Avery looked at Ryan, imploring him. She said, “We have to go.”
Rick said, “Stay put, both of you. It’s safer where you are. Avery, describe the three suspects to me.”
“Brock is tall, like as tall as you are, Mr. Perez. Maybe thirty. Dark hair, beard. Dark eyes. Big. Um, Rena—she, I think, is his wife, something she said when we were in the car. She’s maybe the same age, a little younger. Long, dark blond hair. A little taller than me. And Sam is her brother, blond, he’s not much older than Jake, I guess. Maybe nineteen or twenty? He was shot and is in a lot of pain and I think he’s going to die if he doesn’t get help.”
Rick said, “I got all that, I’ll add it to the APB, and we should be able to figure out who these people are and where they’re holed up. Stay put, both of you.”
“No!” Avery didn’t mean to shout, but she was so worried about her family she couldn’t think of anything else. “My mom doesn’t even know I’m okay! What if she goes out looking for me? Or… What if she thinks the thieves are long gone but they’re not? Whatif they go to my house? I have to warn everyone!” She was about to cry because she felt so helpless.
“Dad,” Ryan said, “we’ll take one of Baldwin’s ATVs over to Avery’s. We have to warn the McKennas.”
“Dammit, son!” Rick exclaimed. Then, when Avery thought they’d lost him, a crackle and beep brought him back. “Okay, I get it. You listen to me—Whisper Creek flooded Orchard Lane, wiped out the road between the McKennas and the Mendozas. Last report in was that it’s still rising. That means it’ll flood all the fields in the area. It’s nearly dark, and you won’t know how deep the water is until you’re in it.”
“We’ll be careful, Dad,” Ryan said.
“I’m going to find a way in, if I have to take a damn rowboat across Mule Run. If the weather breaks and lightning passes, we’ll send in a chopper. And Deputy Ferris is at the Rock Creek blockade. As soon as he can get through, he’ll be on his way, too.”
“We’ll check in when we reach Avery’s house,” Ryan promised.
“Ten-four. Be safe. Sheriff out.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Brock slammed his truck door and ran up the steps to the Coulters’ near-dark house, his wet, muddy boots leaving a trail behind him. He hadn’t been able to reach Rena, but cell towers were down throughout the region, and he only had one bar on his phone that kept going in and out of service.
The screen door banged shut behind him as he stomped into the old farmhouse. Inside, the only light came from a battery-operated lamp in the living room, where Rena sat on the edge of the couch, her head in her hands.
She looked up when he came in—her face blotchy, eyes red from crying. Her lips trembled as she spoke.
“What happened?” He sat next to her, took her hand. It was cold, even though the house was warm. His heart pounded so hard he almost couldn’t speak. “Where’s Sam?”
“In bed. He’s worse. He lied about his pain, now he can’t lie anymore. He needs a hospital. We have to do it, Brock. We have to get help.”
“Okay.”
But he didn’t get up. “What else?” He knew his wife, and he knewthat something else was wrong. Then he realized something. “The truck out front—that’s not the same red truck from the house.”
She shook her head. “I did exactly what you said. I took the redhead, I tied her to the steering wheel. She was fighting me, I hit her with the gun. Out of rage, I hit her because she wouldn’t shut up!”
His stomach fell. “And?”
“She complied, just like you said she would if I showed her who was in charge. She drove and then another vehicle was coming toward us. The driver recognized her and I knew we were in trouble. I panicked, turned the wheel, and we plunged into the drainage ditch. The truck started filling with water. I got out, got Sam out and—well, the other driver got out of his truck and I threatened him.” She laughed, but there was no humor. “I fired the gun and said give me your car. He did. I left him, left her.”
She put her head in her hands and sobbed. “I left her tied to the steering wheel and the truck was taking on water and I just left. I don’t know if she’s dead or alive. And now Sam—Sam is worse. If he dies, it’s karma, for me leaving that girl.”
He rose from the couch, his blood cold. Sam wouldnotdie. “Rena—” he began, but she steamrolled over what he planned to say.
“I cleaned up the mess you made,” she said. “The papers. The drawers. I thought maybe if I could undo something—” Her laugh was short, manic. “It didn’t fix anything. He’s dying. My little brother isdyingand it’s all my fault.” She pointed to the phone table. Brock glanced over, spied a Rolodex like the one his grandmother used to have. “I went through their phone book. It’s all handwritten. And Ellen McKenna—the redhead’s mom? She’s a nurse. It says so, right there. Anurse. Maybe if we had known—”
“The girl didn’t tell us,” Brock said, jaw tight.
“Why would she?” Rena snapped. “We tied her up, scared her half to death, terrified her friend. Why would she tell us? We don’t deserve the money. We don’t deserve anything!”
She stood, paced, wrapped her arms around her body, but she was shaking and Brock didn’t know how to fix it, fix her, fix Sam. He wanted to hit something, but was rooted in the center of the living room. Trapped. Frozen.
“Sam—he didn’t ask for this. He followed us because helovesus. He wanted to help. And now he might—” She stopped, swallowed hard. “He doesn’t deserve to die because we were desperate.”
Brock’s chest ached. He looked toward the hall, toward the dim bedroom where Rena had set up another portable lamp.
