No One To Trust. Melody Carlson

FIVE

      After the car was a safe distance down the beach, Jon led Leah back up to the bluff and, seeing no cars or cops in sight, they snuck into the back of the house.

      “I want to pull out a file my mom’s been keeping,” he told Leah after he locked the doors. “You go ahead and check on Ralph. If he’s awake, urge him to eat some more. It might make him sleepy.”

      “What kind of file?” she asked as they stood in the dark hallway.

      “I just remembered something my mom told me recently. She’d been saving articles related to what she believes might be a human-trafficking ring in the Northwest. Particularly around here.”

      “Human trafficking—seriously—in Cape Perpetua?”

      “I know, it sounds a little far-fetched. Especially considering most people think Cape Perpetua is one of the safest beach towns on the Oregon Coast. My dad thinks my mom’s being overly dramatic. But I’m beginning to wonder.”

      “Interesting.”

      “So I’ll be digging around for a while. You stay down there with the door locked. Don’t open it unless you know it’s me.”

      “Right.” Her voice sounded small and shaky.

      “We’re going to be okay,” he told her.

      “How do you know that?” she asked in a doubtful tone.

      “Because I believe it.” He reached over to place a hand on her shoulder, suppressing the urge to pull her toward him in a comforting hug. “We can outsmart them, Leah. I know we can.”

      “Well, you must be a whole lot smarter than me.” She made an attempt at a laugh, but it actually sounded pretty sad.

      “Go check on Ralph,” he told her. “And lock the door.”

      He waited to hear the sound of the lock clicking into place, then, staying low, he crept out to the kitchen to retrieve a flashlight from the junk drawer. He also pocketed some extra batteries and even got the small battery-powered radio that his mom kept tuned to a local station just in case of tsunami warnings, and set it by the door to the basement. Then, with the flashlight in hand, he crept into the small room next to his parents’ bedroom. They used this space as their study. Although they both claimed that work was outlawed at the beach cabin, one or the other was usually caught going over a legal case from time to time. It was like a family joke and a natural consequence of two attorneys in one marriage.

      One wall of the study was filled with a bookcase, and a large corner desk was situated by the window. The right side was used by his dad, and the left was his mom’s. Both of them kept old-fashioned file cabinets—a habit that Jon used to make fun of but something he was thankful for now as he used the flashlight to peruse through his mom’s cabinet. It didn’t take long before he found a manila file folder marked Human Trafficking in bold black ink. Tucking it under his arm, he was about to go down to the basement when he saw headlights moving down the road again. Would they never give up?

      He crouched beneath the desk, remembering the glass window he’d smashed and hoping that he’d get the chance to make it up to the homeowners—that he’d live long enough to apologize and explain. But why hadn’t that house kept the police busy for longer? Wouldn’t they have searched it, turned it upside down? Or did it simply allow them to remove one possible cabin from their list of suspects? Perhaps he should’ve left more clues around, or chosen a larger house with more spaces to search through—although that would probably trigger a security alarm. But that might be a good thing if it sent additional cops out here. What was the chance that all the Cape Perpetua cops were crooked? They couldn’t be—could they?

      When the room became pitch-dark again, Jon quietly crept out and down the hallway. He was tempted to pull the drapes in the front room, but worried that might be a tip-off. Then he remembered the upstairs bedroom that he’d been using to paint in. Hadn’t he pulled the shades down in there this afternoon when the sun got too hot? He tiptoed up the narrow staircase and was somewhat relieved to see that this room really was sealed off from the light. Not that they’d want to hide out up there, but it would be a change of pace from the dank basement.

      Perhaps he could even offer Leah the twin bed to get some sleep tonight—while he kept watch downstairs to be sure she was safe. Before he left, he picked up his sketch pad and a packet of charcoal pencils. It wasn’t as if he thought he was going to sketch anything while they were stuck in the basement trying to make an escape plan—but if things were different, if they were out of danger, he would love to do a sketch of Leah. She had the kind of face that lent itself to art. High forehead, straight nose, gorgeous cheekbones, ocean-colored eyes, full lips... He would like to paint her. If things were different. If they could somehow escape this thing alive.

      As he tapped on the basement door, quietly identifying himself when he heard her on the stairs, he wondered what time it was. Although it felt as if it had been hours, maybe even days, since the shocking confrontation in the parking lot, he suspected it was probably not even nine o’clock yet. It would be a long night. He wondered how long it would take to rebuild that carburetor—or if it were even possible. But maybe it was worth a try.

      “Here.” He handed Leah the file folder, the radio and his sketch supplies when she opened the door. “I’m going to go get something. Lock the door.” Before heading for the garage, Jon remembered how they’d left the bathroom. With its window covered in towels and signs of blood in the bathtub, it would be a dead giveaway in the event Krantz came into the house. So Jon went in and did a fast cleanup, trying to make it look normal, and finally removing the towels from the window and shoving them into the hamper.

      He did a quick check of the kitchen, too, then, satisfied there were no traces of occupation, he crept out to the garage. With no signs of car lights outside, he knew this was his best chance to gather up the carburetor pieces and tools and take them down to the basement. If nothing else, a mechanical chore might keep his mind busy during the long night.

      The garage felt more exposed than the rest of the house. Besides the windows in the garage door, the side door had a window in it and there was another window that faced toward the back. All were uncovered because his dad believed the sunlight was a good defense against the moisture and mildew so prevalent on the beach. But it made the garage feel a bit like a fishbowl. Jon tried to keep his flashlight hooded and pointed downward as he hurried to pile the carburetor pieces and necessary tools into a five-gallon bucket. He set a kerosene camp lantern on top.

      He was just turning off the small flashlight when he heard the sound of a car engine—and once again, lights were moving around outside the house. Silhouettes of pine trees made sinister-looking shadowy images on the interior wall of the garage—moving back and forth with a persistence that sent a shiver of fear down his spine. Had someone seen signs of his flashlight just now? Jon reached for a nearby tire iron as he cowered against the garage door. As he waited for someone to come crashing through the side door, he thought he was ready to use it.

      Crouching down with the tire iron in hand, he suddenly remembered his karate training as a kid—was it possible that he could put it to use now? Or was that just a young boy’s delusion playing through his head? He remembered the Bruce Lee movies he watched with his dad. He was doubtful he could pull off those moves now. For the first time in his relatively peace-loving life, he wished he owned a gun. With his heart in his throat, he waited...and eventually the car moved on. But it had barely headed down the road when the second car came along—and it was followed by a third! Those guys were relentless. Three cars pursuing two innocent people. It was ridiculous. And disturbing. Was it possible that the entire Cape Perpetua Police Department was corrupt? Or had Krantz lied about what had happened? Were he and Leah considered fugitives?

      Feeling more hopeless than ever, Jon crept back through the darkened house with his heavy bucket in hand. The wound in his leg was burning like fire, and every muscle in his body was starting to throb along with it. As badly as they needed to get out of here, he did not think he would be able to make it on foot. Besides,