“Wait,” Hank said. “First, you need a replacement.”
“A what?”
Hank didn’t respond. He found a thick piece of bark on the ground and handed it to Davy. “Here.”
“What—”
“Put it in your pocket. Where you had the phone.”
“Why? I—”
“Just do it!”
Davy cringed but took the bark and slipped it into his pocket.
“Okay,” said Hank, “now move.” And for a wonder, Davy did.
Trevor let himself be led back through the woods. He’d done what he could, and although he would have preferred to stay away from the bad man until help came, he guessed he could tough it out a little longer. It wasn’t like the guy was hurting him, really, just squeezing his shoulder. Trevor guessed he’d bring him back to the room with no windows, back to Zach, lock him up again, and that was fine. When they came to rescue him, a locked door wouldn’t keep them out. They’d get the key, and if not the key then they’d break the door in, and it would THWACK against the wall just like in one of his comics.
He saw the house through the trees, the parked truck and the chopping block. Trevor wished he were a big guy, a grownup. He’d have knocked the bad man to the ground, punched him in the face until he bled, then gone back to the house alone and rescued Zach and the doggy both. He could have driven them away in the truck and been the hero. He looked up at the man beside him and knew he could punch his very hardest without doing more than tickling the guy.
They crossed the yard and re-entered the house.
When they’d come the first time, Trevor had been scared. This time, although still scared, he also felt a little proud. He’d done it, after all. He might not be a hero, but he’d made the phone call, had crawled through the crawlspace above the ceiling with all the yellow stuff and the spiders and bats, had gone into the dark woods until the red cell phone got a signal. That was something at least.
It was darker inside than out. They passed the kitchen, where Trevor had left the pile of ceiling in front of the refrigerator, and sped down the hallway to the locked door. Trevor stayed behind the crazy man, trying not to bump into anything, wondering how the man kept from hitting furniture or smacking into walls.
Light shone beneath the door, enough for Trevor to see the bad man’s shoes and his own, but not much else.
Clack click.
The door swung open, and Zach looked out at them from the pile of blankets.
“Georgies are supposed to watch out for their Davys,” the man said.
Before Zach could respond, the man shoved Trevor into the room and re-locked the door. Trevor squinted, held his hands in front of his face to keep away the worst of the light.
“What happened?” Zach whispered. “Did the phone work?”
“Yeah,” said Trevor, but in a distracted way. He looked at the floor beneath the hole in the ceiling, which the man either hadn’t noticed or hadn’t said anything about. “Where’s the mess?”
On the pile, Zach smiled. He lifted up the corner of the blankets and showed Trevor the gray gunk. “I thought if I hid it he might not notice our getaway hatch. At least not right away. Guess I was right.”
“You think you can get me up there again?” Trevor asked.
Zach got up and rubbed his hands together. “I can sure as heck try.”
In the bathroom, Hank stood in front of the sink. He splashed water on his face, washed the blood and the dirt and the sweat down the drain. He ran wet fingers through his hair and tried to get the worst of the gore out of there, too. He found an especially thick wad of blood behind his ear and scratched at it with his fingernail.
He wasn’t normally an overly hygienic person, sometimes went two or three days between showers, but these were special circumstances, and if he’d known the bloodshed was over, he’d have taken his second shower in less than twenty-four hours, which would have been a record. He settled for washing his face, his neck, and his hands. He took off the button-up shirt and tossed it onto the floor by the toilet, where his most recently chewed toothpick floated like the miniature timber from some shipwrecked model boat. The shirt was ruined, as were the pants. A perfectly good birthday suit. What a waste.
Hank turned up the water. The soap was an old, graying bar of Irish Spring. He scrubbed his skin with it until he’d covered his top half with a thin, bubbly film, then washed off the suds and repeated the process. When he was finished, he only looked a little better, but he felt like a new man.
He dried off with a pink towel that had started the day white and left the bathroom.
It would be a while before anyone came for the boys. In the meantime, he needed to rest. Not nap—there wasn’t time for that—but rest, sure. He considered Mr. Boots’s bed, but only briefly. He couldn’t rest where that monster had slept, couldn’t lay his head down on the old man’s drool-crusted pillow. There was a sofa in the living room. Not a comfortable piece of furniture, but not exactly a bed of nails either. It would do for a short rest.
He made his way into the living room, sat down on the springy sofa, and paused only long enough to kick off his shoes before lying his head on one armrest and propping his feet on the other.
Thirty seconds later, despite his intentions, he was asleep.
When he woke, the whole world had gone crazy. That was, the whole world but him.
THIRTY-SIX
Mike took a sharp curve, and something in the back seat fell to the floor. Libby reached around to pick it up. It was the cordless Dremel rotary tool, a thing that looked a little bit like an industrial-power toothbrush, loaded with the sharpest bit Mike had been able to find. Libby returned it to the back with the rest of their makeshift arsenal. In addition to the Dremel, they had a ball peen hammer, a cordless drill, and a foot-long steel chisel that wasn’t razor sharp at the end but that would put somebody down if you swung it hard enough. Pretty mediocre firepower, but better than nothing.
Mike watched Libby and the tools from the corner of his eye and through the rearview. He was driving too fast, almost dangerously, and needed to keep his face pointed forward, his eyes on the road. It felt strange driving the Honda, not only because he hadn’t been behind its wheel for almost a year, but because the car was technically Libby’s now and not his. He shouldn’t have felt awkward or guilty—it wasn’t as if he’d forced his way into the driver’s seat without her permission. They’d agreed he should drive. Trevor had given him the directions, after all—if Libby had gotten behind the wheel, he’d only have spent the whole time navigating.
“You know,” Libby said, facing forward again, “maybe the cops or the deputies or whoever they are, maybe they’re already there. Maybe they’ve got the guy in cuffs or a body bag.”
“Yeah,” said Mike, though he didn’t believe it. “If we’re lucky.”
“What do we do if we get there and he’s got a gun or a crossbow or something?”
“A crossbow?”
Libby shrugged. “I don’t know. Weirdo like this guy, he could have a cannon for all we know.”
“He doesn’t have a cannon,” Mike said, shaking his head.
She said, “That’s not the point. All this stuff we brought, it could barely get us through hand-to-hand combat. If he’s got a gun, we’re screwed.”
Mike took his eyes away from the road just long enough to scoff at her. “Hand-to-hand combat? You’ve been watching too many Rambo movies.”
“But what would we do?”
“We’d do whatever it takes,” he said, knowing it was vague, not really an answer at all, but also knowing it was what she wanted to hear. “We’re going to get him back. I promise.”
Libby looked at him for a long time. He sensed her eyes on him but didn’t return the look. He eased the car around another tight curve, and Libby finally looked away. She stared quietly through the window, chewing at her lip and twisting her fingers.
They found the place just like Trevor had said, right down to the dilapid
ated fence at the front edge of the property. Of course, Trevor hadn’t used the word dilapidated—falling apart, he’d said. Not that he would have needed to know about the fence anyway. Something was wrong with this place, something heinous in the air around it, something Mike could physically feel, like nervousness in the stomach only higher up, butterflies fluttering around his heart.
“Do you feel that?” Libby asked.
Mike nodded. He turned the car into the driveway and shut off the lights. This wasn’t exactly a stealth mission—they would have to go in strong—but he wouldn’t give the guy any extra warning if he could avoid it. The Honda bounced over the rough ground, tall weeds and grasses scraped against the undercarriage, and for a second Mike had the vague impression that some thing lay underneath, trying to claw its way in.
Stop it, he thought. He couldn’t let himself get too freaked out. It wouldn’t do Trevor any good.
As they approached the dark house, Libby reached into the back seat, took the four tools-turned-weapons into her lap, and waited.
Mike followed the driveway past the front of the house and stopped. He started to shut off the Honda but didn’t. They might need to get out of here in a hurry. The last thing he wanted was to die because of a stubborn ignition or a flooded engine. He looked at Libby. She handed him the drill and the chisel, kept the Dremel and the hammer for herself.
“Ready?”
She unbuckled her seatbelt and nodded. Mike let himself out of his own harness and said, “We need to split up. You go in the back, I’ll take the front. If one of us runs into the asshole, at least the other will be able to get to Trevor.”
“And the other boy,” she said.
Mike nodded. “And him.”
They got out of the car, stood on either side of the rumbling engine. Mike motioned for her to follow the driveway to the back of the house and started for the front.
“Mike,” she said.
He turned to her.
“Good luck.”
He smiled. “You, too.”
They turned from each other then, clutching their poor excuses for weaponry, and went their separate ways.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The second trip across the ceiling was better than the first had been. Trevor knew which joists to avoid, which were extra bowed or twisted, and although he encountered just as much of the spider-webby yellow stuff, it seemed less itchy. Maybe he’d gotten used to it the way he got used to his bathwater when it was too hot, or maybe he was moving too fast for the stuff to catch him. He’d practically crept along the crawlspace his first time through. Now, he hustled.
The other side of the house seemed to come up awfully fast. Could the place have shrunk since the last time he’d been here? In the dark, it took him a minute to find the hole he’d kicked for himself earlier, but it was still there. Of course it was still there. Ceilings didn’t grow back like cut skin, silly.
Trevor lowered himself through the hole, hung from the same joist he had the last time and kicked out for the top of the fridge. His feet found the slick surface, and he dropped.
And dropped.
He landed not on the top of the fridge, but on the pile of ceiling on the floor six feet below, and not on his feet, but on his butt. Trevor’s bottom and back throbbed. He saw blurry red light and wondered if his brain was bleeding. The broken pieces of ceiling had softened his fall a little, but not enough to save him from the terrible pain sneaking up into his shoulders and neck. He felt like he’d just been spanked with a bulldozer.
He heard a squeak and a groan from somewhere close, maybe in the living room. The bad man, he was sure, but he wouldn’t wait to see. Trevor hopped to his feet and ran to the back door as fast as his aching heinie would allow. If he’d been the bad man, he’d have locked the back door just in case he, Trevor, got loose again, but the man must not have been worrying about that, because the door opened wide.
Trevor escaped the house for the second time that night. He was about to head for the trees again, a different section of woods than he’d gone into last time, when he ran into the woman hurrying around the corner of the house.
And not just any woman.
His mommy.
Hank woke to the sound of something exploding. Or so he thought. Maybe he’d been dreaming about war or mail bombs or the Fourth of July. There was no smell of smoke and no fire as far as he could tell, but the sound had come from nearby.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes. They adjusted to the low light in their usual way, as if they’d been designed for nothing else.
The back door slammed, and he knew at once what had happened. The boy. Davy. He didn’t understand how the kid kept getting out of the room. It was goddamn locked. He was sure of it.
He stood up to go after the boy but then heard another sound, something softer and continuous, something coming from outside the house and sounding a little like a purring kitten.
Must not have used enough sunscreen, he thought and grinned.
Except it wasn’t a cat outside, it was something else: an engine.
He heard a creak on the front porch and stood very still, listening.
Another creak.
The boy could wait. Hank hurried out of the living room and down the hall. The thing he needed now was still in the bedroom, leaning against the bloody wall.
Mike crept to the front door and tried the knob.
Locked.
Cobwebs and dust filled the little stoop, as if no one had used the front entrance in years. In fact, the whole place looked abandoned, unoccupied for months, years. Rustic wasn’t the word for it, because rustic implied quaintness. This place was a shack.
He guessed he could turn around and search for an open window, but that might be fruitless. For all he knew, the kidnapper had the whole place boarded shut from the inside like something out of Night of the Living Dead. Mike thought about trying to pry open the door with the chisel. He’d never used the tool in such a way, had never broken into a house at all, for that matter, but he guessed it might work. The chisel was really more of a pry bar anyway. He knelt down to examine the knob.
It was a cheap thing, hardly more secure looking than a closet doorknob. Mike thought he just about could have ripped it loose with his bare hands. He brought the chisel up to the plate between the door and the jamb, wiggling it in until it would go no farther and then shoving on it.
The door flew open, and for a second he thought he must have had some magic breaking-and-entering ability, but then a man came rushing through the opening. The kidnapper. He was carrying a sword, and he was screaming.
“Mommy!” Trevor ran to her and wrapped himself around her neck so tight he might as well have been a scarf.
Libby swept him into her arms, careful not to gouge him with the tools in her hands, and slathered his face with her tears and her kisses.
From the other side of the house, Libby heard a pair of screams. She put Trevor down and said, “The other boy, is he inside?”
Trevor nodded. “And the doggy, too. We have to save them. Where’s Daddy?”
Without answering, Libby took Trevor’s hand and led him back into the house, still sniffling. “Where are they?”
Trevor stepped ahead of her and said, “I’ll show you.”
It was a dark night, and although Libby had managed to make her way around the house without falling flat on her face, she was totally blind inside. Trevor seemed to know where to go, but he moved very slowly, maybe with his free hand out in front of him like a blind man, obviously not familiar enough with the layout of the house to navigate sightlessly.
She heard a clang from the front yard and tried to hurry Trevor along. She banged her hip into a wall and heard Trevor bump into another wall beside her. She let go of his hand and felt around the area long enough to realize they’d reached the head of a hallway.
“Look for a light switch,” she told Trevor. “Feel along the walls.”
As it turned out, she found the switch herself. The light
in the hallway was a single bare bulb overhead, not much brighter than a flickering candle but enough to see by.
“Here,” Trevor said after the light flickered on. He hurried past a slightly ajar door to another, closed door at the end of the hall. He twisted the knob. It didn’t move. “Zach,” he said.
From behind the door, Libby heard the other boy’s response: “Yeah?” He was older than Trevor from the sounds of it, maybe ten or eleven. It was hard to tell through the fear in the kid’s voice.
“They’re here,” Trevor said. “We’re rescued.”
The child, Zach, said, “Who? The police?”
Trevor looked at Libby, confusion in his face. “Are there policemen coming?”
Libby wanted to say yes, a whole S.W.A.T. team was on the way—Trevor was so sure he was saved—but she couldn’t lie, couldn’t get either boy’s hopes up.
“Maybe eventually,” she said. “But hopefully we’ll be long gone by the time they get here.” She looked at the locked doorknob and then at the hammer in her hand. “Stand back,” she told Trevor.
He did. Libby raised the hammer over her head and swung it down as hard as she could. The doorknob clanged like a muffled cymbal and dropped to the floor below. She looked at it, a little shocked. She’d been prepared to beat the crap out of the thing, swing the hammer until nothing remained of the knob but dust. She supposed your luck couldn’t be all bad all the time.
Her hammer hand throbbed. She shook it the way you do a body part that’s fallen asleep and said to the boy on the other side of the door, “Try opening it.”
The door rattled but didn’t budge. Trevor looked up at her worriedly.
“Okay,” she said. “Stand back.” She waited for a second. “Are you back?”
“Uh huh,” said Zach, his voice muffled and trembling.
The inner workings of the doorknob seemed so strange, intricate. She wondered if she could use the second tool to tear them apart, but she didn’t really know how to use the thing and didn’t have time to learn.