The Same Place (The Lamb and the Lion #2) - Gregory Ashe Page 0,42
County and Park City. Instead of heading into Park City, though, they turned south, following the back of the Wasatch Mountains. Jem and Tean had made this trip together once before, at the beginning of their friendship, when Jem had brought Tean out here to see a sunrise. Jem still couldn’t explain to himself why he had done it, why he had thought it might work. But it had worked. It had changed something between them, that frozen morning, daylight flooding the valley like it was spilling out of a cup. He thought about it now, as they drove through bruised shadows, as he heard in his mind the note of excitement that Tean hadn’t been able to suppress when he’d said, I’ll ask him. He shivered and leaned his head against the glass; it might as well have been a sheet of ice.
Tean fiddled with the heat and angled the vents toward Jem.
“I’m ok,” Jem said.
“It’s freezing up here,” Tean said. “The canyons are always a lot colder.”
They drove south on US 189, passing the Jordanelle Reservoir, which was black and sleek in the nightfall, no ripples, no reflected stars. Darkness had fallen almost completely when Tean turned onto a frontage road and then turned again, guiding them east into an emptiness of scrub and brush. They almost missed the farm. The maps app blurted out a warning, and Tean hit the brakes. Then he had to back up to turn onto the narrow dirt drive. The Ford rocked and bounced over the ruts and folds baked into the ground.
“Phew,” Jem said when the smell hit him.
“Yep,” Tean said. “Smells like a pig farm.”
“Shouldn’t it be called something, you know, else?” Jem said.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. A ranch. A slop. A porkery.”
The faint glow from the dash left most of Tean’s face in shadow, but Jem could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m pretty sure it’s just called a pig farm.”
The house at the end of the drive was small and dark; no lights showed in the windows, and Jem could only identify it because its low roofline broke the emptiness of the valley.
“Doesn’t seem like anyone’s home,” Jem said.
“Let’s have a look,” Tean said.
“I’ve corrupted you. I’ve made you a criminal mastermind.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Tean said. “When I was fourteen, I stole a library copy of Bop because it had a shirtless picture of Freddie Prinze, Jr.”
“What the hell is Bop?”
Tean just shook his head and slid out of the truck. The smell of dung and, well, pigs, rushed into the truck, and Jem opened his door, pulled his shirt up over his nose, and got out too.
“And who’s Freddie Prinze, Jr.?”
“He was, I don’t know. Freddie Prinze, Jr.”
“Was he hot?”
“I committed a felony for him.”
“I don’t think stealing a library’s copy of Bop, whatever the hell that is, is a felony. On the other hand, if you—”
Before Jem could finish, the door to the house flew open. A small figure stood outlined against a weak patch of light, and then a voice rang out.
“Get off my property. That’s the only warning you’re going to get.”
“Ms. Maynes?” Tean said. “Zalie Maynes? My name is Tean Leon, and I’m looking for Joy—”
The figure in the doorway moved. Something exploded: a flash of light, a blast of sound. Jem was already wrapped around Tean, bearing him to the ground, as his brain processed what had happened. She had fired at them. A shotgun, he thought.
When a second shot didn’t come, Jem scrambled up, dragging Tean toward the truck.
“You come back,” she shouted, “and the next one won’t be a warning.”
15
On Tuesday morning, Tean was sitting in his office, staring at the poster opposite him that showed a sea turtle with a plastic straw stuck in its nose and the words YES, YOU PROBABLY DID NEED A STRAW TO DRINK THAT DIET COKE. I HOPE YOU ENJOYED IT. His phone buzzed. It was a message from his sister Sara.
You still haven’t RSVP’d for Sunday. We’d love to see you.
He dismissed the message. Almost immediately the phone buzzed again, and Tean readied himself to dismiss another sibling text—or, worse, phone call—when Ammon’s name flashed on the screen. The last five months had conditioned Tean to dismiss the call automatically, but then he thought about Hannah’s situation and answered.
“Hi,” Ammon said, with that fresh edge of uncertainty that had never been in his voice before. “How are you?”
“I don’t want to do small talk, Ammon. What do you want?”