My father did, and his one good eye pinched shut with the movement.
To me, Cammie said, “Who was on the phone?”
I thought about what Fogel said.
Somebody in this house called that place first. That someone told them where we were. I had been alone with my father. I had no idea where Preacher had been when the call went out. Cammie was here in the house. Stella was in the house. Hobson was in the house. I glanced over at him. He was on the floor in the foyer, still tied up. Awake, but making no attempt to escape his bindings.
“It was a police detective back in Pittsburgh.”
Cammie stopped wrapping. “What?”
“She’s at that Charter place, I have no idea how she got there. She said a call came in from this number. The person who called told the person on her end where we were. She said they’re coming.”
“Somebody called from here? Who?”
I glared at her. “You tell me?”
“It wasn’t me,” Cammie said. “I’ve been in here.”
“You said there are phone extensions everywhere.”
Preacher paced the floor. “Does it even matter? The guy who did this to Eddie was already here. They found him before any phone call.”
“I handled him,” my father said softly, each word painful.
“Yeah,” Preacher said. “You handled him. Had things totally under control.”
“He’s just some kind of scout,” my father said. “He found me digging in the garden, caught me by surprise, sucker-punched me, then he kept going—hitting, kicking, I didn’t get a shot in. Tied me up in the woodshed. Then Jack got here. He didn’t have a chance to call anyone.”
“He had enough time to hide his Suburban in the garage,” I pointed out.
“Maybe I passed out for a minute, I don’t know.”
Cammie finished wrapping his chest and helped him back into a fresh shirt I’d found in the laundry room off the kitchen. “Whoever called. Doesn’t matter. They know we’re here now. We need to go. Now. Even if they have people in the area, it will take them a little while to scramble and get someone out here.”
That’s when the phone rang again.
“Nobody touch that,” Preacher said.
The shrill ring of half a dozen phones filled the house. One ring. Two rings. Three rings.
“We need to answer,” my father said. “I’ve got people watching both ends of the island. It might be one of them.”
“Or it might be the Pickford kid,” Cammie countered.
“It could be Detective Fogel calling back,” I said. “Maybe she can help us. She might know something else.”
Four rings.
Five.
Preacher rubbed at the bristle on his chin, then nodded at my father. “Whoever it is, they’ll expect you. You answer.” His hand dropped to the butt of his gun. “If it’s the Pickford kid…”
My father understood. If it was David Pickford, if Pickford instructed him to do something, to somehow harm the rest of us, Preacher would put an end to it using whatever force was necessary.
Seven rings.
I helped my father stand, and he hobbled over to the telephone extension in the kitchen. When he lifted the receiver off the wall, he held it a few inches from his ear, as if that little distance would protect him from Pickford’s words. “BH Bed and Breakfast, how can I help you?”
