Chapter 5
FIVE
The truck owner is dead?
The words of the gun holder—Frank Hendrickson—circled Selah’s brain as she stood in the family room of the Hendrickson home.
Hands raised.
Rain hammered the wraparound porch, turning the late afternoon as dark as dusk. Wind rattled the windows of the old house. Felt like it might be her bones knocking together.
What is going on?
“Grandpa?” Tommy’s voice cracked. He had gotten down from his stool.
“Miriam, take the kids into the other room.” This from Frank, his voice unwavering.
Beside Selah, a muscle pulled in James’s jaw. “This isn’t necessary.”
Amy appeared behind her brother, clutching her teddy bear. “Grandpa, don’t hurt them. They helped us.”
“Frank.” Miriam Hendrickson’s hand settled on her husband’s shoulder. “Please. They’re not criminals. They took care of the kids.”
“Tell that to Butch.” His mouth tightened. “I called him after the news report. He saw the entire thing—the derailment, and even some thugs who attacked the train—”
“The train was attacked?” Miriam backed up, picked Amy up onto her hip. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
Frank turned his gaze hard on James. “Nor does the fact that Butch was just sitting in his truck trying to figure out what to do, when up comes…well, maybe this guy…” He gestured to James with his chin. “He grabbed him out of the driver’s seat and stole the old Ford right out from under him.”
Selah couldn’t help but shoot a glance at James.
He appeared appropriately appalled. “I didn’t—that’s not how—”
“Stop talking.”
James drew in a breath and his expression shifted. Hardened.
The same sort of look he’d given her on the porch.
A fist tightened in her gut.
“He said that he was on the ground, sort of dazed, when the train lit up. Nearly got toasted.”
The story pieces clicked together in Selah’s mind. Yesterday, James had left to “get help” and then…
The explosion.
He’d returned with the truck right after.
But Anderson had been alive after that, so…
James shifted beside her, and something in his movement made Frank’s finger tighten on the trigger.
“Miriam, I said take the kids into the other room.” Frank’s voice turned hard. “Then call the sheriff.”
“Mr. Hendrickson.” Selah forced steadiness into her voice even as her mind raced. “We’re not trying to hurt anyone. Those kids—”
“Those kids are my grandchildren.” Steel threaded his words. “And you brought trouble to my door.”
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Again? But she glanced at it, and maybe Frank did too—
And that’s when James moved.
One moment he stood beside her, the next he’d closed the distance to Mr. Hendrickson.
Frank took a step back and fired.
The shot went wide, shattered the glass on the front door.
Miriam screamed and grabbed her grandchildren.
James stopped, hands up as Frank breathed hard.
“I missed on purpose,” he said. “I won’t the next time, I promise. Back. Off.”
James stood two feet from the gun, as if contemplating the opposite.
“Don’t!” Selah stepped between them, her heart thundering louder than the storm. “James, please.”
Something dark flickered in James’s eyes. And it stirred up a deep, unspoken terror—the kind she hadn’t felt since Mariposa.
James was a dangerous man. Or at least he could be—to Frank. To her? Maybe not.
She turned to Frank. “Listen, we’ll go. We’ll just go.”
“You’re not going anywhere.” Frank gestured with the shotgun. “You two can wait in the bedroom for the sheriff.”
Amy looked at Selah, her face wet with tears.
“It’s okay,” Selah said softly. “I promise.”
They were herded into what had to be Frank and Miriam’s bedroom—flowered wallpaper, a handmade quilt on the bed, family photos on the bureau. Younger versions of Sarah and Grant, of Tommy and Amy.
James walked in and stood by the window, painfully still, watching the rain.
Hendrickson closed the door.
“What’s going on, James? Did you—”
“Of course not.” He didn’t shout it, didn’t act outraged. Just a simple, solemn statement. “The old man is just upset.”
“He looks more than upset. He would have shot you.”
And yet, James had barely flinched…
She stepped up to him and kept her voice soft, not accusatory. “What do you think happened to Butch Anderson?”
He lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. I was asleep in the room next door to you all night.”
He was, wasn’t he? Right. She let out a breath.
Outside, at the side window, rain traced down the glass.
James reached up, undid the lock. “We’re leaving. Now.”
Clearly, Frank hadn’t thought all the way through his plans for imprisonment.
Except, out the front window, through curtains of rain, she saw Frank crossing the muddy yard toward the truck, shotgun cradled against his chest.
“What’s he doing?”
“Probably disabling the truck,” James said, easing the window open. Wind and rain whipped the curtains.
“What are we going to—”
“Stop him.” He glanced at her, although this time—no darkness, just a resigned expression. “I promise, I won’t hurt him.”
He held out his hand.
She stared at it. “Maybe…um…”
“Right now, you have two choices. Stay here with a crazy man with a gun…or trust me.”
It did seem like they’d stepped into a movie set of some dystopian thriller. If it were a zombie movie, they’d be bait. Or prey.
Clearly she’d watched too many episodes of The Last of Us over the past month of trying to clear her head.
Maybe her trauma counselor was right…Whatever is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.
Not an original thought—she knew it came from the Bible. But it was suddenly painfully practical. James had done nothing but help her.
Still, she looked at his outstretched hand, and took it.
He brought her to the window, then crouched. “Step on my knee, then put your legs through first. I’ll help you slide down to the ground.”
“I’m not breakable. I can do this.”
He raised an eyebrow and held out his hands, as in Suit yourself.
Okay, it was a little harder than she’d thought, and in the end, he did have to brace her as she slid out of the window, then turned and dropped to the ground.
He followed a second later as rain drenched her through.
They came around the side of the house just in time to see Hendrickson head back up the steps. She put a hand on James’s arm, felt it tense. “Just…leave him.”
James grunted but waited until Hendrickson went back inside. Then he grabbed her hand. “C’mon.”
They raced across the yard to the truck, and he slid into the driver’s seat. The keys still dangled from the ignition, but when he tried to turn it over, nothing.
“He’s either taken out the battery or disconnected the starter or—”
“He sees us.”
She pointed to the porch, where Hendrickson stood, his shotgun up. He shouted something.
“Forget it. We’re taking that four-wheeler. Go.” He pointed to a dirty two-person ATV sitting in the garage, and it felt like a crazy idea, but she took off.
More shouting from Hendrickson, and she scooted into the garage and peeked out. A second later, James came running behind her.
He hopped on the machine—that’s when she noticed her backpack flung over his shoulders. Good call. He bent over the ignition.
Hendrickson had come off the porch, running, yelling.
The four-wheeler roared to life. She glanced at James, who patted the seat behind him. She ran to him. “Did you hot-wire this?”
“It’s an older model. Let’s go.”
She hopped on the back, gripped the sides of the bench seat.
“Hold on,” he said, and gunned it.
They burst out of the barn into the storm, rain stinging Selah’s face. Behind them, Hendrickson shouted, and she ducked as another shot barked, muffled a little by the rain and the fact that James drove them right onto a forested trail.
This couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t be on some high-stakes, on-the-run adventure with a stranger.
Who may or may not be a truck thief. Who spoke Russian.
Who might have been able to disarm—kill—an old man.
Oh, please, God, she didn’t want to be in a made-for-television thriller movie of the week.
She clung to James’s jacket, the wet leather slick under her fingers, wondering if she’d just made the biggest mistake of her life.
No. No, she’d already made that mistake.
But she couldn’t help the tiny prayer that lifted inside her. Please, God, help North find me.
* * *
Rain sheeted across North’s face as he checked his dying phone one last time. Two percent. No signal. The blue GPS dot spun uselessly against gray darkness, and every step sank him deeper into the muddy mountain road.
He’d found a way across the tumultuous river, and now, as lightning cracked overhead, he just needed shelter. A place to charge his phone. Maybe rent a car from a local.
His fingers trembled more from anger than cold as he shoved the phone into his pocket.
He shivered, wrapped his arms around himself, ducked his head…
The memory rolled through him like distant thunder.
He’d come in from a workout, freshly showered, and found Selah in his kitchen, a delivery bag from Bruegger’s Bagels on his granite countertop, making scrambled eggs.
Like he hadn’t been gone for a month doing security with Skeet, out of touch, out of country…
She’d somehow picked right up, not a question about where he’d been or what he’d done. The early-morning light had caught her hair, and she’d hummed, moving to some beat that pumped out of her EarPods.
He’d just watched her for a moment—his arms folded as he leaned against the wall. Until she’d turned, spotted him, and screamed.
Then she’d thrown the wooden spoon at him.
He’d ducked as it hit the wall behind him.
Her hands had gone to her mouth, her beautiful blue eyes widening.
Then she’d laughed, her entire face lighting up. She’d pulled out her EarPods and crossed over to him. “You scared me.”
“Really? I couldn’t tell.”