Hanging up, I texted him, asking for an update. Then I went to check on Izzy again, who was still sound asleep. By the time I came back out, Sherri was rummaging through the fridge, and I realized how late it was getting—nearly seven.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” I told her. “Painter should’ve been in touch—he promised he’d let me know how Duck was doing. Now I’m worried that something’s gone wrong.”
Sherri nodded slowly.
“If he was stupid enough to be doing yard work, it’s a possibility,” she admitted. “You want to run out there?”
I looked at the phone again, then thought about my daughter.
“I don’t want to leave Izzy, but I’m concerned.”
“You go check on this Goose guy—”
“Duck.”
“Whatever. You go check on him and I’ll keep an eye on Izzy.”
“I shouldn’t be leaving her—she just had surgery this morning.”
“You do remember that I’m an emergency room nurse?” Sherri said. “Not only that, I’ve known her half her life. She’s as safe with me as she is with you. Probably safer, because I have more emotional distance. If she gets scared, I’ll snuggle her. If she has a complication, I’ll handle it. She probably won’t even wake up while you’re gone.”
I picked up my phone, dialing Painter again.
Still nothing.
“Yeah, I think I’ll go,” I said finally. “Painter should’ve called.”
“Git,” she told me, flapping her hand at me. “Scoot. Skedaddle. I’ve got you covered.”
? ? ?
Duck lived out toward Rathdrum, in an old house that’d seen better days. He had about twenty acres, most of it prairie. I’d gotten the address from London, who’d told me to call her once I figured things out.
It’d rained that morning and, just my luck, the driveway was a full-on mud pit. Painter’d parked his bike near the gate, next to the rusty old Chevy Duck drove when he couldn’t ride. Eyeing the muck, I decided to follow his lead, pulling in next to him.
As I stepped out, my faded Converse squooshed down into the loose earth. Ick. Painter was gonna owe me for this.
So was Duck.
The house was set back far enough from the road that it took me a good ten minutes to walk there, including the time I lost falling on my ass, trying to get back up, and then falling down again—this time on my face. I checked my phone. Still nothing. If I got up there and found Painter and Duck sitting on the porch sharing a beer, they wouldn’t need to worry about his catheter wound killing him.
I’d do it with my own bare hands.
The house came into sight, and I was about twenty feet away when I heard the shouting.
“When it’s time to kill him, I want to do it!” a woman yelled. What the hell—was that Deanna?
A strange man’s voice answered from the back of the house, although I couldn’t make out the words. Holy shit. Pulling out my phone, I sent London a quick text.
ME: There’s something wrong here at Ducks house. I don’t know what yet but I think you should call Reese
Silencing the phone, I slipped it back into my pocket, then started working my way around the house toward the back. It didn’t take long to find a window, which thankfully had been left open a crack. Dropping down, I crawled forward through the wet earth, then slowly raised my head to peek inside.
Ah, fuck.
This was bad. Really bad. Like, pissing-your-pants bad. Painter was sitting in the center of Duck’s kitchen in a wooden chair, hands cuffed behind his back. His legs had been tied to the chair’s legs and there was a ragged bandanna gagging his mouth. Beyond him, lying across the floor, was Duck. His eyes were closed and there was a massive bruise forming on his face. Even worse, I saw a dark stain near his groin.
Blood or pee.