Chapter 4

Faith hadn't visited the State Police Field Office since Jerry's death. Two stories high, its brick fa?ade and large tinted windows, not to mention the enormous antenna looming over it, gave the building an intimidating demeanor. Stepping through the door, the institutional smell brought back memories of visiting Jerry at work, only Jerry wasn't here anymore. The familiar, round face bearing down on her and wearing an encouraging smile belonged to Seth Malloy, Jerry's senior special agent.

Seth pulled her into a bear hug. "I need your signature before we can track Grayson's phone."

She stiffened. "Seriously? I thought you were doing that already."

"Sorry, Faith." He stepped away from him. "Gotta jump through the appropriate hoops, but you're here now, and the process won't take too long."

It was four o'clock in the afternoon. Grayson ought to have gotten off the bus an hour ago, only he hadn't. Nor had Faith waited for Olivia's bus to drop her off. Leaving the baby and Olivia both in Sonja's care and promising to pay her babysitter overtime, Faith had driven out here to assist the state police in finding her son.

In Seth's office, she signed a document giving him consent to monitor Grayson's cell phone. Seth promptly sent the request to their cell phone provider.

Then they waited. Seth filled the tense moment with chitchat. His wife was expecting their second child in February. He asked about Mary Mae and Olivia, then gently asked how Grayson was coping with his father's passing.

"It's been hardest on him than on anyone," Faith admitted.

Seth nodded, his expression sympathetic. "Any chance he may have run away?"

"I…I really don't know." It was galling to admit she had so little insight into her own son's thought processes.

"Well, that'd be a whole lot better than him being abducted, you know what I'm saying? Running away is a lot less glamorous than it seems. He might soon realize that and call you to come pick him up."

Faith shook her head. "I just don't think he would do that to me." Especially since she'd given up Fitz for him. "Plus, he would have told his friend, Cameron, and Cameron was the first person to tell me Grayson wasn't at school."

"Hmm." Seth sat back in his seat. "Well, if he's not found within twenty-four hours, the presumption is he was taken across state lines, at which point the FBI takes over."

Faith's stomach somersaulted at the mention of the FBI. Of course, Fitz would never get involved as he was a supervisor now.

Seth's cell phone rang, spiking Faith's blood pressure.

He snatched it up. "Chief Agent Malloy."

The frown that creased his forehead told Faith the news wasn't good. Her stomach knotted.

"Yes, please do that," he finally said, "as soon as possible." He hung up and sent Faith a pained look.

"That was my cell phone provider?"

"It was. Grayson's phone isn't online anymore, which means either he turned it off, it's lost its charge, or it was destroyed."

Faith felt the blood in her head drain toward her thumping heart.

Seth stretched out a hand and touched her arm. "Don't be discouraged. I've requested a trail. If the phone was on at any time, we'll know where. Hang tight, mama. We're going to find your boy."

* * *

Just calm down and use your head.

His father's voice was back. Grayson stopped ramming his shoulder into the door and stilled his racing thoughts. The first thing he needed to do if he was going to escape was to free his wrists. Hadn't his father taught him how to snap the plastic zip tie?

Thinking back, Grayson discovered the memory was still crisp. He dropped to the floor to untie both of his tennis shoes. Taking the inner lace on his right shoe, he painstakingly fed the tip through the cuff around his wrist. That was tricky part. Next, he tied that lace to the inner lace of his left shoe. A nice, sturdy knot was required. Rolling onto his back, he peddled his feet in the air which caused the laces to saw against the plastic restraint. Within seconds it snapped. Yes!

It took longer to undo the knot he'd made than to break the zip tie. He had to hurry. Brian could be home at any moment. Plus the seam of light framing the window had faded since the man's departure, telling Grayson it was getting late. He needed to escape now.

Clearly the door, a solid piece of wood, wasn't going to be his way out. That left the window. Crossing to inspect it, Grayson saw where the original pane of glass was broken, leaving ragged shards still sticking out of the frame. The plywood boarding up the window wasn't as sturdy as the door. He could tell by the air seeping in between the board and the frame that the nails keeping the board in place were spaced more than a foot apart.

Watch the glass. Get up on the edge of the bed and kick with your sole.

Grayson dragged the bed closer, then stood on the side railing for extra height while gripping the headboard for balance. He brought his right knee to his chest, then struck the board with his heel. The squeak of nails coming out encouraged him. He kicked again, this time breaking off a bit of the remaining glass.

The third kick resulted in a three-inch opening. Mellow sunlight filled the bedroom along with damp, chilly air that smelled of freedom. The distance to the ground made his stomach lurch. But his subsequent kicks brought the branches of the big tree into view. If he could grab hold of that thick branch there, he wouldn't have to jump.

Many kicks later, the board came off the window and sailed to the ground. Using his shoe, Grayson broke off the remaining glass before sticking his feet outside until he was sitting on the windowsill. He ducked his head under the frame and nearly pitched to the ground before catching himself.

You're okay, buddy. Get your bearings.

With shallow breaths, he took in his surroundings. This side of the house clearly faced south because the sun was to his right, shooting beams of gold through the distant trees and turning the western sky pink. On a main road to his left, he could see cars driving with their headlights already on. If he could make it to the road, he could flag someone down who might help him.

But first he had to get to the ground, and no way was he jumping. That left using the tree branch about three feet away. The tree itself offered plenty of limbs to climb down. Magnolia. The name of the tree came to him suddenly, as did a recent story of how Aunt Grace had jumped from the second-story window of a warehouse in Venezuela last summer. If she could do it, so could he.

Ready?Grayson inched his butt to the edge of the sill. Set. He pressed his heels against the side of the house. Go!

He launched himself, stretching out his arms and striking the knobby limb so hard, he nearly lost his grip. Hanging on for dear life, he managed to wrap his legs around it, making him instantly more secure. Then he began to slide and clamber toward the trunk. The sun had dropped out of view, making it harder to see the branches he encountered.

He was moving down the trunk, stepping from limb to limb, when the sound of Brian's car reached his ears. The corner of the house blocked his view, but its headlights burnished the dead, lumpy grass in the huge front yard. Fear prodded Grayson to move faster. The engine died, the lights went out, and the car door slammed.

Don't check on me. Don't check on me.

As Brian entered the house, Grayson reached the lowest branch and jumped. All at once, the light from the landing shone in the window he'd just escaped from. Grayson started running.

"Hey!" Brian shouted down at him through the open window.

Grayson bolted. Taking the quickest way to the road, he cut straight across a front field that hadn't been mowed for years. Even though the grass was dead, it had left a thick, irregular layer on the ground, hampering Grayson's speed. The toe of his tennis shoe caught on a section of stiff grass. He pitched to his knees before he clambered up again.

He used to be pretty fast. Back at his old school, he could beat all the other sixth-grade boys when they raced. But throughout seventh grade, he'd been playing tons of video games instead of getting exercise, and now running hurt.

The road was still half a football field away when he heard Brian gaining on him. A fearful glance back showed his heavy-footed silhouette steadily overtaking him.

"Stop!"

Fear hindered Grayson's coordination. He stepped into a low area, spilled to his knees, and had trouble getting up again.

When Brian tackled him from behind, it was almost a relief not to have to run anymore. But now he was right back where he'd been earlier that day. Despair crashed over him as they lay on the damp grass, both of them panting. Brian kept a burly arm around Grayson's thighs, keeping him from moving.

The grass smelled like the hay his mother fed to the horses. Nostalgia rolled through Grayson. He never thought he would miss the barn she'd enlarged for her business—the reason they'd moved in the first place. But, right then, he would give anything to return to the life he'd hated.

Brian muttered a string of curses. Grayson could feel the man's heart pounding against his thigh before Brian lifted his weight off him.

"Come on, kid." He grabbed Grayson's arm and pulled him upright as he stood. "We're going back."

While the man's tone was gruff, his words full of resolve, he didn't sound like a homicidal maniac.

Grayson took heart from that as Brian towed him back into the house, through the front door. He flicked on a light switch, then locked the door behind them like before.

As they entered the warm living room, Grayson realized how cold he was. Brian shoved him toward the couch. Grayson immediately drew the blanket around himself, shivering.

His captor vanished into the kitchen. When he marched back into view, he was holding a length of rope. Grayson's heart stopped beating, then took off at a trot. "You don't have to tie me. I won't run again, I promise."

"Hah. Think I'd take your word for it? Your father was a liar. Bet you are, too."

Offended, Grayson stiffened. "My father was a good man!"

"See? Now that's a lie. Put your hands together and hold them out."

Too furious to be scared, Grayson did as he was asked. "That's too tight," he protested, as Brian wound the rope around both wrists. To his surprise, the man added more slack, but he wasn't content with just tying Grayson's hands. He went down on one knee and tied the remaining rope around both ankles.

Grayson frowned down at him, surprised that Brian's burly hands could be so nimble as he fashioned an intricate knot. "I won't be able to stand up."

"That's the idea, kid."

The man stood with a grunt and went back into the kitchen. When he came back holding a shotgun, Grayson's eyes fixed on the weapon, and his cheeks turned cold.

"You try to escape again"—Brian held up the shotgun but didn't aim it—"and I'll kill you before you even make it to the road." He crossed to the stairs where he snatched up the brown paper sack sitting on one of the lower steps. Grayson could tell at once there was liquor in it.

Numb with shock, he stared at his bindings while considering the awful likelihood that Brian would get drunk, turn ugly, and then shoot him. All Grayson could hope for was that his phone, still out in the car, would bring the police—or, better yet, the FBI—swarming in to save him.

Regret nipped at him for rebuffing Fitz, who probably would've found him by now. Why had he done that? It wasn't going to bring his father back to life. Even Grayson could see how much of a help Fitz was to his mother.

Brian propped the shotgun next to his armchair and placed the liquor on the little table next to it. Then he knelt before the woodstove, where he stoked the embers and fed the stove two more logs. The shiny scar at the corner of his lips reflected the fire as he grimaced. When the stove emitted a humming sound, Brian closed it tight, then shot Grayson an inscrutable glance.

"I found the phone you hid beneath my seat. Thought you were being sneaky, didn't you?"

The words incinerated Grayson's final hope. His mouth went dry. "What did you do with it?"

"Destroyed it and threw it away."

Grayson could only stare at Brian, devastated. That phone had been his only link to the outside world. Now nobody was going to be able to find him.

* * *

Grayson jerked awake, finding himself lying across the musty-smelling couch, his wrists still bound by the rough length of rope that kept him from stretching out across the couch's full length. But at least Brian hadn't stuck him upstairs in the second bedroom. It had to be the middle of the night. The woodstove's heat was practically oppressive.

Rising to his elbow, Grayson spotted Brian in the armchair, eyes open, staring sightlessly at the stove. The bottle of liquor he'd bought rested between his thighs. From what Grayson could see, it looked empty.

He's drunk. Don't talk to him.

Grayson figured his father knew best, but then he noticed Brian had draped the blanket over him. Why would he do a thing like that if he meant to harm him? Perhaps he intended to ransom Grayson for money. He was burning up under the blanket. He had to pull it off.

At his movements, Brian looked over at him, glassy eyed.

"Why did you take me?" Grayson asked the question without meaning to.

Brian's vague smile made him realize the man hadn't understood the question. "Go back to sleep, Tommy," he crooned in a gentle voice.

Grayson glanced at the hand fisting the liquor bottle. That was it! The letters on Brian's knuckles spelled TOMMY. He'd tattooed the name there as a constant reminder. Encouraged by the man's gentler tone, Grayson dared to ask, "Who was Tommy?"

Brian blinked in confusion, banishing the glassiness from his eyes. He visibly shook himself, muttered a string of oaths, then took a swig from his bottle.

More than half the bottle was still left, relieving Grayson. When Brian didn't answer him, he dropped his head back down on the couch and closed his eyes, trying to sleep again, though the rope chafed his wrists and he longed to straighten his bent legs.

"Tommy was my son. My world. And it's your dad's fault that he's dead."

The words brought Grayson's eyes back open. Brian hadn't moved, but he was fingering the shotgun's barrel, which was propped on the arms of his chair, across his lap like a tray.

Grayson came up on his elbow. "What do you mean? My father never would've hurt a kid."

"Hah. Shows how much you know."

Anger stole a portion of Grayson's fear. "My father was a good man! Don't you talk bad about him."

Brian's face whipped in his direction. Slamming his bottle onto the table next to him, he picked up the rifle and stood, weaving. Grayson flinched against the cushions as Brian tucked the barrel under his arm and pointed the rifle at him. His ragged breaths sounded over the crackling woodstove.

Grayson turned hot, then cold. "Please, don't…"

Brian stepped in his direction.

This is it. I'm going to die now.

But then Brian brushed past the couch and went into the kitchen, where he thumped around, muttering to himself.

The adrenaline in Grayson's veins subsided slowly. A ray of hope shot through his bleak doom. Maybe Brian wasn't going to kill him. Maybe he would get to go home soon.

Oh, please let me go home, God.

The ranch wasn't so bad. He could fish in the creek whenever he felt like it. He had a forest right there for having paintball wars with Cameron. And he could get a hug from his mother whenever he needed one.

I won't ever complain again. I promise.

The slamming of a cupboard broke into his silent pleas. He kept his eyes shut, pretending to sleep as Brian came back into the room, still holding the shotgun. A peek through his lashes showed his captor back in his chair. This time the rifle was propped against his seat instead of over his lap. As he snatched his bottle back up, Grayson relaxed, but not completely.

For some reason, Brian blamed Dad for Tommy's death. He had to be wrong about the way Tommy died. Dad would never kill a kid. But if Brian's plan was to avenge Tommy's death, the only way to do that was to kill Grayson.

Grayson gulped as the hope he was clinging to vanished. Am I ever going home?