“Come on,” Evil said. He tapped me gently on the shoulder to get my attention. “This is bigger than us, whatever it is. Let’s get to the cabin and call your Dad.”
I followed him. We ran hunched over, which might have been pointless and certainly looked silly, but it made me feel better to at least try to stay hidden. I felt better still when we dropped down a slope and into another shallow depression with a house in it. This house was a ragged A-framed cabin, it was surrounded by trees, and in the gravel strip beside it was parked a car I knew: a blue Corolla. Michael Fellows’s California rental.
Evil turned back to hiss at me, and I realized I’d stopped. “Come on! Stay focused, Bucky!”
I straightened up and ran through the trees. I ran faster than Evil or he let me catch up, because I beat him to the door and tried the handle.
“Locked,” I said. “I guess it locked behind you.”
“Don’t you know any law at all, Becky McCrae?” Evil said. “This is an emergency, and I’m making a citizen’s arrest on this door.” He raised one Redwing-clad foot and smashed the door open in a single kick, ripping the deadbolt right through the wood.
“You may not have the law quite right,” I told him, “but thank you.”
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