by J. D. Barker
“When I needed to get out, when I needed time alone, Roland got me out of my cage. He’d sneak me out this door and help me get back inside. He knew what they were doing was wrong. I don’t think he understood why I came back. Every time he snuck me out, I always came back.”
“Why would you?”
“Where else would I go?”
He slowed to a crawl. Thick branches reached down from above, scratched at the roof of the car. A field came into view, overgrown and wild.
“I’d sometimes see the other boys playing out there, but then Fitzgerald would make me duck down before they could see me. I’d hear them laughing, shouting, off in the distance while I was pressed against the carpet in front of the seat. One time, he made me wait down there for over an hour.”
The car came to a stop at a tall stone wall with a metal gate at the center. He shifted into park, pulled apart the wires under the steering column. The engine sputtered and died. “End of the road, little sister.”
From a compartment in his door, he took out the scissors with the purple handle. The blades were stained with dried blood. He rolled his shoulders against the seat back and winced. “You got me good, Meg. I’m not gonna lie. Hurts like a son of a bitch, but I can’t fault you for doing it. I probably would have done the same. I’d have gone for the kidneys, though. Much lower, on the right or left. When stabbing the back, always go for the kidneys.”
He said this like he expected me to break out my notepad and take notes, draw a little diagram, prepare for a pop quiz later. I’d probably choose a different option, though. If I had those scissors, I’d put them nice and deep into his neck, or maybe his eye. Kidneys seemed a little too slow, too compassionate.
He leaned forward and snipped away the duct tape from my ankles. My bound hands were on the door handle when he said, “You run, and I’ll kill little Nicki. I’ll gut her like a pig in a slaughterhouse.”
“You’re going to kill her anyway,” I replied, my hand still on the handle. “And I don’t know her. Maybe she has it coming to her. What makes you think I care?”
“Because I know you better than you know yourself. I read all your files too, remember? Dr. Fitzgerald shared everything with me. I know all your deep dark secrets, your desires, your mistakes, your regrets. I know about that cute little birthmark on your inner thigh, the one shaped like a heart. I know you hated it enough to try and cut it out when you were ten, and I know whenever someone puts his head down there for the first time, you wait for the inevitable comment about it, some snarky remark.” He leaned forward, close enough I could smell mint on his breath. “I know you so well, I’m certain that even if I walked around and opened that door for you, you’d keep your butt planted firmly in that seat. Not because you want to protect that bitch in the trunk, but because you’re curious to see what happens to her. You want a front-row seat for the show.”
He reached over and stroked my cheek with his long fingers; his palm felt warm. My skin tingled. I tried to deny this, tell myself it was fear, the adrenaline. I was an excellent liar. Not good enough, though. I learned long ago, you can lie to others, but it’s impossible not to see right through your own bullshit no matter how many times you repeat it. I closed my eyes and let him touch me, and deep down, a part of me didn’t want him to stop.
He whispered, “In a few more hours, this will be over, Meg. They’ll all be gone. I’ll take you someplace safe and I’ll show you what it really means to be loved. You and I were always meant to be together. Fate saw to that, brought us together all those years ago and kept us together ever since. Doesn’t matter who or what tried to get between us. It’s always been you and me. It always will be.”
My eyes still closed, I pressed my face against his palm and raised my bound hands. “If you really trust me, cut this tape away too. Let me help you.”
His fingers slipped down from my cheek to the curve of my neck, dipped under the thin material of my top. “Not yet, but soon enough. We still have work to do. I need you to get me something out of the glove box.”
When I opened my eyes, he was back in the driver’s seat, a mischievous grin on his face like he had a secret bubbling inside, and it was all he could do to keep from telling me.
I pressed the button on the glove box, but it didn’t move.
“It sticks a little. Tug at the top.”
So I did, and it came open. A thin metal chain kept it from tilting too far and spilling the contents on the floor. A ziplock bag sat on top of tattered manuals for the car. Several aged receipts were crammed in there too. Oil changes, new tires, Taco Bell.
I took out the bag.
Four feathers were inside.
“Bring them with us. I hope we have enough. I’m expecting several guests. Then there’s Nicki, of course.”
“Of course,” I heard myself say, because what do you say to that?
He kissed my cheek, pressed the trunk release, and got out of the car. I climbed out too. Eyed the overgrown field. I could so easily run. Instead, I watched as he swiftly rounded the back of the car to where Nicole Milligan had already managed to scramble out to the ground. She twisted on the blacktop like a dying worm. Mitchell had not only taped her ankles but continued to wrap the duct tape all the way up to her thighs. Her arms were taped up to her elbows. Another piece of tape covered her mouth and circled her head numerous times; half her hair would probably come out when it came off. She wasn’t going anywhere without help.
Mitchell tucked the scissors in his back pocket, picked up her squirming body like a bag of dirty laundry, and threw her over his shoulder, wincing under her weight. He hadn’t changed shirts, and a large, dark bloodstain covered a good portion of his back. Through the hole I’d made earlier when I stabbed him, I could see more duct tape. He’d used it to close the wound. Versatile stuff, duct tape.
“This way, Meg,” he said, starting toward a metal door painted brown. “Bring your backpack.”
I snatched up my backpack and followed a few paces behind him.
Nicole Milligan’s wide, bloodshot eyes drilled into me, pleaded with me, but I couldn’t do anything but listen to her muffled screams. I looked back at her, a little part of me curious at what point anger would give way to fear, at what point fear would give way to regret, at what point she’d finally surrender. I wondered if I’d recognize those shifts in her eyes.
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Four
Dobbs
A light on the far end of the room blinked to life.
Dobbs raised his gun to fire but not before Patchen shot three rounds from somewhere on the opposite side of the room, all at the ceiling. His motion triggered two of the basement lights to come back on; his bullets struck the fluorescent bulbs in sequence, quickly plunging the room back into darkness.
Dobbs rose, pointing his barrel in the direction of the other man’s muzzle flash. He fired three shots of his own, then dropped back down. Like the rounds fired by Patchen, the shots were horribly loud, echoing off all the concrete and then slowly fading, leaving Dobbs with a ringing in his ears, a high-pitched whine. Then he heard the drip of water.
And silence.
Dobbs closed his eyes, tilted his head, listened.
Ringing in his ear.
Drip.
Shuffling of feet.
Drip.
Patchen pulled the trigger again, but only a click came, followed by four more. Empty.
Dobbs opened his eyes.
He rose slowly, crouching, remaining low. He held his gun out ahead of him, led with it, as he slowly rounded the stack of tables and made his way out to the open floor, careful not to make a sound.
Soft footsteps on the far end of the room.
Dobbs raised his gun, prepared to fire. His eyes desperately attempted to find a target in the darkness, but with the complete absence of light, he saw nothing, only murky black.
A door squeaked open. There was the clatter of something crashing against a wall.
Another light came on, this one from a room
just off the large central chamber. A door closing, twenty feet ahead and to his left, a shadow shrinking on the other side.
For one brief instant, Dobbs glimpsed the basement again before the door closed completely, sealing the light away behind it.
He shuffled across the concrete to the door, pressed his ear against it.
Patchen came at him from the opposite direction at a run. The gun was no longer in his hand. Instead, he held a hatchet. The blade came down through the air in a sweeping arc toward Dobbs’s gun, his right arm. He pushed back and crashed into the door behind him; the sharp blade cut into his skin just below his shoulder as he fell into the room.
Dobbs landed on his back; his gun clattered across the concrete floor, and he scrambled toward the far end of the room on his hands and feet in a quick, awkward crab walk, warm blood soaking his sleeve, dripping to the floor, trailing behind.
Patchen came at him again, huffing hard now, and swung the hatchet down and to the left. When it whistled past Dobbs, Patchen immediately swung back again in the opposite direction, driving Dobbs deeper into the room. His eyes were wild, wide. He swung a third time, and pain shot down Dobbs’s arm as he smacked against the far wall. With more instinct than thought, he rolled to his left. The blade came down and cracked into the concrete inches from where he’d been.
When Dobbs rolled back in the other direction, he expected Patchen to strike again, was prepared to kick at his shin, take his leg out from under him, but Patchen was darting across the room to the door. He was out a moment later, slamming the door behind him.
A bolt slid into place.
A lock clicked tight.
Half in shock, Dobbs pushed back against the wall and sat up, staring at the door. He pulled his knees tight against his chest. His heart thudded against his rib cage. His left hand reached for his damaged arm, squeezed, held the wound. Blood flowed through his fingers. He sucked in a ragged gasp; pain radiated out from his torn shoulder, down his arm, to his fingertips.
The world tilted, his vision clouded, his body attempted to shut down. He forced himself to focus, he grasped at the present.
His eyes drifted over the walls of the small room.
Pictures.
Hundreds of pictures.
And he instantly knew that if he were to shout, nobody would hear him, not here.
That’s when the lights went out.
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Five
Gimble
What do you mean, they won’t approve it?” Gimble said into her phone. She was in the front passenger seat of the SUV. Kepler and Vela were behind her. They were racing through a residential neighborhood. According to their driver, they were only a few minutes from the orphanage.
“I’ve tried two different judges,” Sammy replied. “Both came back and said we had insufficient cause for a search and seizure. A judge in Tompkins County, name of Rhodes, said he was familiar with Windham Hall. He told me the place had been shuttered due to budget cuts. An old building, just got too expensive to maintain. The kids were relocated a few months ago and the structure is set for demo. We’ve got a double whammy—they housed children and medical records. Everyone seems particularly protective of both. He’s got a clerk trying to determine where their records were shipped, said he’d get back to me.”
Gimble felt her face flush. “I don’t give a shit about their records. I just want access.”
“I told him that. He just said he’d have someone get back to me.”
Gimble sighed; her fingers twitched. “Keep trying. Any luck reaching Dobbs or Begley?”
“Both go straight to voice mail.”
“Keep—”
“—trying,” Sammy interrupted. “Yeah, I get it.”
Gimble hung up.
“That’s it on the right,” their driver said, pointing out the window.
Gimble looked up at the building, at least a story taller than the surrounding homes. A large wrought-iron gate blocked the driveway. The driver pulled up to a call box and lowered his window. He reached out and pressed a button. After a moment, he pressed it again. Then he turned to Gimble. “No answer.”
She got out of the SUV and went to the gate, peered up the drive. “I see two cars. Do we know what Begley and Dobbs are driving?”
Nobody answered.
In the back seat, Vela was saying something to Kepler.
Gimble grabbed hold of the gate and shook it. It was sealed magnetically at the top and bottom. She took out her phone and dialed first Begley, then Dobbs. Both calls went straight to voice mail. She didn’t know Dobbs well, but it was unlike Begley to go silent for so long. If they were in there and not responding, they could be in trouble.
She looked back at the driver. “Can you push it open? With the SUV?”
He shook his head. “I’m not authorized to do that.”
“I could order you.”
“You could, and I’d call my supervisor for approval. Without a warrant, we need probable cause.”
“I’ve got two unresponsive agents possibly in that building,” she shot back.
He was young. Obviously uncomfortable. He hesitated, looked back at the gate. “If I were to get out of the SUV to place a call to SAIC Grimsley, and you took control of the vehicle while I was otherwise engaged, there’d be little I could do to stop you.”
He had his door open before she responded, his phone out.
From the back seat, Kepler said, “I know the gate code.”
Gimble turned and faced him.
He reeled off the numbers.
Her eyes remained on him for a moment, then she looked back at the driver. “Try it.”
He leaned into the call box and keyed in the number.
Nothing happened.
“It’s not working,” he said.
Kepler leaned forward. “Press the pound sign.”
He did.
The large gate clicked and began to swing inward, slow and lumbering.
Gimble and the driver got back in the SUV. They started forward. She turned back to Kepler, but he spoke before she could say anything.
“It spells out Mitchell on the keypad.”
“Your brother’s name,” she stated flatly.
Kepler nodded.
“When were you here last?”
He turned and looked out the window.
They parked behind a white Nissan Rogue. The other car was a Volvo. Gimble texted both plates to Sammy. His response came back a minute later:
The Volvo is registered to Lawrence Patchen. Rogue is a Hertz rental—Begley.
She replied:
Get me everything you can find on Patchen.
Gimble took her Glock from her shoulder holster, checked the magazine to ensure it was fully loaded, then pulled back the slide, chambered a round, and put it back under her arm. “Vela, you’re with me.” She turned to the driver. “I need you to stay out here with the prisoner. If we’re not out in ten minutes, call for backup. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Gimble groaned and got out of the SUV.
Had she looked into the back seat, she would have seen Vela slip a handcuff key to Kepler. She didn’t, though. She was too busy stomping off toward the front door.
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Six
Written Statement,
Megan Fitzgerald
“Tighten her feet,” Mitchell said, circling the bed.
He had opened the brown metal door with a security code. I tried to memorize the numbers, but his fingers moved too fast. The door opened on a small antechamber, like a mudroom, with another door leading toward the main level of the building, and two staircases, one going up, one down. He carried Nicole Milligan’s squirming body past the second-floor landing all the way up to the third. Between the wound on his shoulder, the woman’s weight, and the steps, he was breathing heavily by the time we reached the top, and I considered trying to overpower him, but I wasn’t sure how. If I tried to push him, Nicole could get hurt, bad. The
scissors were in his back pocket, crimson-stained blades glistening with each motion-activated light. I could grab the scissors and stab him again.
Kidneys this time.
Both kidneys, you fuck.
But again, he’d probably drop Nicole.
The steps were narrow. Steep. Concrete. Any fall could prove to be fatal.
So I did nothing. I followed behind him with my hands taped together, clutching my bag of four feathers like an offering, to the top floor. From there, he pushed through another metal fire door into a hallway with doors lining both sides.
“This is where they got to sleep,” he’d said as we passed bedroom after bedroom. Each contained bunk beds—some two, some four; one large room even housed six—but the mattresses were gone, and only the frames remained. Drawers were missing from the dressers. Empty closets hung open, naked hangers left behind.
“Do you smell that?” I asked.
I didn’t see him nod, but I imagined he did. “Gas. Patchen is probably following Dr. Rose’s lead. Fire cleanses everything. The building is set for demo, so he’d be doing them a favor.”
Another light blinked on as we made our way down the hall. One behind us turned off. They stayed on for only twenty or thirty seconds.
“What if he starts a fire while we’re still up here?”
He ignored me. “Last door on the left, Meg. That’s where we’re heading.”
The last door on the left was another bedroom. A single bed was pushed back against the far wall. An antique desk sat opposite, a drawerless bureau beside it. This was the only room I’d seen with a mattress. Mitchell had rolled Nicole off his shoulder and dropped her in the center of the bed. He produced zip ties from his other pocket, cut the tape from her hands, and secured each wrist to one of the bedposts. Then he cut the tape on her legs, forced them apart, and secured those too.
“Tighten her feet,” he said again.
I was busy staring at the floor. The wood was soaked with gasoline; the walls too. Puddles in the corners. The wallpaper. Gasoline had been splashed everywhere.