by David Gane
I hurry back to Charlie. “Please tell me you’ve got it open.”
“For a little while now. That was your big plan? Draw attention to us and give out your real name?”
“It didn’t quite go as I thought. Don’t give me a hard time.”
Charlie smiles. “Quit worrying. Without busting a window, that was probably the best way to do it. Do you think the ladies will vouch for you?”
“No clue. I’m hoping we can get out of here before we find out.”
“Ask forgiveness later?”
“Yup,” I nod.
“Boy, Shepherd. I really am a bad influence on you.”
“Yes,” I agree. “You are.”
chapter 110
We step quietly into the dining room of Harriet’s house and wait patiently, listening for any movement. When we don’t hear anything, we move into the kitchen. There’s a bare white fridge, a lone microwave, sterile surfaces everywhere. There’s almost no sign of life except for a bowl of old apples.
“Feels like no one lives here,” I whisper.
Charlie nods, opening the cupboard under the sink. Inside are a ton of cleaning supplies and bleach.
“Could be our guy.”
He opens the garbage and lifts out a take-out container, giving it a sniff. “And he likes Chinese.”
I walk into the hallway that leads to the stairs. No pictures or decorations, except for a large mirrored wardrobe.
“Do you mind if we deal with the creepy, psycho basement first?” Charlie asks, nodding at the doorway under the stairs.
“Absolutely,” I say. “Lead the way.”
He shakes his head, annoyed. “Fine, but you get the upstairs.”
“Deal.”
He pushes open the door and looks into the darkness. A window offers a bit of illumination somewhere in the back. He hits a light switch beside him and it burns bright, then overheats and shorts out.
“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” Charlie grumbles.
“Go on.”
“All right already, just don’t rush me.”
He takes the first step down and peers over the edge of the stair. “Oh, great. The stairwell’s open to the back so someone can grab my legs and yank me ass over teakettle.”
“Seriously?”
“Hey, you don’t get good at noticing things without being a little paranoid.”
“But ass over teakettle?”
“What can I say? I’m an old soul!” he protests.
We get to the bottom in one piece.
The basement is a little underwhelming. A few cans of white paint under the stairs, a “for sale by owner” sign leaning against the wall, but not much for hiding places except for a big old freezer sitting in the back corner.
“Nothing suspicious about that! Who’s opening it?” Charlie asks, searching for a light but finding nothing.
“Why’re you asking me? I’m in charge of the second floor,” I respond.
“Fine, but that’s the last veto you get to exercise.” He pulls out his phone and turns on the flashlight. “If you see anything, you kick its ass,” he says, looking over his shoulder.
He crosses the basement, flashlight waving back and forth, the teleposts and an old brick chimney casting long, sweeping shadows over cracked walls and dusty corners.
“Man, it stinks over here.”
“Like what? Something dead?” Sadly, I’ve had more than enough experience to know what that smells like.
“No, like a musty mould. Floor’s probably leaking like a sieve from groundwater.”
He approaches the freezer. “It’s not plugged in. If anything’s in it … ” He doesn’t finish his statement but grabs hold of the handle. “Well, here goes nothing,” he says, taking a big breath and yanking it open.
“Well?” I demand. I’m not interested in going over there until I know things are fine.
He doesn’t seem horrified or repulsed. Just sort of sad.
“What’s wrong? What’s in there?”
He reaches in and pulls out a big pail of ice cream. “By the looks of it, I think it went from solid to liquid and back to solid.” He shines the light up to it. “Also, it says it’s vanilla, but I see green.”
“Don’t open it,” I plead.
“You sure?” he jokes. “We could take it home for dessert tonight.”
“Put it down.”
He drops it back in the freezer carelessly and cries out, “Shit! It cracked open!”
“What?” I yell, and am immediately hit by the foulest of stenches. “Shut the freezer, shut the freezer,” I cry out, trying not to vomit.
He drops the lid on the appliance and scoots back to me. We race up the stairs.
“Oh man, that was gross,” he says, gagging.
“Of all the crap you’ve subjected my senses to, who’d’ve thought a pail of ice cream would nearly kill us,” I laugh.
He shakes his head and crosses into the living room, trying to get his breath. I follow him in and look around.
A leather couch and chair sit around a coffee table atop a dark red-and-yellow patterned rug. A television rests against one wall; it’s not even plugged into an outlet. A thick coat of dust covers everything.
“There’s no way anyone lives here,” I say, looking up to the second floor, listening.
“We’re so noisy, I don’t think there’s much surprise left,” Charlie agrees. “But you’re still going up first.”
“Fine.”
I climb the creaky stairs, and he hisses, “Doesn’t mean you can’t be a little quieter.”
I glare at him. “And how the hell am I supposed to do that?”
He shrugs. “Skip the noisy ones?”
I shake my head and continue my squeaky way to the top to find four closed doors.
Charlie’s close behind, and I know he’s alert and got my back, so I open the first one to discover a master bedroom that stretches the entire width of the house. Although the bed is made, the top sheets are shuffled about.
“Someone’s slept here,” Charlie says.
I check the closet. A suitcase lies open, men’s clothing inside.
“Whoever’s staying here is ready to leave in a hurry—”
“Or just got back from somewhere warm,” Charlie adds, nodding at a cool, lightweight cotton shirt.
We exit and move to the next room. It’s empty except for a pullout futon and a dresser.
Charlie slides open a drawer and finds it bare.
“Guest room?” I guess, and I can tell from Charlie’s look that he has no more clue than I do.
We continue on and find the bathroom. A toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, and an electric razor in a travel case on the counter. There’s a bar of soap beside the sink.
“Whoever’s here is travelling light,” I say. “There’s not even shampoo.”
Charlie studies the toothbrush and soap carefully. “But it’s got that cracked, dry look, like it hasn’t been used in forever,” he notes.
We open the final door and find a room filled with moving boxes. I check the writing on them. “This one is ‘T–Bedroom.’ And this one is ‘T–Office.’ ”
“The neighbour said the house was on the market, then they took it off. Maybe they divided up their stuff after the divorce?” I propose. “Carol took hers and he was going to wait for the place to sell?”
Charlie shakes his head. “And then he backed out? Why?”
We stand at the base of a final set of carpeted stairs. It goes halfway up then bends around so we can’t see the top floor.
“Your turn,” I say.
He shakes his head. “There’ll be one of those giant head-chopping blades up there, right? I’ll have to duck, won’t I?”
“Absolutely,” I say laughing. “Because that’s wha
t a biology teacher installs in his middle-class home.”
He scales the steps and peers around the edge before taking the rest of the stairs two at a time. His severed head doesn’t come bouncing down toward me, so I follow him up.
He’s standing in a carpeted attic that’s been refinished as an open space. There’s a window at each end; both are open. A set of weights and a rowing machine face one wall, and on the other side of the room is an office, with two sets of shelves full of books.
I walk over and study them. “Science, history, some astronomy, some biology. Definitely seems like they’re Harriet’s.”
“But why are the books the only thing that feels like he’s been here recently? Why does it feel like he’s some transient?” Charlie asks, and I shake my head, not knowing.
“There’s nothing here,” I say. “Just a big, empty house.”
“And no answers.”
I stare at the room, considering. I study the low roof, the freshly painted walls, the office space.
Nothing.
Then I notice the vacuum paths in the carpet. Whoever lives here is keeping this room clean. Or is hiding something.
I move to the first bookshelf and look behind it.
“What’s up?” Charlie asks.
“Can you help me with this?” I ask.
Together, we pull the first bookshelf away. The carpet catches the bottom, making it difficult to move with ease, but we pull it forward far enough.
“What’s that?” Charlie asks, staring at the edge of a doorframe sticking out from behind the second shelf.
“Help me with the other one,” I say.
We drag it back to reveal a small door.
“It’s a crawlspace.”
I unhook the latch and open it. Warm air floats against my face.
“Why’s it so toasty in there?”
I pull out my phone and shine the light. “It’s insulated, but the heat from the sun still gets in and warms the space up,” I say.
He’s staring at me, wondering how I know this.
“Mike’s old house had something like this,” I tell him. “We used to play hide-and-seek, and I hid in there once behind an old Christmas tree. He never found me. It was the middle of summer, and when I crawled out an hour later, I was soaked with sweat, dizzy and dehydrated. My folks said if I’d stayed in there much longer, I could’ve have passed out and—” I realize where the story is going, realize I’m talking about Mike, and stop myself. “Anyway, not a place you want to be.”
Charlie’s staring at me.
“What?”
“It’s your turn,” he grins.
I shine my light back inside the hole.
“Sorry, man. It’s the only place we haven’t looked, and you agreed to no more veto powers.”
I sigh. He’s got me.
“Don’t worry, man,” Charlie says encouragingly. “I’ve got your back.”
chapter 111
I climb into the hole. Spray foam insulation covers everything: the roof, the wall, and the floor. It sticks to my jeans and T-shirt, and as soon as I start crawling, I can feel it dig into my palms. It’s dry, and I can’t shake the thought of inhaling the tiny fibres that float in the air. I try to pull my shirt up to cover my nose and mouth, but after crawling a few inches, it slips off.
I shine the light ahead and see an obstruction about halfway down.
“How’s it going in there?” Charlie calls.
I grunt a response. I’m not in the mood for talking. And who knows what I’m inhaling. I try to keep my breaths shallow. I’ve already started to sweat and it’s dripping into my eyes, soaking into my shirt.
“What do you see?”
“Something’s in my way,” I yell back.
“Like storage boxes?”
“No. Like a wall.”
“It’s probably the stairwell. Can you get past it?” he asks.
I’m still a few feet away so I can’t be certain, but I shout back, “I think there’s room.”
I shine the phone light at it when I’m closer. Although it’ll be a tight squeeze for a tall, gangly person like me, I can get through.
The light catches something behind it.
“Charlie,” I say, breathless, “there’s a cage back here.”
“What ?” he says.
I’m in so deep that the insulation muffles my voice. I yell again. “There’s bars. Like a jail.”
No matter what, I have to make sure there’s no one in there. I shine the light toward the back of the cage.
“Tony—?” Charlie’s crawled in a little way to hear me better.
“There’s no one in here,” I call back.
Charlie’s quiet for a moment. I don’t know what he’s thinking—what he’s expecting—but my answer seems to have satisfied him.
I need to take a closer look, so I wiggle through the gap between the stairs and the roof. I’m in so tight, I can barely move. I don’t have claustrophobia, but if I can’t get out of here, I sure as hell will get it really damn quick.
I shine the light around. The space is about six feet long. You couldn’t stand in it, but could sit or lie down. Thick lengths of two-by-six wood have been fastened into place over the roof and walls with large metal screws drilled hastily into place. Wire mesh covers the other wall, and I realize there must be a false wall on the other side of the carpeted attic to hide this horror.
That’s when I see the wrist irons on chains fastened to the wall at the end.
And something else lying against it.
I have to crawl all the way inside the tiny compartment to get close enough. I’m overwhelmed by the strong smell of antiseptic—someone’s been scrubbing the wood, and I think it’s probably worse than whatever it smelled like before.
I stick my arms through the bars and reach for what looks like a billfold or wallet wedged into a crack between the roof and the floor.
I’ve got my whole arm in, my shoulder pressed so hard against the rough metal bars that it hurts like hell. If I can’t reach it now, I’ve already decided to bust open the wall and rip apart the mesh cage to get at it.
My anxiety is rising and my stomach’s in knots because I think I already know what it is, but I keep stretching until my fingers catch the smooth black leather surface, the finely stitched corner, and I pull it back. It opens, and I recognize the ID inside.
It’s the absolutely worst thing I could’ve imagined.
I’m dizzy, struggling to push my way out of this deep, dark hole. It’s all I can do to yell. “Charlie! He’s got her. Harriet’s got Gekas. That asshole’s got Gekas!”
chapter 112
Jack races down the highway, car-top down. The air is brisk around him, but the sun is warm against his smiling face.
He’s never felt such freedom.
Since releasing himself of the lunar pull, of the wait for the ritual to begin, he’s come into his full power; he is free now to choose who and when. Before, he believed the moon had given him strength, had dictated his fate; now he knows it was a burden holding him back, the ritual nothing more than a self-imposed stricture. He’d been capable of so much more.
He feels a ferocity of passion, not just now, in this moment, but for the time to come. He can envision a future of her and him, of killing, that he once could never have imagined.
But he must do things right if he is to achieve his goals.
The boys will be coming soon. They triggered the motion alarm at the house; he’s seen them on the security camera. They’ve seen his work and they’ll put the pieces together quickly. They may already be on their way.
If he does things right, the trap will be sprung. He will kill the impostor and the boys, and put an end to the harm they’ve caused. And once it is finished, she’ll finally be whole and strong again.
And then he can kill.
Again and again and again.
part 4
chapter 113
I push myself back through the partition and twist around to get out of the crawl space. I’m still yelling at Charlie when I see his head pop through the hole.
“He’s taken Gekas.” I say, throwing her police ID toward him.
I push past him and land on the floor, soaked in sweat and covered in filth. I drag myself to the window and take in fresh breaths of spring air.
“What was in there?”
“A cage, way at the back.” I gesture to the other side of the room. “There’s likely a false wall or something.”
Charlie’s on his feet and across the room, searching along the drywall. “I don’t see anything—” He gives a swift kick with his shoe and cracks the wall, and it doesn’t even faze me. He drops down and tears it away.
“What the hell, dude?” he yells as the mesh enclosure is revealed.
When I can breathe again, I crawl over to him. “He must’ve covered the whole thing up—” I start to say.
“But why? Because of us?” Charlie interrupts. “Who’s he trying to hide it from?”
I look at Charlie. “Maybe he’s never coming back. Maybe he’s moved on.”
“But why?” Charlie asks again.
His question irritates me and I yell, “I don’t know!”
I have to take another breath, and Charlie stares again at the cage and the hole he’s made in the wall.
“Okay, let’s think this through,” he says. He leans in and studies the wall more carefully, giving it a sniff. “The paint is fresh. Probably just dried the other day. That’s why he’s kept the windows open.”
I work to get into his headspace. “So he’s trying to cover his tracks. Maybe he really isn’t planning on coming back.”
“He seems to have known that we went into his condo—”
“How? Because of Mike? You said—”
“I know what I said,” Charlie growls. “We’re not responsible for his actions. But if he knows we went into the condo, he must’ve figured we’d show up here too.”