Dad smiles. “Hop in.”
“Dad, what are you doing here?”
“Why, I’ve been at the motel next door since Saturday morning. Drove nonstop since our call on Friday. The room’s not bad, but the coffee’s crap.”
I start to shake. “And Ken—what are you doing in Ken’s car?”
“Ken? Don’t I even get a ‘Hi’ first? You hurt my feelings.”
“Okay, hi. So where’s Ken?”
“Hop in and I’ll tell you.”
I think about running back to the school. For what? The doors are locked. Everyone’s gone except the custodian, off in the gym.
Dad keeps smiling, but his voice is stone cold. “I said, ‘Hop in,’ Cameron.”
I step back from the car, stick my hand in my pocket, and fumble for my phone.
I speed-dial Mom.
There’s a ring in Dad’s jacket pocket. He pulls out Mom’s phone and talks into it. “Hello, Cameron? Is that you? I’m afraid your mom can’t come to the phone right now. She’s held up. Remember?”
I stand there frozen.
Dad flips the phone shut. “If you want to see your mother again, Buddy, give me your phone and get in the car.”
My brain jams. I can’t think. I hand Dad my phone and get in the car, like he’s a zombie puppet master. Is this real? Am I breathing?
“That’s my boy,” Dad says, all friendly again. “You should unzip that coat. I’ve got the heat up.”
I unzip my coat. “Mom.” I can hardly get the words out. “Where’s Mom? Ken?”
“Why do you care about Lover Boy?”
“Tell me.”
“Fine,” Dad sighs, disappointed. “Your mom’s at the farmhouse. She’s had a nasty tumble into the basement, but she’s all right. You know the coal room? She’s locked in there for her own good. You know how she likes to run. After a fall, that wouldn’t be good.”
Silence. Dad starts to drive. He’s heading to the farm. I feel sick.
Dad sings, “I had a dog, his name was Rover.” Only Dad sings “Rex.” “You lied to me, Buddy. About the dog, the apartment building. You think I can’t tell when you’re lying? When your mother was lying?”
“Ken,” I blurt out. “Where’s Ken? What did you do to him? Why won’t you say?”
Dad grips the wheel like he used to squeeze my arm. “As a matter of fact, Lover Boy is in the trunk,” he says, super controlled. “Don’t you remember anything? I texted: Ken’s on his way. And he was. I’ve never lied to you. You and your mom, you’ve lied to me, but I’ve never lied to you.”
Dad turns on the windshield wipers to brush back the snow.
“How did you find us?”
“There are lots of ways to find people, Buddy. No one can hide forever, not if someone wants to find them hard enough. You and your mom, you’ve been my hobby. You’re all I’ve thought about. Your mom, she took everything from me. I lost my job, my savings, you. Finding you is all that’s kept me going.”
“But how did you find us this time?”
“Well, that’s an interesting story.” He settles back into his car seat. “I’ve had a Google alert on your name from the beginning. Every so often I thought I was wasting my time. Do you have any idea how many Cameron Weavers there are? How many have wedding and birth announcements, obituaries, and awards that get mentioned in local papers? No wonder your mom never changed your name. But I kept at it. Like I said, I’ve had time. And a couple of weeks ago it paid off.”
“Huh? I wasn’t in the papers.”
“Maybe not, but you sure ticked off some kids at your school. Imagine my surprise when my Google alert spits out your name at this new blog: “Cameron Weaver Is a Dickhead.” It’s got photos too, and a comment section. This Cody Murphy, did you really stalk his great-granny? Like father, like son, huh?” He chuckles. “Someone said you deserved to be ripped apart by dogs, like the guy who used to live at your place. Kids can be cruel, huh?”
Oh my God. If I hadn’t gone to the nursing home, none of this would be happening. Mom, Ken, I’m sorry.
“I don’t get the feeling this Cody kid is all that bright, but I guess it doesn’t take much to put up a blog these days. Just energy or hate. Me, I have energy; I never hate. But your mom—not a word against her, but hate’s her middle name.” He reaches over to Ken’s iPod dock. “Want some music?”
“No,” I whisper.
“Suit yourself.” Dad turns up the windshield wipers. “You know, at first I wasn’t sure that Cameron Weaver the Dickhead was you. I thought I might be heading off on a wild-goose chase, almost didn’t come. I mean, this place is the farside of nowhere. But then you phoned. It was like a sign from God. I took a chance and mentioned the name Cody. The way you reacted, well, I knew I’d hit the jackpot.”
My fault. This is all my fault. I can’t see for all the snow in the headlights. Or is it my eyes filling? “How did you get Mom and Ken? You would’ve had to fight.”
“Buddy, I never fight. I defend myself—that’s different.” He pauses. “To answer your question, I watched your mom drop you off this morning from the motel parking lot. I followed her to that real estate office, saw Lover Boy going in and out. I googled the office, sent him an email, said I was new in town, staying at the motel, and could he show me some properties. Sure enough, he picked me up. I got in the car and, well, he didn’t say much when I showed him my gun.”
A gun. Dad has a gun.
“I had Lover Boy drive to a country lane,” Dad continues, “then I hog-tied him in the trunk. He kicked around a bit, but a whack to the head knocked some sense into him. Back in town, I parked by the rear door to the office. There was no one inside but your mom. When I said I had you, she did what I wanted, meek as a lamb. So sweet. Reminded me of when we met.”
“You said you had me? So you do lie.”
“Buddy, why so harsh? I didn’t have you then, but I have you now, don’t I? I was just off by an hour.”
I see our farmhouse in the distance.
“You were in the barn, weren’t you? Why didn’t you get us Saturday night?”
“I’m not stupid, Buddy. You’re on one floor, your mom and Lover Boy are on another; you all have phones. Come on, give me some credit.”
“So what are you going to do now?”
“Your mom’s always made me do things I don’t want to do. She’ll never come back to me. And she won’t let me have you. It isn’t fair, is it? So what can I do? I don’t have a choice.”
I’m too scared to shake. “You’re going to kill us?”
“A family needs to be together, Buddy. Lover Boy needs to pay. Once he pays, it’ll be just the three of us.”
Our farm’s getting closer. I see the entrance to our lane.
Dad gets this sick smile. “Your mom will be crying, begging, no question. She’s always tried to make me feel bad. Always tried to shift the blame.”
“Leave Mom alone. I won’t see you hurt Mom.”
“Don’t worry. I don’t think a boy should see his mom die either. It isn’t right. So instead I’ll have you stand in front of her, and after you’ve said your good-byes, I’ll make her watch what she’s done. Then your mom and I will have a final talk. It may be painful—she always made it painful—but once it’s over we’ll be together forever.”