Do it.
Now.
But Deb couldn’t do it. She couldn’t even reach for it. She’d run marathons, fought mountain lions, and survived the Rushmore Inn. She’d even been taking a karate course, and had just advanced to 3rd Mon Kyu; Purple Belt with Red Stripe. But she couldn’t get herself to answer a telephone.
Mal seemed equally paralyzed. In many ways, his ordeal had been even worse than hers. On the rare nights she was able to fall asleep, Mal often woke her up, in the throes of a night terror, whimpering in a way that never failed to raise the hair on her arms.
The phone rang again.
And again.
Then the answering machine picked up.
“You’ve reached the Dieters, please leave a message.”
“It’s the FBI. Open the door.”
Deb managed to look over at Mal, whose expression was somewhere between terrified and confused.
“This is about West Virginia.”
The Rushmore. Most of those responsible for the atrocities committed there had died.
But there was one man, who was currently in prison.
Could he have escaped?
Deb couldn’t imagine anything worse. Her mind went into overdrive, conjuring scenarios so fast they became one big blur in her head. He got out… he’s coming for her and Mal… he’s been seen in the vicinity… he’s…
He’s the one on the phone right now, impersonating the FBI.
More pounding on the door. Deb didn’t know what to do. She felt glued to the bed. Mal was shaking so badly he wouldn’t be able to hit anything with the gun he held.
“This is extremely important,” said the voice on the answering machine. “open the door. We know you’re in there. We can see you.”
Deb jerked her head from left to right, searching the bedroom, not understanding how someone could be watching her. There was no one there, nothing at all but—
The window.
The window, over the headboard of the bed.
Mal and Deb looked up, at the small, rectangular window directly above them. The venetian blinds were closed, but there were gaps and cracks. And they were on the first floor.
Someone could be standing right there.
“Open the blinds,” the voice said. “I’m holding up my badge.”
But what if he wasn’t holding a badge? What if it was the escaped psycho, and he was holding a brick, or a crowbar, or a—
Someone rapped lightly on the window.
Deb screamed.
A flashlight appeared behind the blinds.
“Put down the gun, Mr. Dieter. We’re not going to harm you or your wife.”
Sweat had broken out over Mal’s forehead, dripping down the sides of his face. He stared at his wife, and she sensed him fighting to be brave. Gun still in his hand, Mal slowly reached for the cord to the blinds—
—and yanked them open.
Standing there was a man. Not the psycho they remembered. But a tall man in a suit, holding a cell phone in one hand, the flashlight in the other, pointing at his own face.
“I’m going to take out my badge,” he said, and his words on the machine weren’t quite synced to his lips, due to the satellite delay. “We’re here to help you.”
Deb watched, transfixed, as he slowly reached into his pocket and took out an official-looking FBI badge and ID.
Trembling, she reached for the phone and picked it up.
“Help us wi…wi… with what?” she managed, teeth chattering.
The man smiled, but it was hollow and emotionless.
“Open the door and let us in. And we’ll tell you.”
Grand Haven, Michigan
Sara
“What do you want?” she said into the phone, her voice so soft she could barely hear it.
“It’s the FBI. We’re here to help you get your son back.”
Sara blinked, then shook the cobwebs from her head. The fear she’d been feeling was replaced with something else. Something she hadn’t experienced in so long she’d forgotten what it felt like.
Hope.
“Jack?” she croaked.
“Yes, Jack. Open the door, and we can talk about it.”
“I… uh… gimme a minute.”
The fear came back, and her mind twisted in two. To have her child again would be a miracle. It would, quite literally, save her life.
But there was also a chance this was a trick. Sara knew there were bad people in the world. She’d had to endure some of the worst that humanity had to offer. This call could be connected to all the bad things from her past. Or it could be some new predator, looking for an opportunity.
As she considered her options, Sara quickly changed out of her soiled sweatpants, tossing them into the shower and shimmying into some jeans. Then she went into her kitchenette, seeking the gun. She found it on the floor, next to an old pizza box, and peeked through the curtains at the entrance to her trailer.
Two men in suits. They stared right at Sara, as if they’d anticipated her looking at them. Both held gold badges. Sara wondered if the shields were real or not, then realized it didn’t matter. They could kick in her flimsy trailer door with less energy than it took to sneeze. If these men wanted to get in, they easily could. But so far, they’d opted for the polite approach.
So maybe they were FBI and telling the truth. Or maybe they’d try to kill her. In either case, there wasn’t anything she could do to stop them. The gun she held only had one bullet in it. Sara hadn’t ever expected to use it for self-defense.
She placed her hand on the front door knob, feeling as if she were inviting trouble inside. But the reality was, no matter what they could do to her, it couldn’t be worse than what had already been done.
Sara unlocked it and opened the door.
“Can we come in?”
Sara nodded, stepping aside. She gestured to her cheap dinette set, one of the chairs wobbly. The cool, fresh air from outside made her realize how sour the smell was in her trailer, and she caught an acrid stench similar to spoiled milk. The men came in and stood there, seemingly oblivious to the mess around them. And a mess it was. Dishes piled high in the sink. Fast food wrappers strewn about. A garbage can filled to overflowing. A single strip of fly paper hanging from the overhead light, speckled with dozens of the dead.
But Sara didn’t care what they thought of the mess, or if they judged her. She just wanted to know if they were speaking the truth about Jack.
Neither man made a move to sit down. They were taller than they seemed to be when standing outside. Beefier, too. More like pro wrestlers than FBI guys.
“So, you’re in,” she forced herself to talk slowly, deliberately. “What do you want?”
“We know what happened on Rock Island.”
Sara may have flinched at that, but she still had enough liquor in her system to mask her reaction. Rock Island—which she thought of as Plincer’s Island—was the cause for her current situation.
“You went through a lot,” he continued. His eyes, and expression were blank. “But you survived. It must have been quite an ordeal.”
Sara wasn’t going to get into a conversation about the past, especially about what happened on that island. “What about Jack?”
“The government has a proposition for you. We want to help.”
The sneer formed on her lips before she could stop it. “The government? They’re the ones who took my baby.”
The agent continued. So far his partner hadn’t spoken. “Child Protective Services took Jack. You were caught doing sixty miles an hour in a thirty mile zone, and he wasn’t in a car seat.”