Drawn Into Darkness by Nancy Springer

ending at some fairly large body of water.
    â€œIs this a lake or what?” I asked, stopping as if to look, though I could see very little through rain so thoroughgoing it had already washed the sand off my face.
    â€œChatawachipolee River, running so high it’s nearly covered the boat ramp down yonder. Now stop stalling,” he added in the kindest of voices. “My gun’s right here in my belt. Move.”
    Crap. There seemed to be no point in delaying the inevitable. I walked on.
    â€œOkay, this is close enough.”
    It certainly was. The beam of the flashlight showed the sand ending a scant two feet in front of me. Beyond that I saw swiftly running water.
    Stoat let go of me and drew his gun. “Kneel down.”
    I started trembling, and not from cold. “Why?”
    â€œJust do it.” With the gun barrel poking my back and his gun hand gripping the handcuffs, he shoved me to my knees at the edge of the water, then stood back.
    â€œNow, Miss Lee Anna,” he told me in avuncular tones, “you are going into the river, but you’ll be dead before your darlin’ little face hits the water. You ain’t gonna drown, and I promise you, you ain’t going to feel a thing.”
    Not going to feel a thing? I felt sickening fear. I shook so hard my handcuffs rattled.
    Maybe that reminded him. “No use wasting a good pair of cuffs,” he remarked. Bending down to take them off, he set the flashlight aside, on the sand, since he was not about to relinquish hold of the gun and he did not have three hands.
    The moment the handcuffs came off, my arms swung forward and I boosted myself to my feet.
    â€œHey! Crazy bitch!” Stoat barked, no longer sounding the least bit avuncular. “Stop right there!” I heard him backing away, presumably so I could not grab the gun. “I’ll shoot you in the gut, slut! You want that?”
    â€œI want you to look me in the
face
, you creep,” I yelled, beginning to turn—
    Wham.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    A dull cracking noise, but to my gun-shy mind it sounded like a shot. I should have felt the pain; he couldn’t have missed me. I didn’t get it—until I swung around and saw Stoat crumpling to the ground.
    â€œJustin!”
    I grabbed the flashlight off the ground to verify. Yes. Standing over Stoat, Justin held a wooden baseball bat, and even in the downpour I could tell that the water running down his face was not entirely rain.
    â€œJustin,” I repeated, dumbfounded, and also weak in the knees with relief.
    He spoke between sobs. “Is he—dead?”
    I wanted to wrap my arms around the kid and weep on his shoulder, thank you oh thank you my hero—
    â€œI—hit him—hard—but I didn’t want to—kill—”
    My knees still wobbled, but I started to get a grip. Justin didn’t need a clinging vine right now. Like it or not, Stoat had been his family, sort of, for the past two years, and he felt as if he had just betrayed his word and maybe orphaned himself. He needed me to be strong.
    I got strong. “You didn’t kill him.” Crouching over Stoat, I felt a pulse in his neck, and I could see him breathing. “You just conked him good.” Stoat’s gun lay near his limp hand. Standing up, I snatched the gun as if swinging a snake by the tail; grabbing it by the tip of its barrel, I winged it like a boomerang into the middle of the Chatawhatchimahoosim. The river.
    Weapon gone, Stoat lay unconscious, yet my terror of the thin gray man only increased.
    â€œWe’ve got to get out of here, Justin!”
    The boy hadn’t moved from where he stood sobbing and shaking.
    â€œJustin.” I found that I lacked the guts to hop over Stoat, but I got to Justin roundabouts and gave him a solid hug. “Thanks for saving my ass. Now we have to save yours. Did he leave the key in the van?”
    â€œI, um, I guess