My biological father, my real father, was Michael Rhones, who’d trained me to stay out of danger. I’d let my desire for a different family and a different life override all those years of training, the sacrifices my dad had made. I had destroyed all that in just a few short days. I’d betrayed him and myself, run toward the one place and person Dad had never wanted me to go. But I didn’t have time to mourn right now.
I’d been ignoring my OODA Loop, but it kicked in now, picking up a car door opening slowly, quietly, down on the access road.
I touched Dekker’s shoulder.
“What?” he said.
I held one finger to my lips and took his arm. I pulled him toward the front door. “He’s coming,” I whispered. “He’s going to try the front door. We can’t go out the back because it’s locked from the outside. We need to wedge something under this door to force him to go around to the back.” I hit the floor and crawled to the fireplace, removing the poker. I made it to the front door just as I heard a creak on the porch.
Dekker stood glancing around frantically, probably wondering how he could help. I motioned him over beside me.
The click of metal contacting metal, the key seeking entrance to the doorknob lock.
I took a few practice jabs before spearing the poker into the soft wood of the bottom doorjamb. It stuck a split second before Mitch got the door unlocked. He pushed on the door then made a surprised and exasperated noise when it didn’t open.
I braced my back against it. Dekker did the same. Mitch threw all his considerable body weight against the door. Between me, Dekker, and the poker, it remained closed, but Mitch threw himself at it twice more.
Now he would go around to the back. At least I hoped he would.
Dekker’s eyes were wide and frightened.
We had to time this right or we were going to run into the business end of Mitch’s rifle. I held up my hand and pantomimed to Dekker pulling out the poker while he opened the door. He nodded.
I held up a fist and listened. Mitch was still there, listening too. Finally he walked to the edge of the porch and jumped down. Dekker lunged for the door but I stopped him. I counted silently to ten as Dekker twitched and fidgeted beside me. Then I made the “advance” motion, but Dekker frowned and threw his hands up, performed fake sign language to indicate he didn’t understand, then shrugged furiously at me.
I didn’t have time or the ability to explain what I wanted, so I drew the poker out of the jamb like King Arthur pulling Excalibur out of the rock. Dekker slowly opened the door and went through it. I followed and closed it.
We ran down the hill to the access road where Mitch had parked the Buick. Dekker carefully opened the driver’s side door and slid into the seat. I went around the car and got in the passenger side. As my door clicked closed, relief flooded my body, making me feel rubbery and weak.
“Let’s go,” I said, almost giddy. I fixed my eyes out the window, keeping a lookout for Mitch and his rifle. It took me a moment to realize we weren’t moving, that the motor wasn’t even running. I turned toward Dekker, who sat staring straight ahead.
“What are we waiting for?” I said.
“I gave the keys to Mitch,” he said. “Remember?”
The words hit me like a blast of January wind.
“Let’s see if Randy’s keys are in the truck,” I said.
“Even if they are,” Dekker said, still inert, “I locked the doors after I got the backpack.”
I fought the despair that threatened to paralyze me. “We’ll have to run for it, then,” I said.
“I can’t.”
“You have to,” I said. “You have to go to Kansas City and be a big rock star.”
“I’m not kidding,” he said, turning his head toward me. “I won’t make it.”
I slapped his face. Hard. “We have to go. Now.”
It was as if he’d been asleep, because he jumped and shook himself. I opened my door as quietly as I could and crouched behind the car. Dekker did the same, crawling around to squat beside me.
The sun’s fading light seemed trapped in the frozen atmosphere. Snowflakes continued to fall thickly in the silent, windless air, muffling all noise so everything sounded closer than normal. At least our footprints had already almost been wiped out by the falling snow. I was grateful for that.
An outcropping of boulders sat to the east, and I signaled for Dekker to follow me to it. The protection was better there.
I pulled Dekker’s head close to mine.
“I am going to run west, up the hill toward the mine, and find a telephone. Mitch’s little office building must have one, and I’ll call the cops.”
“But we’re still wanted,” Dekker said.
“Listen,” I said. “Mitch is going to kill you. I’d rather go to jail than watch you die.”
Dekker nodded, his trembling lips pressed together.
“When I start off,” I continued, “I’m going to make a racket. Mitch will hear me, and he’ll come after me. You know I’m fast. He won’t catch me. When we’re gone, you get down to the road and head straight east to Paiute, and don’t stop. Just follow the road. Do not stop, no matter what.”
Dekker shook his head violently. “But he’ll shoot you,” he whispered.