‘You can’t blame her.’
It was idle chit-chat. If the conversation had been a horse, someone would have shot it by now. Because neither of them wanted to be the one to say the words that were on both their minds.
This is how it happened.
Suddenly it was as if he hadn’t simply stepped into cousin Jack’s den as he passed between the two closets that guarded the entrance. He’d stepped back almost twenty years in time into his life too. It wasn’t Kate Guillory who knelt on the floor opposite him, it was Sarah, aged thirteen. That wasn’t a flashlight she gripped in her hand either. It was a Beretta M9 service pistol. And he was cousin Jack on the last day of his short life, snatching the gun out of her hands, hands that were shaking now with the adrenalin let-down.
Hurry it up, Jack.
Mimicking his words. Like he was bothered.
No hesitation.
A second from start to finish. From before to after.
Mouth open, barrel in. Lips clamped tightly shut. Managing to smile around it. Eyes bright.
Finger squeezing.
Not a hollow click.
What must it have been like in that split second between pulling the trigger and the bullet spattering the wall and ceiling behind him with blood and bone and gray brain matter? Was there time for a final, oh shit? Did the whole of his short life flash past his soon-to-be sightless eyes?
Then Guillory tossed her head as if to shake off the cobwebs, heavy with accumulated dust, that clung to her hair. And they were both glad their faces were still in the darkness beyond the flashlight beams. Because there are times when you need to put your emotions beyond the reach of another’s eyes. Whoever that other might be.
‘I don’t know how she came back in here,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I could have done it.’
He went very still. On the outside. Because on the inside it was as if somebody had detonated a flash grenade inside his thick head. He leaned forward, cupped his hand at the back of her neck. Pulled her towards him, kissed her hard on the lips.
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ she said, a little shell-shocked at the strange times and places he chose to show affection or gratitude. ‘For what?’
Then he told her what Jay had told him, what Sarah had said when she came back from this place.
She’d put something behind her.
He’d thought that something was him, his memory. She’d meant this place and everything that happened in it. Guillory’s words spoken in this place were what it needed for him to see that. So he was grateful because that’s not a nice thing to have to carry around with you. He was grateful despite the fact that even if he were to find Sarah, and it came to a choice, he’d choose the woman kneeling on the floor in front of him over her every day of the week.
‘You certainly know how to punish yourself,’ she said.
‘Let’s start looking.’
Because this crawl space was small and cramped and dirty and dusty and smelled of dead things rotting in the corners and was most definitely not the place to make love to her for the first time. He’d have done it in a flash anyway if she’d said another word.
‘There’s a bed in one of the bedrooms.’ Her voice came at him from outside the circle of light, so that it seemed unreal.
‘Later.’
But there would be no later.
‘Tease.’
‘Get to work.’
They turned the small space upside down. Scoured every nook and cranny, tapped the walls and ceiling for hidden compartments, swept the dust from the floor with their sleeves. He found a number of old girly magazines. It was a fifteen-year-old boy’s den after all. She found one of the decaying rodents. Not what anyone would call a good haul.
‘I really thought it would be here,’ she said, giving up, sitting on her heels again. Opposite her, he was slumped against the wall.
‘Me too. It had a sort of poetic . . . not justice, poetic . . . something about it.’
‘Poetic something, eh? Evan Buckley the wordsmith strikes again. But you’re right, even if your command of the English language lets you down. It’s something to do with the boy who killed himself. Let’s try his bedroom.’
She crawled out on all fours. He let her go first. Because he was a perfect gentleman. And because the view was good as he followed her out.
‘Leave those magazines where they are,’ she called over her shoulder.
He looked at her shapely butt in front of him. A grin crawled over his face.
‘Talking about those mags. Something looks familiar. You didn’t do any model—’
Her foot shot out backwards cutting him off. Lucky for him he’d anticipated it, nor could she see to aim properly. He’d have been spitting teeth otherwise. Despite that, he heard what she muttered under her breath.
Maybe you’ll find out later.
They agreed to leave the main part of the basement until after they’d searched the bedroom. It would be a daunting task if they had to come back. Halfway up the basement stairs, she stopped. This time he wasn’t following behind so that he could admire the view. In fact, he wasn’t following at all.
‘What are you doing?’
Her voice had a definite what now quality to it.
‘I’d have thought it was obvious.’
‘Alright. Why?’
‘It’s good manners to leave a place as you found it.’
‘Idiot.’
‘Anyway, I’m done now.’
He headed up the stairs after her.
‘Sure they’re all lined up properly?’
He played the beam over the rows of nail spikes he’d carefully arranged at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Now you mention it. That one over there . . .’
That was the point at which she grabbed his collar and hauled. She mumbled something under her breath about being surprised he hadn’t reset the damn tripwire. That hadn’t actually crossed his mind, or else . . .
‘Can’t be too careful.’ He let himself be dragged up the stairs. Noticed how she didn’t disagree, despite everything she’d said.
Cousin Jack’s room was easy enough to find, the posters on the wall giving the game away. Evan played the flashlight over a poster of a girl he recognized from one of the magazines in the basement.
‘My mom never let me put things like that on the wall.’
‘That explains a lot.’
‘I suppose you had pictures of car engines and carburetors.’
‘What else? Distributor caps too.’
They searched the room as they talked, their enthusiasm steadily waning along with the conversation. They didn’t lift the floorboards, only because they had to take into account what a single woman, probably without tools, would have been able to do. They did pretty much everything else. The result was the same as in the basement. Nada. Zip. Diddly squat.
‘Maybe the room Sarah slept in when she visited,’ she suggested half-heartedly. ‘Or maybe the whole damn house.’
He wasn’t really listening. He was standing at the window, staring out at the street, at their car parked opposite.
‘Or maybe Sarah already told them. And we’ve been wasting our time. Or my hunch was wrong.’
She shook her head.
‘No. It’s here somewhere. If they already had it, they wouldn’t have jumped all over you as soon as you searched for Cole Nix’s name.’
He still wasn’t giving her his full attention, his mind wandering. Being here in this house, the house where Sarah spent time growing up, his mind kept drifting into the past. And what he couldn’t get out of it was that they’d looked at similar houses together before she disappeared, thinking they’d need more space for whatever the future back then held.
‘This is a nice old house,’ he said.
‘I hope you’re not thinking of buying it.’
‘No. But I could imagine living somewhere like this. Somewhere with a bit of character—’
An explo
sive snort came from behind him.
‘What? Haunted by a kid who killed himself? That’s not the sort of character I want.’
He shone the light in her eyes until she told him to pack it in.
‘No. But they don’t build houses like this anymore. It’s well-built.’ He was still standing in front of the window. He rapped the sill with his knuckles. ‘Solid . . .’
There was nothing solid about the sound his knuckles made. He did it again. Got the same hollow ring, like banging on a wooden box. Guillory was at his side in a flash. She tried it too. Same result.
‘It’s hollow.’
They both switched off their flashlights, laid them on the floor. There was enough light coming through the window to see. Except they weren’t looking. Touch is better. They explored underneath with their fingertips, slowly covering every inch, searching for a way in. She found a crack between the underside of the sill and the wall. She worked her nails in, pulled hard, swore loudly.
‘Shit. I broke a nail.’
He kept quiet, knew how big a deal that was. He got his own fingernails in, eased upwards and backwards instead of pulling sharply. It was stiff, but something moved. The wood had swollen over the years from being in an unheated house for so long. He kept at it, fingertips of both hands in the crack now, working it side to side, up and down.
‘For Christ’s sake, Evan, we haven’t got all night.’ She jammed the fingers of both hands into the opening he’d made. They looked like a couple playing a duet on the piano. ‘On three.’
They both pulled sharply on the count of three, went stumbling backwards across the room, a shallow hidden drawer in their hands.
A plain brown envelope with a bump in the middle stared up at them. If an envelope can look indignant, this one did now, so rudely awakened after all these years. He picked it up.
‘Pleased to meet you, Cole.’
He wished he could say the same about whatever else was in the envelope. Because nobody puts something in an envelope when it could just as easily sit in the drawer. Not unless they’re sending it through the mail. Or they want to put something in with it, something they don’t want to get separated from it. A message, in the event that it’s found when they’re no longer around. Of course, it might be something as simple as the password.
Somehow, he didn’t think so.
Chapter 57
EVAN OPENED THE ENVELOPE using his finger like a paper knife. He shook the dog tag out into his hand. It was exactly as Jay had described it. One regular tag, one concealed USB tag. And even though size isn’t everything, it didn’t seem much, to have caused so much trouble.
Guillory took it, her face suggesting the same thoughts were going through her mind.
‘Anything else in there?’
He knew that she knew there was. Then she told him not to stand there all night, get it out.
He pulled a folded sheet of paper out, offered it to her.
‘You want me to read it to you? Or just unfold it for you?’
She didn’t make a move to take it. He unfolded it himself. It was too dark for him to read, standing in the middle of the room. Despite that, he recognized the familiar sight of Sarah’s handwriting. A wave of nausea washed over him. He was back six years, back to when she first disappeared, the dread that gripped him back then still as strong as ever, praying every time he opened the mail that this wasn’t the letter that began Dear Evan.
‘You okay?’ She laid her hand on his arm. ‘You want me to read it?’
This time the offer was genuine, the concern in her voice, the comfort in her touch, making him think if he’d met her years earlier, he’d never have started down this road.
‘No, I’m fine.’
Their flashlights were still on the floor by the window. He took a couple of paces towards it. Suddenly threw himself to the side, back to the wall. She’d heard it too. The sound of a car driving slowly down the street, stopping immediately behind theirs. It could have been a neighbor. It could have been anyone. They both knew it wasn’t.
And they’d led them here, made their job easy.
He risked a fast peek out of the window.
‘Black SUV?’ she said.
‘Yep. Want to guess the license plate number?’ He watched as the front doors opened. Two men got out. ‘Looks like there are only two of them.’
There were no streetlights, the light spilling from the house opposite providing enough illumination. She’d already moved across the room to stand behind him, her body pressed tightly into his.
‘It’s the guy from the Jerusalem. The one I hit.’
The concern he’d heard in her voice a moment ago was gone now, replaced by something else, something that also sent a shiver across the back of his neck. It made him think of the rest of the sentence, the part she hadn’t spoken aloud: The one I’m going to hit again.
‘This will have to wait.’
He re-folded the note, put it and the tag into his pocket. Then he changed his mind, took the note out again. Glanced at it quickly, angling it towards what little light there was coming through the window. It was enough for him to see what he was looking for.
‘You take this. It’s got the password. No need to make it too easy for them if—’
She gave him a jab in the ribs to shut him up.
Keep your negative thoughts to yourself.
They split up. She stayed upstairs, he headed back down to the basement. On the way, he pulled the chair away from the front door. They didn’t need an early warning now. And it would be to their advantage if the men creeping up outside thought they were the ones with the element of surprise.
He ran quickly down the stairs into the basement, hopped over the slack tripwire, leapt to the far side of the nail spikes he’d arranged at the bottom of the stairs. This time he was glad the basement was full of junk. A quick sweep with the flashlight and he saw what he knew he’d find in the basement of a house where a fifteen-year-old boy had lived, a boy who had no further need for his baseball bat.
On a shelf piled high with half-empty tins of paint, he found a roll of duct tape. That went into his pocket. And there was something else too, an unexpected bonus because somebody upstairs liked him. Or at least thought they owed him. He didn’t mean Guillory, either. Because he owed her. For more than the nail spikes too.
Amongst the broken filing trays and other discarded office equipment that had spilled out of the filing cabinet and was strewn across the floor, there was a Newton’s Cradle—a popular executive toy back in the day. It consisted of a series of identically-sized metal balls suspended by wires in a metal frame. Lift and release the ball at one end and the one at the other end swings outwards, the force transmitted through the stationary balls between them. It makes an irritating regular knocking that goes on forever. Or until a co-worker throws it out the window while you’re in the rest rooms.
Through the doorless opening at the top of the stairs he heard the faint sound of the front door opening, the scrape of the bottom edge catching on the floor. He crept to the far end of the basement, the end with Cousin Jack’s den, the killing chamber. Leaning in, he placed his flashlight on the floor behind one of the closets, pointed it towards the wall. He put the Newton’s Cradle beside it, set it in motion.
Then, using the faint glow, he made his way silently back to the stairs. He hid underneath them, ball bat gripped firmly in his hands, satisfied with his little deception. From where he was standing it sounded exactly like somebody surreptitiously tapping a wall as they searched for hollow hiding places.
He didn’t have long to wait.
There was a whispered exchange from upstairs, then silence again. He pictured the two men as they allocated tasks. One pointing directly upwards, the other at the basement doorway. Almost imperceptible nods of the head to confirm, hearts racing as the hunt proper began.
There was no light at the top of the stairs, the intruders not wanting to advertise their presence. Or make a target of themse
lves in the doorway. Then a slight settling of the top step. Impossible to hear under normal circumstances. Like a thunderclap to a man under the stairs, every sense heightened, the top of his head less than two feet below.
And his nose less than two feet from whatever the guy had on the bottom of his shoe. It was like old dog shit stuck in the tread of his sole. He recognized the smell. The last time he experienced it he was writhing on the ground outside a restaurant, a shoe that smelled just like it on his neck, a taser held against his chest.
Things like that tend to stick in the subconscious.
Good to see you again, Mr Taser.
There was a second careful step, a faint squeak from the rubber sole. Then a third.
A pause.
He imagined the satisfied smile spreading across Taser’s face when he saw the faint glow coming from the far end of the basement, heard the knocking. A bigger smile curled his own lips, one fitting for a man who knows better. The next step was less cautious. As if Taser was confident that as long as he could hear the tapping, his target was preoccupied.
He was halfway down the stairs when Evan stepped out from under them, swung the ball bat hard into his shins, put some extra oomph into it for payback. Taser shrieked as the blinding pain came out of nowhere. He lost his footing, lost his balance, toppled forwards.
Evan had a mental picture of him flying through the air as he himself would have done had Guillory not caught him, landing face or hands or knees-first on the nail spikes. He couldn’t let it happen. He wanted to disable the guy, not blind or cripple him or worse.
All this went through his mind in the split second as Taser pitched forwards, arms flailing, trying to grab a handrail that wasn’t there. Evan grabbed him by the jacket. Yanked him off the steps, threw him into the shelves of junk on the other side of the room in one motion. He bounced off, landed in a heap on top of the upturned filing cabinet, his gun flying out of his hand, clattering away into the darkness.
Evan had been in the basement longer. His night vision was better. He made out Taser’s shape as he struggled to disentangle himself from the pile of junk and broken shelving surrounding him, a low moan on his lips. With the sound to guide him, he drew back the bat to knock the guy unconscious.
The Road To Deliverance Page 30