Free House by Frank Peretti Page B

of her long hair and yanked her back. She screamed, stumbling. Jack took hold of her, put her in front of him and out of Stewart’s reach, and stepped into the locker. The others followed, crowding and stumbling in the dark. Betty stepped in last, closing the door with a thud as the orange glow from the lamp filled the room.
    The meat locker was much larger than Jack would have expected, made of sawn timber with bins and shelves for holding produce and slabs of meat. There was a huge ax hammer leaning against the far corner, the kind with one blunt end for knocking out cows and one sharp end for cutting their heads off. A bloodstained workbench featured an assortment of butcher knives and meat cleavers; meat hooks dangled from the ceiling.
    Jack could see his breath. He rubbed his hands together for warmth.
    We can’t run from here. We shouldn’t have let them take us this far. We should have tried something.
    â€œTurn around, hands on the wall,” Stewart ordered, and the four faced the wall, hands raised and flat against the rough boards. They were frosty and bloodstained.
    â€œWhat are you going to do?” Randy asked, his voice high and shaking.
    â€œCan’t you read?” Stewart said. “What do you think we’re gonna do?”
    Leslie began, “But we don’t deserve—” Stewart pressed the gun barrel against her neck, and she went no further.
    â€œAnother lie. Ain’t found a sinner yet who thought he deserved it, but they get it every time, now don’t they? You all deserve it.”
    Jack peered over the women’s heads and met Randy’s eyes. They were frantic, vacant, like a trapped animal’s. Randy, come on. I need you to work the problem with me. We’re after an idea, any idea.
    â€œBut we can make this fair,” Stewart said. “The killer only wants one, so we’ll only take one.” He paced behind them, down to Randy, back up to Jack. “And we’ll even let you decide which one it’s gonna be.”
    They glanced at one another. Stephanie was weeping now, her tears dripping onto the floor.
    How could we possibly make that kind of decision? But this is life, right? Just one cruel absurdity after another, Jack thought . “You know we can’t do that.”
    Stewart’s voice dropped an octave. “You don’t fool me. I know what you can and can’t do. I know what you are.”
    Betty piped up, “No sense talking to him. He thinks it’s all a bad joke.”
    â€œI don’t—”
    â€œHow about you, country star?” Stewart moved sideways, touching the barrel to the back of Stephanie’s neck, making her flinch. Her crying intensified. “You think there’s nobody here you wouldn’t trade for your own life? Know what I think we oughta do with you? Leave you right here to freeze to death, long and slow.”
    â€œPlease help me . . .”
    â€œNow wouldn’t that be justice?”
    â€œBut it wasn’t my fault!” she screamed.
    And then she looked at Jack.
    Jack’s very soul froze at Stewart’s words, Stephanie’s cutting gaze, his own memories: he’d had such thoughts about her. He’d told himself such things over and over. He never said them; he only thought them. Justice. I don’t know. But if the accident wasn’t her fault, the breakup of our marriage sure was.
    â€œThat’s more like it, boy,” Stewart murmured.
    Randy spoke up. “Stewart, listen, this whole situation could work out really well for you. You have the advantage; I have money. We can work out an arrangement. You could be a rich man.”
    â€œOhhhh, yeah.” Stewart stood behind Randy, the barrel of the shotgun just under Randy’s ear. “Just how did you come by all that money, anyway? By making choices just like this one, am I right?”
    It took Randy a moment to formulate an answer. “Good businessmen weigh the