, pack mentality, and canine instincts. He’d then explain—in that patient voice that made her itch—gratitude was a human construct, like love, or greed, or pride.