“Yes.”
“To watch us.”
“To keep the compound functional.”
“Same thing.”
“Not exactly.”
Eli heard Raina’s phrasing in Boon’s answer and almost smiled.
Darla came to stand on his other side.
The three of them watched the last motorcycle leave.
For several minutes after the sound faded, nothing happened.
That nothing became increasingly loud.
“What does Presser look like again?” Eli asked.
Boon glanced at him.
“Why?”
“I want to know.”
“Medium height. Early fifties. Gray at the temples. Blue jacket in the most recent photograph.”
Eli nodded.
His phone rang.
Unknown number.
Boon’s entire body changed.
“Don’t answer.”
Eli looked at Darla.
The phone rang again.
“Eli,” Boon said. “Don’t.”
Eli answered.
The voice was male, controlled, middle register.
“I know where your mother is,” it said. “I know where you are. I know the club went to the motel.”
Eli said nothing.
“There’s nobody at the motel.”
A pause.
“Tell Raina Cross Carl Presser was never there.”
The line went dead.
Boon was moving before Eli lowered the phone.
He crossed the room, pulled out his own phone, and dialed.
At that exact moment, the south perimeter light went out.
Not flickered.
Out.
Boon froze for half a beat.
Then he spoke into the phone.
“They’re here. South side. Minimum three. Turn around now.”
Darla grabbed Eli’s arm.
Boon pointed toward the work bay.
“Go.”
The compound yard seemed larger in darkness.
Eli and Darla crossed it at a run. The north work lights still burned, creating deep bands of contrast between lit gravel and shadow. Somewhere near the south fence, a metal sound rang once and stopped.
They reached the work bay.
Eli pulled the side door shut behind them.
The dark inside smelled of oil, cold metal, rubber, and the faint residual heat of engines worked on earlier in the day.
Darla did not panic.
Her hand tightened around Eli’s.
“How many exits?”
“Door we came through. East end opens to the storage yard.”
“Beyond that?”
“Fence. Timber. County road about a mile.”
“What can we use to see?”