Page 11 of Be Courageous

To Grayson it looked a lot like the flat farmland he’d stared at every summer on their way to vacation in the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Then again, a quarter of Virginia was comprised of farmland just as flat. He knew that much from a fourth-grade geography lesson.

The tilted porch boards groaned beneath their feet as Brian drew him up to the door. While he worked to unlock it, Grayson’s gaze fell on the collection of empty beer cans piled into paper bags. At least Brian was recycling. Actually, he probably turned in the cans for money.

The door swung open with a moaning sound, and Brian pushed Grayson into the house ahead of him, shutting and locking them in. Grayson’s first impression of the home was that it hadn’t been lived in for many, many years. A staircase divided the dining room from the living room.

Brian shoved him onto a brocade-covered couch that faced a newer television set. Bookcases and little tables were positioned before all three windows, two of which were boarded up. A layer of dust filmed everything, and the ceramic pots on the tables clearly once had plants in them, but now held nothing but dried-up dirt.

“All are from dust, and to dust all return.”The passage of Scripture that popped into Grayson’s head made him shudder.

“Here.” Brian pushed him down on the couch. It was so old Grayson could feel the springs give way beneath him as his captor tossed him a blanket that was moth eaten and stale smelling. “Keep warm with that while I heat up the house. And don’t move.” He pointed a threatening finger. “I’ll shoot you in the back if I have to.”

Alarm jangled at the threat, but as Brian knelt before the woodstove, Grayson saw nothing in his pocket that looked like a pistol. Then again, he might have an old shotgun lying around. Guns were a dime a dozen in America. Cameron’s older brother had even offered to sell one of his to Grayson.

Watching Brian scrape the remnants of previous fires into a box, Grayson tried to read the letters tattooed on his hand and couldn’t. He lifted his gaze to the man’s scowl. Brian seemed preoccupied by what he’d done—or was that just wishful thinking?

Grayson remembered how his father had spoken to him in the trunk of the car.Dad? Are you still there?

The voice didn’t answer. Grayson swallowed down his disappointment. He’d probably been hallucinating from the cold.

Brian rose with the box, pointed a warning finger at Grayson, then walked into what had to be the kitchen at the rear of the house. A second door opened as Brian stepped outside. He was back in the living room in less than a minute—too soon for Grayson to bolt out the front door, as his joints were still aching.

Brian carried an armload of firewood. He knelt before the stove a second time, fed it some kindling, lit it, then added the larger logs.

Grayson studied the man’s profile in the flickering light. The worried grooves on his prominent forehead suggested he was a desperate man. And a desperate man was a dangerous man—how many times had Grayson heard his father say that?

“Do you have any water?” he asked as Brian closed the woodstove door. Dry heat had begun to radiate from it, chasing off the chill and making him realize he was parched.

His captor regarded him for the longest time. What was he thinking? Grayson wasn’t sure he wanted to know. But then Brian stood with a grunt and went back into the kitchen. Grayson heard a refrigerator open, and his captor came back carrying a cold bottle of water.

“Here.” He held it out to Grayson. “Can’t drink from the faucet. The well water tastes like sea salt.”

“Thanks.” Grayson seized the information with gratitude. Then they probablywerenear the ocean. He twisted off the cap, then gulped down half the cold contents before he decided he’d better save the rest.

Brian went to peer out the front window as if expecting the police might show up any minute.

Regarding his captor’s broad back, Grayson dared to imagine what was next. Brian had a plan, that much was certain. Grayson thought about his phone, lying out in the car and broadcasting his location, but only as long as the battery lasted. From what he knew of his phone, it would last almost forty-eight hours.

Had his mother realized he was missing yet? Had she called the cops?

Grayson gave a thought to Fitz, and bitter irony twisted through him. If his mother were still dating the FBI guy, the Feds would probably already be looking for him. But because of Grayson’s attitude, his mom had given Fitz the boot. Now look who might pay the cost.

Brian wheeled suddenly from the window, bearing down on him. “Get up.” He grabbed Grayson’s arm and hauled him to his feet. So much for the softening Grayson had sensed in him earlier.

Grayson dropped the blanket but hung on to the water bottle. His heart pounded. “Where are we going?” Maybe Brian was going to kill him now.

“Upstairs.”

That sounded better than immediate death, but the rickety old steps bowed beneath their combined weight as Brian propelled him up the stairs before him. The landing was lit by weak sunlight shining through the dust-smeared dormer overtop the porch.

Brian shoved him through the door facing the back of the house. “Use the toilet. It’s the last chance you’ll get for a while.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and Grayson found himself alone in a small bathroom that had wooden siding about hip high and a single window over the tub. He stepped into the tub and looked out at the back of the house. If he jumped from here, he would land on concrete steps outside the kitchen.

A banging on the door had him wheeling toward the toilet.

“Don’t dawdle.”

Quick to obey, Grayson stepped over to the rust-stained toilet bowl, unzipped his pants, and looked around while emptying his bladder. Behind him stood a stained porcelain sink and a speckled mirror that reflected his frightened expression.

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