Page 128 of The Lie Maker

I saw one and brought the car to a stop on the shoulder.

“There?” I said to Walton.

“There,” he said, his voice bordering on cheerful. “I’m sure that’s it. With the mailbox with no name on it. Just a number. I remember.”

My cell phone rang. On the screen: lana. My heart did a somersault. Would this really be her? Had she somehow escaped? Or would it be Gwen?

“Hello?” I said breathlessly.

“Jack.”

It was Gwen.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Just an update. We do this in the morning. We’ll call you at ten with further details. In the city. Same rules apply. You bring in the police and your girlfriend will die.”

“I understand,” I said.

“Now you can have a good night’s sleep.” Gwen ended the call.

“She says it goes down in the morning,” I said to Dad. Looking in the rearview mirror, I could almost make out a grin on his face.

“Sooner, I’d say.”

I wondered what his plan was. I figured he had to have one. He wasn’t going to just walk into a trap, let Gwen kill him, in exchange for Lana’s freedom. That’d be crazy. I had an inkling of what he might be up to, and I was betting it had something to do with his friend Gord. He must have given him some instructions when he’d gone to his trailer to say goodbye.

Maybe he’d been following us this whole time. Or Dad had some tracker on him that Gord was following. That had to be it. But if I was right, why hadn’t Dad told me about it? He must have had his reasons.

“Okay, everybody out,” Dad said. “Jack, can you pass me your phone for a second?”

I picked it up, turned in the seat, and, before handing it to him, said, “What do you want it for?”

“Want to check something,” he said. “What’s the pass code?”

I gave him the four-digit code. He took the phone, pocketed it, and, once I had hit a button on the driver’s door to unlock the back doors, we all got out.

Dad, waving the gun at Walton, indicated that he wanted him to come around to the back of the car. He waved me over, as well.

“Shit, not again,” Walton said as Dad took the keys from me.

Dad shook his head apologetically, hit the button, and the trunk lid swung open.

And then, suddenly, Dad shoved me in and slammed the lid shut.

Sixty-Seven

Jack’s father had both palms on the trunk lid, checking to make sure it was firmly locked.

“Sorry, son,” he said, shouting to be heard.

“Let me out!” Jack shouted. “Open the fucking trunk!”

There was banging on the underside of the lid, which Michael Donohue ignored. He turned and looked at a wide-eyed Walton.

“Take a walk,” Michael said.

“Seriously?” he asked.

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