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“Sorry. Just kind of surprised me, that’s all. I’ve never seen a real sleigh.”
“Well, help me cover it up again. Then we’ll decide what to do with you.” He glanced at the two beer cans on the floor of the barn. “Are those yours?”
“No, sir.” Trevor remembered his manners. “My friends left them.”
“And where are your friends now?”
“They left on their bikes.”
“They don’t sound like very good friends to me.” He picked up a side of the tarpaulin. “Here, take the other corner and slide it back over the sleigh. Then follow me to the house.”
“Yes, sir.” Trevor did as he was told, reminding himself to be cautious. The friendly old man could still be a psychopathic serial killer.
The dog sat back and watched, his shaggy head cocked to one side, as if trying to decide whether Trevor was friend, foe, or food. When the old man opened the door of the small farmhouse and motioned Trevor inside, the dog came, too.
For Trevor, entering the roomy, well-used house was like stepping back into the 1970s. A wood-burning stove warmed the living room, where a well-worn overstuffed sofa and a La-Z-Boy recliner faced an older-style TV. The set was running a pro rodeo event.
Through an archway, Trevor could see through the dining room and into the kitchen. His gaze roamed from the avocado-green stove and refrigerator to the flowered oilcloth on the small table and the wildlife calendar on the wall. The blended aromas of beans, bacon, and corn bread lingered on the air.
All in all, the place didn’t strike him as the home of a serial killer. And what about that unfinished sleigh in the barn? The old man even looked a little like Santa, although with less of a beard.
Maybe he was dreaming.
The old man turned off the TV and ushered Trevor into the kitchen. “Have a chair,” he said.
The chairs were like the ones in the ’50s shows, with metal frames and padded plastic seats. Trevor sat down. “What are you going to do to me?” he asked.
“That depends on your story—and whether you tell the truth. If you’re lying, I’ll know. And I don’t think much of liars.”
A line from the old song about Santa knowing if you’ve been bad or good invaded Trevor’s mind.Stupid thought.He forced it away.
The old man opened the freezer, took out a carton of vanilla ice cream, and filled two bowls. Taking one more scoop, he dropped it into the dog’s dish on the floor. The monster lapped it, tail wagging up a storm.
After replacing the ice cream in the freezer, he set the two bowls with spoons on the table. His blue eyes pierced Trevor like lasers. “Eat up. My name’s Abner in case you didn’t catch it at Buckaroo’s. What should I call you?”
Trevor thought about giving a fake name. But he remembered what Abner had said about lying. “My name’s Trevor. Trevor Chapman.”
“Fine. That’s a good start. Now, while you eat your ice cream, you can tell me how you came to be in my barn.”
* * *
Cooper cursed the silent phone, willing it to ring. It was after eleven, and Trevor hadn’t come home or called. Had the boy just lost track of time, or was he in some kind of trouble? Knowing Trevor, neither possibility could be ruled out.
Maybe he should have kept his son at home. But this was Halloween, a night for harmless fun. And so he’d given Trevor a measure of trust and freedom. Had that been a mistake?
Trevor had said he was going trick-or-treating with a friend named Michael. Michael who? Blast it, he should have gotten a last name, or better yet called Michael’s parents to make sure the invitation was legit—if Michael was even real.
What kind of father was he?
But the more urgent question was, what should he do now? He couldn’t go out and look for the boy. He wouldn’t know where to start. And he needed to be here in case Trevor called or came home.
Phone Michael’s house—that was the only sensible thing to do. He just needed to find out the kid’s last name.
Only one person he knew might be able to tell him that. He felt guilty, bothering Jess at this hour, but the situation was becoming desperate.
He had her number. As he punched it into the phone, he made a mental finger-cross that she would answer, that she wouldn’t be annoyed, and that she’d have the answer he needed.
On the second ring, he heard the phone pick up. A drowsy voice—so sexy that it would have set his pulse racing if he hadn’t been so worried—murmured, “Hello.”
