A tiny, slurred voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Jago?”
Slowly, he turned. Beside him, Carrie drew in a shocked gasp. They both looked toward the cages. From the darkness of the centre cage, a small, trembling hand reached between the bars. Then fell limp.
Jago rushed forward. Behind him, Carrie stared with wide eyes. Reaching the cage, Jago peered into the shadows.
“Noah?”
He could just make out a small, unmoving shape in the darkness. A padlock secured the cage door. Jago pulled at it then frantically looked around.
Behind him, Carrie stooped over Grady’s dying body and rifled through his pockets. Finding a bunch of keys, she hurried over and handed them to Jago. He rifled through the keys, slipping one into the lock, then trying another. The third key snapped to the left. The cage door swung open.
Holding his breath, Jago reached into the shadows.
And pulled out his brother.
He was painfully thin and caked in dirt. Dark shadows circled vacant eyes. He was drifting in and out of consciousness.
But Noah Pengelly was alive.
Tears streamed down Jago’s face.
“Hello, little buddy,” he said. “How are you doing?”
Noah’s haunted eyes opened. He looked up at Jago.
“I want to go home.” His voice was small and trembling.
Jago pressed his brother to his chest. More tears spilled down his cheeks.
“We can do that,” he laughed. “Why not? Let’s go home.”
He stood, Noah’s legs and arms wrapped around his body, his cheek pressed against his own.
Beside him, Carrie reached out and stroked Noah’s face. But she did not smile. Her face was blank. Her eyes haunted by ghosts.
“Come on,” Jago said. “I need to get him out of here.”
They turned to leave.
And saw Cal blocking their way.
50
CARRIE LOOKED AT HER son. She no longer recognised him. Blood trickled down the side of his head. One of his eyes had closed over. The skin around it was bruised and swollen. The other was fixed on her. Sweat poured from his brow. His chest heaved up and down. In his hand, he held a large knife with a serrated edge.
“Cal. . .” she breathed.
Beside her Jago clutched Noah to his chest.
Her son was in there somewhere, beneath the feral exterior. Grady Spencer had tried to destroy him. To tear him down so he could build him up into something terrible. Something resembling himself. But there was goodness still in there.
There had to be.
He had hesitated before cutting her. And he hadn’t gone for her throat, just her arm. Cal was still in there somewhere, drowning in darkness. If only she could reach him.
“Cal, baby,” Carrie said, raising her hands, palms out. “It’s over now. You’re safe. Put the knife down and come to me.”
She opened her arms up, inviting him in. Cal remained unmoving, his gaze shifting between Carrie and the Pengelly boys.
“Come on, now. Put it down. No one’s going to hurt you. You’re safe.”
But Cal did not put the knife down.
“You’ve done a good thing,” Carrie said. “You led me here so we could save Noah. That makes you a hero, Cal. Do you realise that?”
Jago opened his mouth to protest. One look from Carrie made him shut it again.
She took a small step forward. Cal immediately tensed. He pointed the knife at her.
“Do you remember when you were a little boy and you found a bird in the back garden? It had flown into the window and broken its wing. You picked it up and you laid it inside a box, on a bed of grass. And you took care of it. You brought it worms to eat. You fed it drops of water from an old baby’s bottle. And when it died, you buried it yourself. You cried, but you told me you knew the bird was happy now because it was no longer in pain.” Carrie was crying without realising it. “You don’t want to hurt anyone, Cal.”
She stared at her son, her heart breaking, over and over. He was that bird now, his mind a broken wing. But he didn’t need to die to be free of pain.
She could take it away. She could heal him.
Carrie took another step closer.
“Please Cal,” she said. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. Let the boys go.”
Cal lowered the knife an inch. His gaze shifted to Jago, then to Noah, who stared back at him with dull, drooping eyes.
“Let them go. I’ll stay here with you. It’ll be just the two of us. We can talk.”
Cal glanced down at Grady Spencer’s cooling body lying in a dark expanse of blood.
His shoulders sagged. His head lowered.
Carrie felt anger and envy rampage through her body. He’s not your father! He’s not the one who loves you, who birthed you. Who spent the last seven years reliving the day you disappeared, over and over.
She swallowed her anger down and nodded at Jago.
“Go,” she said.
Jago’s grip tightened around his brother. He stared at her uncertainly.
“Go now.”
Jago inched forward.
Cal’s head snapped up. He raised the knife. His lips parted and exposed his teeth.
“Keep going,” Carrie urged. She stepped forward, putting herself between the Pengelly boys and her son. “They’re leaving now, Cal. We can, too. We can go home, just the two of us. Melissa’s at her grandparents. We’ll have the house to ourselves. We can get you cleaned up then make some hot chocolate. And we can sit and talk, just like we used to.”
Jago moved closer to the door. Cal turned, pointing the knife at him.
Carrie moved closer. “Look at me, Cal. Keep your eyes on me.”
Cal leaned forward and swiped the knife through the air—a warning that if Jago took another step forward, it would be his last.
Noah began to cry in his brother’s arms.
Carrie took another step toward her son.
“Let them go,” she said, raising her voice. “Come home with me. You never have to see this place again.”
“Carrie. . .” Jago’s voice was trembling.
“Go. Now.”
“But—”
“I mean it!”
Clutching his brother to his chest, Jago swallowed and trained his eyes on the basement door. He moved forward.
Cal raised the knife above his head.
He parted his teeth and emitted a terrible, hissing shriek.
Jago broke into a run.
Cal lunged, bringing the knife down.
Carrie ploughed in to him, lifting him into the air. They hit the ground together and rolled.
Jago didn’t look back. With Noah wailing in his arms, he wrenched open the red door and flew up the basement steps.
The air had been knocked from Carrie’s lungs.
Beneath her, Cal bucked and kicked. He opened his jaws and snapped at her, narrowly missing her neck. A low growl gurgled in his throat.
The knife was still in his hand. Carrie grabbed his wrist and smashed it against the ground. The knife clattered away.
Cal howled in pain.
“I’ve got you,” Carrie breathed. “I’m right here.”
She pushed herself up, pressing down on his wrists, watching him squirm and thrash beneath her.
And then, like a candle being snuffed out, the fight left him.
The pain and fury that was twisting his face melted away. A tear slipped from his eye. Cal grew very still.
Spent and exhausted, Carrie waited, holding him down until she was sure the anger was gone. She waited another minute. Then, very slowly, she released him. She sat back, pulling her knees up to her chest. Cal was motionless for the longest time, gazing into the lifeless eyes of the man who’d kept him prisoner for seven years. Who’d tried to take his humanity away. Who had tried to mould him in his own image.
“Cal?” Carrie watched her son watching the dead man.
Darkness returned to his eyes. Slowly, Cal sa
t up.
The knife lay just a metre away.
“Cal? Baby?”
Cal got to his feet. He glanced down at Carrie. There was nothing there. All his humanity was gone. She had lost him.
He reached for the knife.
Carrie pushed herself away on her hands. Her back struck the shelves. Cal stared at the blade that was now back in his hand. He stared at Grady’s body, at his mother.
Carrie tried to pull herself up.
He loomed over her, this boy who had once been her son.
She stared up at him and it was like staring into space. She held her breath and shut her eyes. She waited for the pain to come. For her blood to flow.
For her son to end her life.
But he didn’t.
Carrie opened her eyes in time to see him run from the basement and into the tunnel. The old door slammed behind him.
Then he was gone. Lost to her.
Carrie sat against the shelves for the longest time, staring at Grady Spencer’s corpse.
She wanted to bring him back to life so that she could watch him die, over and over again. She wanted to reverse time, back to that Saturday morning when Cal had whined and whined until she had relented and agreed to take him to the beach.
She could do none of these things.
Instead, with every inch of her body aching, Carrie pushed herself up against the shelves and onto her feet.
She looked back at the old, wooden door that led to the tunnel, that led to Cal.
Then, finding the last of her strength, she hobbled from the basement and climbed the steps of Grady Spencer’s house of death.
The front door was open, letting in the night time breeze. Caliban was nowhere to be seen.
She dragged herself forward, barely registering the towers of newspapers, magazines and old boxes that littered the hall.
She reached the door. She stepped through it.
Outside, the street was alive with chatter. Carrie stumbled along the garden path and reached the gate. The road was full of people, neighbours who had come out in force. She saw Rose and Nat standing side by side, arms wrapped around each other.
All eyes were on the trio, who stood in the middle of the road, entangled in laughter and tears and a never-ending embrace.
Tess Pengelly wept uncontrollably as she planted kisses on her boys’ faces. Noah winced and looked confused. Jago laughed and ruffled his hair.
No one noticed Carrie leaning on Grady Spencer’s garden gate. But she watched them all.
She tried to smile. And found she couldn’t.
51
THE HOSPITAL WAS BUZZING with noise and activity. Carrie sat up in bed, feeling grateful for the private room she’d been given. She would be here overnight, a precaution against the concussion Grady Spencer had given her. The rest of her wounds were cleaned and dressed. Her ankle was badly sprained but would recover with rest.
There were parts of her, however, that could not be healed.
She stared through the open door at the uniformed police officer stationed outside her room. Another officer had been sent to Joy and Gary Killigrew’s house. Dylan had been contacted via radio. By sheer coincidence, the fishing trawler was returning home early. A storm was coming. One that had made the crew nervous.
Noah Pengelly had also been admitted to the hospital, where he would no doubt remain at least for a few days.
Carrie should have felt joy and relief to know the boy was alive. That she had played a part in saving his life.
But she felt nothing.
Her son was gone. Vanished from her life again. Only this time, it had been his choice.
A fresh wave of nausea washed over her. She leaned back on the pillows and closed her eyes. She must have drifted off for a short while because when she opened them again, Detective Turner was sitting in the chair beside the bed.
Another detective, a woman she hadn’t seen before, stood talking to the uniformed officer outside.
“How are you doing?” Turner asked. He leaned forward, his face lined with concern.
Carrie glanced away. She shook her head and instantly regretted it. When the room righted itself again, she turned to face him.
“Have you found Cal?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“What will happen if you catch him?”
“I’m not sure. I suppose it will depend on what else they find at Grady Spencer’s. CSI are there right now. There’s another unit on the way to the hotel. They could be there for days.”
“What do you mean it depends on what else they find?”
The detective paused, a troubled look on his face. “Human remains have been found at the house, Carrie. Some old. Some more recent. We have to consider the fact that Cal may be implicated in murder.”
Carrie shook her head wildly. “Grady said Noah was supposed to be Cal’s first. . . He’d been keeping him alive in case Cal came back. So that Cal could. . .”
She turned away. So that Cal could kill him. And Grady could rejoice in Cal’s transformation into a cold-blooded psychopath.
Carrie looked at Turner. “Have you checked the tunnel? That’s where he went. That’s how he. . .”
“We have a handful of officers searching it now.” He leaned closer. “It looks like the tunnel splits in two. One branch leads from Spencer’s house to the hotel, the other from the house down to a cave near the beach, just past that arch of rock. What did you say it was called?”
“The Devil’s Gate.”
Carrie felt the hairs on her arms spring up. As a child, she’d heard the stories about old smugglers’ tunnels hidden beneath the streets of Porth an Jowl. As much as they sounded like something straight out of Treasure Island, plenty of tunnels had been located around the coast of Cornwall, leading from sea caves to old inns, shops, and abodes, where plundered cargo would be stowed away, waiting to be sold on. Carrie had thought all those tunnels had been sealed up.
Seven years ago, on the beach, while she’d been preoccupied, Cal had gone in search of hidden treasures. He’d found hell instead.
Detective Turner glanced over his shoulder. “DS Mills would like to talk to you, if you’re up to it. We need to take a statement.”
Carrie followed his gaze. “What about Melissa?”
“There’s an officer right inside. Your daughter is safe.”
“I want her here with me.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged if you think it’s necessary.”
Melissa’s drawing flashed in Carrie’s mind. “It is. How’s Noah?”
“Traumatised. Undernourished. But he’s going to be fine. Thanks to you.”
Something passed over his face. A look of frustration, maybe. Or disappointment. Carrie could understand why, but she was in no mood to be lectured about taking the law into her own hands.
Ignoring her throbbing ankle, she brought her knees up to her chest. Her boy was gone. Lost to the sea. Lost to Grady Spencer.
She thought about the skull she’d found hidden beneath Noah’s stuffed bear. Had there been others before Cal? Missing children who had refused to bend to Grady’s sick ways.
She pushed horrible images from her mind.
Something else sprang into her thoughts. Something Grady had said.
“‘They believed he’d be better off at the farm. But the boy came back to me.’”
Turner stared at her, confused.
“That’s what Grady Spencer told me. I don’t understand what it means.”
“The farm?” Detective Turner mused. He shook his head. Out in the corridor, the female detective raised her eyebrows. “I believe DS Mills would like to talk to you now, if you’re ready.”
On the bedside cabinet, Carrie’s mobile phone began to buzz. From somewhere beneath the numb haze, she felt her heart leap.
“I need five minutes.”
Turner nodded. He stared at her with an expression that fell between pity and respect.
“Take care of yourself, Carrie,” he
said, standing. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
Carrie watched him walk away. She picked up the phone.
Dylan’s panicked voice filled her ear.
As she soothed and assured him that his wife and daughter were safe, thoughts of her son filled her mind. He was out there somewhere. Frightened. Confused. As lost as she was without him.
She could no longer feel that invisible cord connecting them. It had disappeared when Cal had escaped into the tunnel, severed by the closing door.
He was alone now.
But Carrie was not. And knowing she was not alone would get her through the coming weeks and months. It would be the one thing to stop her from falling into a dark and infinite abyss.
“I love you, Dylan,” she said into the phone, interrupting him.
There was a moment of static silence.
“I love you right back,” he replied. “And I’ll be home soon.”
Carrie hung up. The quiet of the room bore down on her. She felt the abyss calling to her like a Siren, luring her toward the edge.
I am not alone, she thought.
I am not alone.
EPILOGUE
DAWN WAS BREAKING AS Cal emerged from the trees and into a field of corn. Above him, the sky was painted in swathes of purple and tangerine. He stopped still, his breath snatched away.
He’d spent so long in the darkness of Grady Spencer’s basement that he could navigate the shadows as if he were walking through daylight. Every sunrise was precious to him. A magical, miraculous sight to behold. He stood for a long time, his mouth open, molten fire reflected in his eyes. Then his mother’s face put out the lights, and darkness returned to him.
He got moving again, taking long strides between the rows of towering corn, until he cleared the field.
The farmhouse looked abandoned. Paint peeled off the window frames. Guttering hung from the roof. The rear garden was a barren stretch of rocks and weeds. Circling the house, he strode past a water tank and an old, disused harvester, which had rusted over time and been reclaimed by nature.
It was early. They would all be asleep. He wondered if they would welcome him with open arms or if they would turn their backs, just like he had done to them.
The Cove: a shocking thriller you won't be able to put down (The Devil's Cove Book 1) Page 26