I spin around the room, searching for a camera lens on the lamp or the wall or the skylight. One could be anywhere. I instinctively back into the kitchen, taking the phone cradle with me on its long cord, and I peek through the window toward the road out front.
Still no voice comes from the phone, though I hold it hard to my ear. It doesn’t disconnect, either, so someone’s listening.
A Jeep is newly parked beside the tamarack tree, its windows rolled down, a gun rack clearly visible on the back window. A young man with a wispy mustache is smoking behind the wheel, and my lungs tighten with fear. Ian. My former captor from the Onar Clinic. He wasn’t there when I entered the boxcar, but now he’s watching it.
My heart thuds. “Is that you, Berg?” I ask into the phone.
The faint clicking comes again.
I slam the phone down in its cradle. Horror flashes along my skin. Out front, Ian opens his car door and flicks away his cigarette butt. He’s lanky in a black tee shirt, gray pants, and army boots. Beneath his pale hair, his expression is unsmiling, but I can tell he’s jazzed. He loves tracking me down.
Before he can get any closer, I move swiftly toward the back door. Quickly, quietly, I step out and shut it. I wince into the setting sun, and then I sprint around the ragged fences and rabbit coops and grills behind the boxcars, heading for the McLellens’. A surprised voice calls out to me, but I don’t answer. A crashing noise makes me look back as I run. Ian vaults over a pile of cement pavers. He’s coming fast and aiming a gun.
A popping shot fires out behind me, and a spat knocks a water jug spinning by my right ear. I dodge left and run even faster.
“Peggy!” I scream.
My heart’s pounding and my lungs are bursting from fear. I’m running so fast that everything’s a blur except when I leap over a shovel or launch off a garden post or flip a folding chair behind me. My ears are primed for another gunshot. My scalp anticipates pain. I don’t dare to look back again.
I scream for Peggy again, and now the McLellens’ boxcar is in sight. It’s ten yards ahead. Five. I’m almost there when I hear a much louder shot and jolt instinctively sideways before I realize the blast came from in front of me.
Peggy McLellen is standing on her back stoop, with her rifle raised. Her sundress rides up to show her sturdy knees and rugged boots.
“Get behind me,” she says tersely.
I fly up the steps and stop in her shadow, panting. I look over her shoulder toward Ian, who has stopped back in the abutting yard. He hugs a bleeding hand to his chest, and his gun has fallen in the dirt.
“Explain yourself,” Peggy says. “This next bullet’s aimed somewhere more permanent.”
“I’ve just come to collect Rosie,” Ian says, panting. “I wasn’t going to hurt her.”
“She doesn’t want to come,” Peggy says. “That’s what running away means.”
“She doesn’t know her own mind,” Ian says. “She’s sick in the head.”
“I’m the sick one?” I say. “You’re the one who works for Berg.”
“Who sent you?” Peggy says.
“Her guardian, Sandy Berg,” Ian says. “If you aid her, you’re kidnapping, and that’s a felony.” He leans to reach toward his gun with his good hand.
“Leave it,” Peggy says.
“I need my gun,” Ian says.
“You need to get out of here or you’ll get yourself mistaken for a gutless coyote and shot,” Peggy says.
“It’s just tranquilizers,” Ian says. He lifts his voice. “I wasn’t going to hurt you, Rosie. You know you’re supposed to come.”
“Where’s Berg now?” I ask. The one good thing about him still being alive is that I can’t get prosecuted for killing him.
Ian tilts his head and gives his bangs a little flip. “At Forge, like normal,” he says. “But he’ll come now that I’ve got you. It won’t take him more than a few hours to get here. You can stay awake and talk with me in the motel ’til he arrives. Or sleep, if you’d rather. But it seems to me we’ve got things to discuss. You shouldn’t have ditched me back in Montana.”
“Where’s my family?” I ask him.
“Looks like they ran, like cowards,” Ian says.
Peggy takes another blasting shot toward Ian, who screams and ducks to the ground.
“Mind your manners,” Peggy warns him.
Ian swears in a squeaky voice. “You don’t have to shoot me! I haven’t done anything!”
Peggy frowns. “Your folks are looking for you,” she says to me, her voice low. “They got a tip. They left yesterday. Come on in and I’ll tell you about it.”
“What about him?” I ask.
Ian is crouched way down, with his hands over his ears. The right one’s bloody. It also looks like he’s peed himself.
Peggy gestures with her gun. “Stand up, idiot. Quit your crying. I’ll only shoot you if you run.”
He stands slowly, keeping his hands high, and he looks taller and more awkward than ever. Peggy walks behind him, picks up his tranquilizer gun, gives it a quick inspection, and tucks it in the belt of her dress. She gives him a nudge with the muzzle of her rifle.
“In you go,” she says to him. She nods back up at me. “Rosie, take the hash browns off the stove and see if you can’t find some duct tape.”
2
A GOOD DAUGHTER
I SHIFT THE HASH BROWNS off the hot burner and locate the duct tape like I’m told.
Peggy has me hold the rifle while she ties Ian’s wrists behind him. When he resists, she clouts him on the head. “You watch it. I’m running out of patience,” she says. She directs him into the closet off the living room and tells him to sit before she secures his ankles with more duct tape. She wraps a wad of medical gauze around his bleeding hand, gags him with an old scarf, and locks him in the closet.
I won’t lie. I find this deeply satisfying. Ian kept me captive for months when I was helpless in a sleep shell, and I relish that he’s the victim for a change. Once in a while, Ian kicks, and the muffled noise gives me another little thrill.
Peggy parks Ian’s tranquilizer gun on the bookshelf next to her Bible. Without another word, she dishes up two heaping plates of omelets and hash browns, and passes me the Tabasco. It’s the best food I’ve ever had in my whole life. I have to moan with pleasure.
“Glad you like it. There’s plenty more,” Peggy says, smiling. “I cooked like everybody was home.”
I glance around. The ceiling fan is on, silently alleviating the press of heat, and the windows are open. I can’t hear any noise from upstairs.
“Where are Rusty and the kids?” I ask.
“Visiting Rusty’s mother in Phoenix,” she says. “No offense, but you look real bad. You could use another ten pounds, easy. Eat up,” she says, and she empties the rest of both skillets onto my plate.