She’d been through it already and knew exactly how it felt. Back then, she’d been young and naive. The devastation of losing Cal had far exceeded the shame of being accused of being a bad parent. Now, with Cal back home, the media attention seemed somehow more intrusive. More dangerous.
But Dylan was right. Sooner or later, a different story would attract their attention and Cal’s reappearance would be old news.
“You kids okay?” she asked from the living room doorway.
Cal’s eyes were still fixed on the television. On the screen, a car chase was in progress. Melissa sat on the carpet a metre away from him, drawing pictures in her sketchbook. Neither of them looked up. Taking their silence as a sign they were both fine, Carrie padded into the hall. She could hear the journalists babbling outside. No doubt having a good chat about her family. Comparing notes, perhaps, as they waited for the Killigrews to emerge.
Another sound reached her ears. The thud of Dylan’s feet as he paced up and down their bedroom. She thought about going up to him then changed her mind. When Dylan paced, it almost always meant he needed to be left alone, until he’d either worked out the problem or his legs had grown tired. Carrie was restless herself. There was only so much sitting down she could do. Besides, the darkness of the house was insidious, creeping beneath her skin and filling her with gloom.
Perhaps she should move everyone into the kitchen, she thought, where there was still light and privacy. Or perhaps she should throw open the living room curtains and give those damn journalists the finger. Yeah, sure. Great idea.
As she turned to gather her children and ferry them into the kitchen, the journalists’ din swelled with excitement. She heard cameras clicking and flashing. The din grew into a frenzy.
Heading into the living room, Carrie moved to the window and pulled back a curtain.
“Oh, shit,” she breathed.
Melissa drew in a shocked gasp. “You said a bad word!”
Carrie snapped the curtains shut and raced back out to the hall. “Dylan! Get down here, now!”
The words had barely left her mouth when there was a hurried rapping on the door.
“Shit. Fuck.”
Dylan was descending the stairs, looking tired and angry. “What’s wrong?”
The rapping came again, this time harder, more urgent.
Carrie shook her head. “I have to open it.”
“Why? Who’s there?”
“It’s Tess.”
“Are you kidding me?” Dylan was beside her now, staring at the door. “You can’t open it. The journalists will have a field day.”
“I can’t ignore her.”
“Yes, you can. If you open that door, you might as well invite the whole damn lot of them inside.”
Carrie folded her arms and met her husband’s glare. “She’s lost her son, Dylan. You know why she’s here.”
“But we don’t know where her son is. We don’t know that Cal does either. We don’t even know where he’s been.”
“I know that. I’m not letting her near Cal. But I can’t just let her stand there. Imagine what the papers will say.”
The knocking came again. Then the doorbell, harsh and shrill in their ears. Dylan let out a heavy sigh. He shook his head and took a step back. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Not really. Go in with the kids, make sure they’re okay. And Dylan?”
“Yeah?”
“Please, stay in there. No more smashing journalists’ cameras, not while they’re all watching.”
“I’m not promising anything.”
Carrie watched him disappear into the living room. She turned to the front door and drew in a deep breath. She held it for as long as she could then let it out.
Then she unlocked the door and pulled it open.
A wave of noise crashed over her.
Tess Pengelly stood on the doorstep, a pale representation of the person she used to be. Her hair was a mess. Dark shadows were tattooed beneath her eyes. She wore clothes that hadn’t seen a washing machine in days. Behind her, the journalists hung over the garden gate, pushing and shoving each other, all barking questions.
“Tess. . .” Carrie’s voice was lost beneath the din. “What are you doing here?”
Tess stared at her with hollow eyes that moved behind Carrie into the hall.
“Where is he? Does he know anything?” she said, her voice exhausted and trembling. “I need to see him.”
Carrie remained unmoving in the doorway. Two months ago, Tess had been healthy and happy. Then Noah had disappeared, snatching away his mother’s zest. This was the first time Carrie had been face to face with Tess since making the decision to step away.
Apart, they were better able to deal with their individual loss. But together, their grief pulled like magnets. It was unbearable. And Carrie hadn’t wanted to make Tess feel worse.
Or herself, for that matter.
Now, with Tess standing before her, desperation seeping from every pore, Carrie felt guilt crushing her chest. But Cal had come home. It was her duty to protect him.
“I’m sorry, Tess,” she said, shaking her head. “Cal isn’t ready for that yet. We’ve only just got him home.”
“Please,” Tess begged. She winced as, desperate to listen in, the journalists fell silent. Only the clicks of pictures being snapped could be heard. “I need to know if he’s been with Noah. If he’s been with my boy. Please, let me see him.”
Carrie shook her head again. Guilt squeezed her lungs in its fingers, making it hard to breathe. “I can’t. I’m sorry. We don’t know where Cal has been. He’s not ready to talk yet.” She hung her head. “Not even to me.”
Tears spilled down Tess’s face. The sadness in her eyes, the desolation, grew dark and angry.
Carrie lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m sorry, Tess. I promise you, as soon as Cal is better, I’ll ask him about Noah.”
“My son is out there somewhere,” Tess said through clenched teeth. “Scared. Alone. God knows what’s being done to him. If Cal knows where he is, he needs to tell me. I need my boy. I need Noah to come back home.”
Carrie sensed movement.
Dylan came up behind her. He nodded at Tess.
“Close the door,” he said, quietly. “You can’t help her, not now.”
Carrie turned back to Tess. “As soon as Cal’s talking again, I’ll ask him. I promise you. But that’s all I can do.”
The anger in Tess’s eyes spread to her whole body. Her face twisted and contorted. Her hands curled into fists.
“All you can do?” she said, her voice rising. “Someone took my boy! Your son can tell me where he is, I know he can. I can’t wait until he’s better, Carrie. My boy could be dead by then!”
“Carrie. . .” Dylan placed a hand on her shoulder.
She shook it off. Her eyes moved from Tess to the journalists. They were loving this, she thought. She could just imagine the stories in tomorrow’s papers.
“I’m sorry,” she said, avoiding her friend’s wretched gaze, and moved to close the door.
Tess wedged her foot between the door and the jamb. “You close that door and you’re letting my son die!” she cried. “Do I have to get on my knees and beg you in front of all these people?”
Carrie shook her head. “Move your foot, Tess. Don’t give these journalists a story. They are not here to help you. This will only make things worse.”
Tess began to cry uncontrollably. Her foot remained wedged in the doorway.
“Tess, you need to leave,” Dylan said, his tone gentle yet firm. “I’m sorry, but Carrie’s already told you. When Cal is well enough, we’ll make sure he tells us what he knows. Until then, you need to go home.”
The two glared at one another.
“I’m not going anywhere until I see Cal.”
Behind Tess, the journalists became one unified roar. Jago Pengelly appeared among them, pushing his way into the garden.
Relief surged through Carrie�
�s body.
Jago hurried along the path. Tess turned and, upon seeing him, sagged like a deflated balloon.
“Mum, what are you doing?” Jago said, his voice soft. He slung his arm around her shoulder. She leaned into him.
“I need to know where he is,” she said. Her voice was bereft of any emotion.
Jago kissed her head. “This isn’t going to help, Mum. Come on, let’s get you into bed.”
“I’m sorry,” Carrie said again. This time, Tess didn’t look up.
Jago nodded. “It’s okay. I’ll take her home.”
He whispered something in his mother’s ear and kissed her temple. Turning her away from the Killigrew house, he guided her along the garden path. A second later, they were absorbed by the journalists, who all turned to fire questions and snap pictures.
Carrie’s heart ached as she watched them disappear. She felt Dylan’s hand on her waist, his thumb caressing the small of her back.
“You did the right thing,” he said.
For a moment, she stood with her head resting against Dylan’s chest. What if Tess was right? What if Cal did know the answer to Noah’s whereabouts? What if waiting for him to speak, to tell them what he knew, would make it too late to find Noah alive?
There had to be a way to get Cal to open up. To communicate where he had been all this time. To tell them if Noah was being held in the same place.
With the front door closed and locked, Carrie and Dylan returned to the living room. Cal no longer sat in front of the television but stood in front of the windows, peering through the curtains.
“Come away from there,” Carrie said, surprised by the irritation in her voice.
He released the curtains but remained where he was. Carrie searched his expression. There was nothing there. No clues. No answers. The last seven years were locked deep inside his mind. They were going to need more than asking questions to find out the truth.
Part of Carrie didn’t want to know the truth. Because she knew it would be horrific. And that horror would devolve into nightmares that would last a lifetime. And she would have to relive the guilt of losing him, over and over. Because wasn’t she responsible? Responsible for the terrible things that had happened to him since?
She thought of the scars and marks on his body. Of the X-rays of broken bones and fractures that hadn’t been there before he’d disappeared. Did Noah look the same? Did he bear the same scars? The same broken bones? Or was his skin now rotting away, parting like dead petals to reveal those pearly white bones beneath?
Suddenly, Carrie wanted to scream at Cal. To demand the truth. Instead, she shifted her eyes to the television, then to Melissa, who was oblivious to the world as she drew pictures of animals.
“I’ll make something to eat,” she said, even though she suspected no one was hungry.
20
IT WAS THE PAIN THAT woke him. White hot and piercing. Like a pickaxe through the head.
Scott Triggs opened his eyes. He was on his back. In the dark. There was a light source seeping in from somewhere as the darkness was not entirely impenetrable.
He turned his head left, then right, waiting as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. He tried to move. To sit up. The pain in his head forced him back down. It was followed by a nauseating wave of dizziness. Smells reached his nostrils. Something sharp. Something damp. Something deeply unpleasant.
Now he was more awake, his nerve endings sprang to life. The ache in his head began to spread across his face. The bridge of his nose throbbed. He was pretty sure it was broken. He ran a tongue along his teeth. At least two were missing.
Like a light snapping on, he remembered what had happened.
Panic grabbed hold of him. He tried to pull himself up on his elbows. His hands would not move. He realised with sickening clarity his wrists were strapped down.
Terror gripped him by the throat. Scott pulled against the restraints but they held fast.
He kicked his legs but his ankles were held down, too.
That old bastard had knocked him out cold and had him tied up somewhere in the dark.
Tears sprung to Scott’s eyes. He fought against the bindings like a wild animal but only succeeded in making them tighter. He was going to be sick. He turned his head and vomited, spraying the contents of his stomach over the surface of the table, or whatever the hell it was he was strapped to.
He fought to free himself again then lay very still, blood pounding in his ears. Why was this happening to him?
Get a grip, he told himself. If he was going to get out of here he would need a clear head.
He spent the next few minutes trying to draw in deep breaths and let them out in steady streams. He willed his heartbeat to slow down, for the adrenaline in his veins to dissipate.
He stared upward. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he could make out the ceiling a couple of metres above his head. He turned his head to the left. He couldn’t see much apart from shadowy blocks. Were they shelves? Wherever he was, the room was big. A basement, perhaps? Was he beneath Grady Spencer’s house?
There had to be something nearby that he could grab. He lifted his head to get a better view. As far as he could tell, the table was in the centre of the room and surrounded by space.
Almost like an altar. The thought sent his pulse racing again.
There was nothing he could reach. Nothing that would help him to escape.
Resting his head back against the table, he tilted his chin up to the ceiling and looked behind him. On the peripheries of his vision, light crept out from beneath a door.
It was his way out. If he could free himself.
How was he going to do that?
Terror returned to Scott as a fresh wave of pain wracked his body. He fought against the bindings once more, spasming and thrashing on the table like an epileptic in the throes of a seizure.
He was trapped. A prisoner. Scott drew in lungsful of air and screamed. His voice was deafening, bouncing off the walls. He sucked in another breath and screamed again.
Surely someone had to hear him. He was on a residential street for Christ’s sake!
Silence suffocated him like a shroud.
Tears filled his eyes. His nose for a story had finally put him in dire trouble. That old bastard was going to kill him. He wouldn’t be able to fight back. No one was coming to save him because no one knew where he was.
Scott wept. His body trembled uncontrollably. He didn’t want to die! Not yet. He still hadn’t had a story make it to the front page. This was supposed to be it. This story, right here in Devil’s Cove. Except now he was part of the story. As the tears streamed down the sides of his face, he wondered if this was how he would finally make it to the front page. As the news.
Above his sobs, he heard a noise. Footsteps, slow and shuffling, descending wooden steps.
Keys jangled. A lock was turned. The door creaked open. A switch was flipped and dull, yellow light illuminated the room. Scott squinted as a naked lightbulb flickered above his head. Instinctively, he tried to raise his hand to cover his eyes. The bindings dug into his skin. He waited for his eyes to adjust then looked wildly around the room.
He had been right. He was in a large basement. Shelves, filled with boxes, lined the walls. The floor was stone. The ceiling, rock.
His hands and wrists were tied with straps to a workbench, which was old and worn. He winced at the vomit next to his head as he strained to face Grady Spencer.
The old man stood in the doorway, silent and unmoving.
Watching him.
“Why are you doing this?” Scott hissed. He could just make out his silhouette, black against the yellow light. “People know I’m here. If I don’t get back to the office soon, I’ll be missed. They’ll come looking for me.”
Grady Spencer made no move to enter the room. He stood, quietly observing from the doorway.
“Why don’t you say something?” Scott cried. “Let me off this table!”
He began thrashing agai
n, knocking his head against the bench. Searing pain tore the breath from his lungs.
“Please,” he begged, his voice cracked and desperate.
Grady Spencer lurched into the room, moving to the left, disappearing from Scott’s view.
Then, Scott heard wheels, squeaking and stiff, rolling against the ground, followed by a metallic clatter.
His entire body went cold. He pulled against the straps, bunching his fingers into tight fists. Tendons in his neck threatened to tear. Veins in his forehead popped.
He screamed as tears shot from his eyes. “Let me off this damn table or I’ll rip your fucking head off!”
The sounds moved closer. Grady leaned over him. Scott glanced to his side to see a metal trolley. On top of the trolley was a tray. In the tray, neatly lined up, were razor-sharp instruments.
Scott’s heart stopped. His bladder released itself.
“I’ll kill you,” he wailed.
Grady Spencer leaned over him, a gleeful smile on his lips.
“Kill me?” he laughed. “And how do you intend to do that? Cry me to death?”
Tears slipped from Scott’s eyes as he examined the instruments on the trolley. A scalpel. A hacksaw. Gardening shears. Something that looked like forceps with blades.
“Please, let me go,” he sobbed.
Grady Spencer smiled. “You journalists are all the same. Polite with your pleases and thank-yous, ever so friendly when you need to be. Just to get your story. Just to get your name on the front page.” His gaze moved from Scott to the trolley of torture instruments. “There are all kinds of ways to get on the front page without interfering in other people’s lives.”
“Please,” Scott said, begging now. “I won’t say anything. I’ll leave right away. You’ll never hear from me again.”
The old man’s voice was cracked and cruel. “After tonight, I suppose I won’t. Now, where shall we begin? Left hand, or right?”
Scott’s blood ran cold.
“Please.” He couldn’t breathe. It was as if someone had sucked all the air out of the room. “Please, let me go.”
Grady ran a finger along the tools in the trolley. He fingered the gardening shears, changed his mind, and selected the hacksaw.
The Cove: a shocking thriller you won't be able to put down (The Devil's Cove Book 1) Page 12