Page 15 of Be Courageous

When Brian tackled him from behind, it was almost a relief not to have to run anymore. But now he was right back where he’d been earlier that day. Despair crashed over him as they lay on the damp grass, both of them panting. Brian kept a burly arm around Grayson’s thighs, keeping him from moving.

The grass smelled like the hay his mother fed to the horses. Nostalgia rolled through Grayson. He never thought he would miss the barn she’d enlarged for her business—the reason they’d moved in the first place. But, right then, he would give anything to return to the life he’d hated.

Brian muttered a string of curses. Grayson could feel the man’s heart pounding against his thigh before Brian lifted his weight off him.

“Come on, kid.” He grabbed Grayson’s arm and pulled him upright as he stood. “We’re going back.”

While the man’s tone was gruff, his words full of resolve, he didn’t sound like a homicidal maniac.

Grayson took heart from that as Brian towed him back into the house, through the front door. He flicked on a light switch, then locked the door behind them like before.

As they entered the warm living room, Grayson realized how cold he was. Brian shoved him toward the couch. Grayson immediately drew the blanket around himself, shivering.

His captor vanished into the kitchen. When he marched back into view, he was holding a length of rope. Grayson’s heart stopped beating, then took off at a trot. “You don’t have to tie me. I won’t run again, I promise.”

“Hah. Think I’d take your word for it? Your father was a liar. Bet you are, too.”

Offended, Grayson stiffened. “My father was a good man!”

“See? Now that’s a lie. Put your hands together and hold them out.”

Too furious to be scared, Grayson did as he was asked. “That’s too tight,” he protested, as Brian wound the rope around both wrists. To his surprise, the man added more slack, but he wasn’t content with just tying Grayson’s hands. He went down on one knee and tied the remaining rope around both ankles.

Grayson frowned down at him, surprised that Brian’s burly hands could be so nimble as he fashioned an intricate knot. “I won’t be able to stand up.”

“That’s the idea, kid.”

The man stood with a grunt and went back into the kitchen. When he came back holding a shotgun, Grayson’s eyes fixed on the weapon, and his cheeks turned cold.

“You try to escape again”—Brian held up the shotgun but didn’t aim it—“and I’ll kill you before you even make it to the road.” He crossed to the stairs where he snatched up the brown paper sack sitting on one of the lower steps. Grayson could tell at once there was liquor in it.

Numb with shock, he stared at his bindings while considering the awful likelihood that Brian would get drunk, turn ugly, and then shoot him. All Grayson could hope for was that his phone, still out in the car, would bring the police—or, better yet, the FBI—swarming in to save him.

Regret nipped at him for rebuffing Fitz, who probably would’ve found him by now. Why had he done that? It wasn’t going to bring his father back to life. Even Grayson could see how much of a help Fitz was to his mother.

Brian propped the shotgun next to his armchair and placed the liquor on the little table next to it. Then he knelt before the woodstove, where he stoked the embers and fed the stove two more logs. The shiny scar at the corner of his lips reflected the fire as he grimaced. When the stove emitted a humming sound, Brian closed it tight, then shot Grayson an inscrutable glance.

“I found the phone you hid beneath my seat. Thought you were being sneaky, didn’t you?”

The words incinerated Grayson’s final hope. His mouth went dry. “What did you do with it?”

“Destroyed it and threw it away.”

Grayson could only stare at Brian, devastated. That phone had been his only link to the outside world. Now nobody was going to be able to find him.

* * *

Grayson jerked awake, finding himself lying across the musty-smelling couch, his wrists still bound by the rough length of rope that kept him from stretching out across the couch’s full length. But at least Brian hadn’t stuck him upstairs in the second bedroom. It had to be the middle of the night. The woodstove’s heat was practically oppressive.

Rising to his elbow, Grayson spotted Brian in the armchair, eyes open, staring sightlessly at the stove. The bottle of liquor he’d bought rested between his thighs. From what Grayson could see, it looked empty.

He’s drunk. Don’t talk to him.

Grayson figured his father knew best, but then he noticed Brian had draped the blanket over him. Why would he do a thing like that if he meant to harm him? Perhaps he intended to ransom Grayson for money. He was burning up under the blanket. He had to pull it off.

At his movements, Brian looked over at him, glassy eyed.

“Why did you take me?” Grayson asked the question without meaning to.

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