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Trevor had never seen the house where Skip lived. He’d known the family was poor. Skip’s bike and his clothes had told him that much. He also knew that Skip’s father worked construction on and off, and that when he drank too much, he tended to beat Skip’s mother. She was a nice woman. He’d met her when she’d cleaned the ranch house before Trevor and his dad had moved in.
Now, as he and Maggie approached the small house, which was covered in dented aluminum siding with a sagging porch and a couple of snow-covered junk cars in the side yard, Trevor felt a fluttering sensation below his ribs, like the way he sometimes felt when he was about to be sick. He looked for the old brown Chevy sedan that Skip’s mother drove. It wasn’t here. Aside from the junk cars, only a battered heavy-duty Ford pickup was parked in the driveway. The single lines of packed snow behind the wheels told Trevor that the truck had arrived sometime after the storm and hadn’t left since.
Maybe this was a bad idea, he thought. Maybe they should stop and go back to Abner’s. But Maggie was marching ahead of him up the unshoveled walk, determined and fearless. It would be embarrassing to be shown up by a girl barely half his age and half his size.
By the time he caught up with Maggie on the porch, she had already rung the doorbell.
A beat of silence passed. Then, from beyond the door, came the sound of heavy work boots. The door opened inward to reveal the looming figure of a man, rumpled and unshaven, with narrow, bloodshot eyes.
“Please, sir,” Maggie said. “We’re looking for our friend Skip McCoy. Is he here?”
The man’s annoyed scowl morphed into a grin. “Yeah, Skip’s here, all right. Come on in. I’ll tell him he’s got company.”
Trevor followed Maggie into the house. That was when they heard a frantic shout.
“Trevor! Maggie! Don’t come in! Run!”
Trevor grabbed Maggie’s arm and yanked her toward the open door. But he wasn’t fast enough. The door slammed shut, blocking their escape. Looking beyond the big man, Trevor could see Skip, tied to a kitchen chair. His face was bruised down one side.
“Let them go, Dad,” Skip pleaded. “They aren’t part of this.”
“They are now,” Ed McCoy growled. “You two. Sit down over there where I can see you. Do exactly what I say. If I get what I want, nobody’s gonna get hurt.”
Keeping Maggie close, Trevor took a seat on an old-style kitchen chair with a metal frame and plastic seat. McCoy tossed Maggie a length of clothesline cord that lay on the table. “Tie your friend to the chair with this, girlie. Make it good and tight. If you do a good job, I won’t tie you up, too.”
“My name’s Maggie Delaney.” She faced him defiantly. “My father’s the mayor, and I don’t have to do what you say.”
McCoy smirked. “You might want to think about that, honey.”
His hand reached behind his back, pulled a .38 revolver out of his belt, and pointed it directly at the little girl. “Now, do as you’re told, or I flip a coin to decide who gets shot first.”
Hands trembling, Maggie wrapped the cord several times around Trevor’s arms and upper body, binding him to the chair. She tied the knot in back, as tightly as her small hands could pull. Trevor suspected he could probably get loose, but as long as Ed McCoy had that pistol, he knew better than to try.
“Now sit still.” Using the gun as a pointer, he directed Maggie to an empty chair. “Not a peep, any of you. I’ve got a phone call to make.”
Keeping the pistol aimed at his captives, he picked up the phone from its cradle on the counter. Trevor heard just three beeps as he punched in the number. That must mean he was calling 911.
The dispatcher’s voice—a woman’s—came through faintly on the other end.
“This is Ed McCoy. I’ve got a message for Sheriff Smart-ass Buck Winston,” McCoy growled. “Tell him I want my wife and daughters back in this house—now. And if they don’t show up, I’ve got three kids here who might not make it past sundown!”
Chapter 14
When Cooper pulled up in front of the McCoy house, he didn’t like what he saw. There was no sign of Ruth McCoy’s Chevy. The only vehicle parked next to the house was a battered pickup, most likely belonging to her husband.
As he climbed out of the Jeep, he could see two sets of footprints going up the snowy walk—the familiar impression of Trevor’s rain boots and Maggie’s smaller tracks beside them.
There were no tracks coming out of the house.
Cooper hadn’t meant to let the dog out of the Jeep, but Glory pushed past him and went racing up the walk. On the porch, she began barking and scratching at the door.
“Get that damned dog off my porch before I blow its brains out!” a voice bellowed from inside the house.
Alarmed, Cooper took a moment to call Glory back and shut her in the Jeep. Worry gnawed at him as he approached the house and stopped at the foot of the porch steps. Something wasn’t right in there.
“Mr. McCoy,” he called out, doing his best to sound reasonable. “My name is Cooper Chapman. I’ve come to pick up my son and my niece. I won’t come in and bother you, but would you please send them out to me?”
