Mountain Madness (11 page)

They topped a small rise and wiggled between two closely growing trees. Davy led him off the trail at that point, onto a narrower path that seemed exactly the width of the man’s hips. They pushed through one last pair of overlapping bushes, and then they were there.

Zach let out a breath he felt he’d been holding in since getting out of the truck.

Not an unmarked grave, not a pile of corpses awaiting the addition of one scared boy. Just a house.

They’d come upon it from behind. Although the trees didn’t end at any sort of a yard, but continued right up to the edge of the structure so that many of their limbs actually overhung its roof, the property was clearly distinguishable from the surrounding woodlands by its lack of undergrowth and carefully trimmed tree limbs. A tire swing hung from a high, thick branch to the left and lolled in the late afternoon breeze, and Zach knew at once that this was not the kidnapper’s house. This was a real home, a place where
normal
people lived.

Davy waited at the edge of the property, watching the house, head moving slowly back and forth. Zach guessed he was looking to see if anyone was home, though he couldn’t see the man’s eyes and didn’t dare try to get into his head. Davy held out his arm to keep Zach from rushing on ahead, though Zach had made no movement to pass him. They stood that way for a long time, the man cocking his head sometimes, maybe listening to some distant sound.

It gave Zach a chance to check his phone. He couldn’t use it, of course, not until he got alone somewhere, but he could at least check to see if he had any reception and set the thing to silent if it wasn’t already. Staring at Davy, who was so close Zach could have kicked him in the butt, Zach snuck his hand into his pocket and eased out the cell. Still watching Davy’s back like his life depended on it (which it probably did), Zach tilted the phone’s screen toward him and searched it for a reception bar or two.

There were none. The word
Searching…
flashed across the screen, and Zach tried extending the antenna, but it was no good. Rather than set the phone to silent, Zach held down the power button until it shut itself off, unable to remember if it made any sounds when shutting off but plastering his palm against the small speaker just in case. If he didn’t get service up here on the high ground, he probably wouldn’t get it anywhere else in this area either. Better to save his battery for when he could use it. Besides, he’d been awfully worried the phone would beep or squawk and give him away; there was no chance of that now.

He returned the powered-down cell to his pocket and tried to put it out of his mind, at least for the time being.

While he waited for something to happen, Zach noticed a patch of grass and weeds that had been beaten down almost to the dirt behind a row of nearby bushes. Maybe an animal had scratched out a place to sleep, or something or someone had been walking around the area over and over for a long period of time. He looked closer and saw a small pile of splintered wood partially hidden beneath one of the nearby bushes.

Toothpicks. It took him a minute to see them for what they were, but they were toothpicks all right. Chewed up and spit out like sunflower seed shells or bits of fingernail from a nervous finger chewer.

“Where are we?” Zach finally dared to ask, whispering like they were in a library or a graveyard. He rubbed at his head, which still hurt and now pounded a little, wondering when he’d have the chance to get his hands on some Tylenol.

“Shh.” The man waved his arm backward, signaling the boy to keep his distance.

Zach listened but heard nothing except the very faint barking of dogs, which might have been coming from a neighboring property or from a mile away. Sound carried up here in funny ways sometimes.

He waited.

The house wasn’t exactly a mansion, but Zach thought it might be a pretty comfy place to live. A deep, furniture-covered porch wrapped all the way around the place, its boards and railings looking well used but not abused. No fallen leaves or windblown tree limbs in sight, which meant the porch surely hadn’t gone more than a day or two without a good sweeping. In one of the back corners, Zach could just make out a small grill and a bag of charcoal beside it.

At the porch’s other end, a pair of bikes leaned up against the side of the house. One big, the other small and with one of those rubber horns attached to the handlebars. Zach had owned a similar bike when he was younger, had ridden it until he got too big for it and had never gotten another.

He took a quick look at his captor, who appeared lost in thought, the wrinkles on his forehead so deep and bunched that they looked almost fake, like a movie prop or a mask you wore on Halloween.

Zach turned away.

A small garage, set apart from the main structure, opened away from the two of them and onto a gravel driveway that curved around a stand of trees in the distance and disappeared. Zach wondered about that garage, about what kinds of things might be inside. Shovels, rakes, brooms, the same kinds of things Zach and his mom had in their own garage, probably, but maybe also something more useful. An ax, or (dare he hope?) a machete or even a shotgun. He knew lots of people in these parts kept guns around the house. The mountains had bears, mountain lions, wolves—you had to be prepared, or at least some people thought you had to. Whether or not Zach could have pointed a gun at anybody and pulled the trigger, he had no idea, but he guessed if there was ever a time to find out, this was it.

He chewed his lower lip. If he could just get a look inside. Maybe he’d find nothing more helpful than a spare tire or a box of old clothes, but you never knew.

He formed half a dozen plans in his head but eventually gave up on them all. Each required the ability to outrun the maniac, and Zach had already proved himself unable to do that on more than one occasion. He didn’t see any way around it; unless and until the situation changed, the garage was simply off limits. He’d have to wait.

Davy made a grunting sound, and although it sounded like the kind of noise you made if you were upset about something, the look on the man’s face seemed more like confusion.

What a weirdo.

Zach didn’t exactly have telescopes for eyes, but when eye exam time rolled around at school, he could always read every letter of the bottom line without squinting or anything. One of the nurses had told him he had a pilot’s eyes, and Zach had thought that was pretty cool. But despite his amazing peepers, through the reflected daylight and from such a distance, Zach couldn’t be sure if the windows were curtained, and he certainly couldn’t see into them. Still, although it was mostly just a feeling, Zach didn’t think anybody was home.

Funny. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad one.

The limb supporting the swing to his left creaked, and the tire beneath it continued to sway. Zach listened to it, then listened past it and heard singing birds, chirping crickets, and those dogs in the distance still woofing away at one another.

He shuffled his feet, and the sole of his ruined shoe filled with dust and pine needles and one sharp twig. The twig stabbed through Zach’s sock and into the webbing of skin between his first two toes. He growled.

“Hush it,” the man said, sounding honestly angry for the first time.

Zach lifted his shoe until he could reach the toe, like he was doing stretches in gym class, then flipped back his sole and let the junk inside pour onto the forest floor below. He rubbed at the sore spot through his sock and wondered if he was bleeding. Have to check later, he guessed.

If there
was
a later.

Shoe back on the ground, mind already drifting again, Zach almost didn’t notice Davy dropping his hands to his thighs, patting at his bloodstained cargo pockets, and heading out from cover and across the manicured forest surrounding the house. For one second, Zach thought about turning the other way and running, but he’d already tried that. He had nowhere to go, nowhere but forward, into whatever nightmare this man led him.

They didn’t go straight toward the house, but circled around the side instead, following a route Davy seemed to have already mapped out in his head. A weathered picnic table sat among some cedar trees at the far edge of the property, and fifteen or twenty feet from that, a hammock spanned the space between two large oaks.

Comfy
, Zach thought again while jogging to keep up with Davy’s long strides. How strange it was to be here, kidnapped and still able to rate the comfort levels of other people’s homes.

The sheers over the windows were drawn, but the drapes weren’t, and from this close Zach could see vague shadows inside the house, probably furniture and bookshelves, those kinds of things, but maybe people inside too, despite Zach’s previous impression that the place was empty. He had what might be a dangerous idea but went through with it anyway after a cursory glance at the man ahead. As Zach moved, he waved his hands at the windows and repeatedly mouthed the word
help
. If someone was inside and could see him, that person might think he was just some trespassing nut, but maybe he or she would understand the situation for what it was and help him. Just a chance, but he had to take it.

He continued waving his hands, feeling ridiculous, like he was doing jumping jacks, but not stopping until Davy turned the corner. He dropped his arms and turned away from the windows, trying to act as if he’d been following along normally the whole time.

They continued around to the front of the house, Zach huffing a little. A bluebird took flight from the porch railing just beneath an old wind chime. The bird’s sudden movement set the chime fluttering, and it tinkled. On another day, in other company, it might have sounded nice; but trailing behind his gore-streaked abductor, Zach thought it sounded ghostly and cold. Like Hell’s bells.

They reached the porch steps, and Davy stopped and stared at the front door for a long time. He touched his cargo pockets again, and Zach wondered what he had inside them. Davy turned to Zach and looked at him for the first time since stepping out of the untrimmed forest.

“—truck,” Davy whispered, shaking his head as if confused. “Should be here.”

Zach waited.

“You’re gonna knock on the door,” Davy said suddenly. “If they answer, get them out onto the porch.” He motioned for Zach to join him on the porch steps, and Zach reluctantly obeyed.

When Zach had planted his first foot on the riser, feeling like a caged animal even out in the open, Davy grabbed him by the shoulder and squeezed him tight.

“No funny stuff,” he said, and then let go.

The man dropped onto his hands and knees and pressed himself up against the side of the porch, still visible from Zach’s position on the steps but probably out of view from the door and the house.

This might be his chance to run. Once on the porch, Zach could sprint down the floorboards, vault the railing, and rush into the garage before the man with the little boy’s name knew anything was happening. But Zach worried about what might be in Davy’s pockets. The man
might
not catch him if Zach got a head start, but a bullet sure as heck could.

Zach walked across the porch feeling like a remote-controlled toy.

The door was solid wood. No window. No peephole. Zach couldn’t warn anyone coming to the door, couldn’t mouth
help
again or yell for them to stay back, or to grab their guns and come out firing. He couldn’t do anything.

Except….

Zach reached for the doorbell, actually let the pad of his thumb brush against the cool plastic, but didn’t push in. Instead, he waited for what he hoped was a good thirty seconds and said over his shoulder, “I guess there’s nobody home.”

“I didn’t hear you knock,” the man hissed.

“I rang the bell,” Zach lied. “Twice.”

“Knock,” Davy said simply, in a way that seemed both commanding and instructional.

So much for that
. Zach knocked.

After another thirty seconds, no one had come to the door, and Zach turned around. “There’s—”

“Again,” Davy said coolly.

Zach turned back to the door and knocked again. 

He’d been right. Nobody was home. He took a long breath, closed his eyes. He wasn’t sure what exactly he had just avoided, but he didn’t think it could have been anything good.

Davy stood now, looking perplexed, as if he hadn’t expected this at all.

In the distance, one of the dogs barked again. Davy tilted his head and smiled.

“Of course,” he said, though not to Zach. He straightened his head and walked back in the direction from which they’d come. When Zach didn’t follow, he stopped and turned to face him through the porch railings.

“Let’s go,” he said. “My timing was all wrong.”

Zach didn’t ask him to clarify, but Davy went on just the same.

“The dog,” he said. He looked at Zach expectantly. “Remember, Georgie?”

“Umm,” Zach said, not knowing whether a lie or the truth would put a quicker end the conversation.

“Come on, let’s go,” Davy said, relieving Zach of the need to decide. “I was all backwards.”

Before Zach left the porch, he noticed a small wooden plaque hanging from an angled nail beside the front door. He hadn’t spotted it earlier, though he must have been looking right at it.

PULLMAN
, it read. Underneath, someone had shallowly carved an addition:

Trevor & Daddy

The porch steps groaned as Zach descended them. He hurried after Davy and had another idea, this one no less dangerous than his earlier attempt at flagging down someone inside. He went through with it anyway, not because he thought it had much chance of working out, but because two additional people had now become involved. Strangers, people he’d never met, but people all the same, and he had to do whatever he could to warn them.

Trailing Crazy Dave, Zach dragged the toe of his good shoe across the forest floor, letting his other shoe continue its now-familiar clappity clapping. The trench he made wasn’t deep, and it disappeared in a few places where he had to pick up his foot and run to catch up, but it was visible and obviously out of place. He wasn’t so stupid that he thought either of the Pullmans would understand the sign, would know from a simple track in the dirt that a psycho kidnapper had been stalking their home, but if they saw it (which was no guarantee), it might at least, as his mom often said, get their hackles up. He could hope, anyway. At least he would know he’d done something, hadn’t simply run away like before.