by David Gane
Harriet hesitates.
I can hear him—I’m guessing he’s leaning against the wall, breathing right into the hole.
“Mr. Harriet?”
“He doesn’t think they’re my parents.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was adopted, Tony.”
Is Harriet’s brother so messed up that he thinks this makes a difference?
“The sad thing, Tony, is that after … everything, I was just happy to see him again.”
I’m guessing he’s talking about what happened with Autumn, about his divorce.
“We thought he was dead,” he adds.
Harriet no longer needs prompting. He chatters continuously. After being alone so long, this opportunity to speak must feel good, like a logjam bursting open to let the river of his thoughts flow out.
“After high school, he went away to university, and we heard less and less from him. Then one day, the phone calls stopped. My parents went looking for him, but the school said he’d quit and the dorm said he’d moved out.
“My parents kept searching—they tried not to lose hope—but as each year passed, they grew more heartbroken. It finished Dad. He went out to the barn and— And, well, Mom didn’t last much longer without him.”
Harriet’s quiet, and I worry I’ll have to prompt him again, but he takes another shaky breath and continues, keeping his voice low. “I was so angry at him. Our parents loved us both, tried to give to us equally. But he couldn’t get past his own selfishness. And now—”
Here Harriet stops, unable to continue, because we hear his brother, Jack, coming down the stairs.
chapter 129
Jack is in the hallway, outside the door to Harriet’s cell. Quietly, I grab a sharp sliver of the shattered toilet bowl lid, and tuck myself into a corner of the room.
“What’s going on down here?” Jack says. His voice is deep, sonorous. It sounds familiar but the tone is icy, threatening. I can’t think where I’ve heard it.
“Nothing,” Harriet says, and relief floods me. I’d worried he’d been so far gone, he’d tell his brother I was here.
“Bullshit. Who’re you talking to?”
“An angel, come to save me.”
Jack’s shoes scrape back and forth against the cement of the hall floor. Like me, he’s probably wondering whether his brother’s crazy.
“Yeah? What’s this angel’s name?”
“It’s— He’s—” Harriet’s memory fails him. Then he improvises. “It’s the boy in the other room.”
Crap.
Jack laughs, and it’s cold and mean. “Oh, he’s no angel.”
I exhale a shaky sigh. Jack thinks he meant Charlie. Hopefully my luck will continue to hold.
“Keep quiet down here,” he says, going back toward the stairs. But there are no footsteps going up.
I realize far too late that he’s stepped into the workroom I’ve just come from.
Did I leave any sign of my presence? Any traces?
The missing lock!
I listen to him cross to the closet and scramble to remember: was it open or closed when I came into the room? And will he notice if it’s different?
He walks back out of the room, and now I’m on high alert. A moment later, I hear him on the other side of the bathroom door. The length of time it takes to open the padlock is all that separates us.
I drop down and shimmy back through the hole into the workroom closet.
I hear a key scrape in the bathroom’s padlock and the small shhhck as it pops open. I pull myself all the way back into the closet just as the door swings wide, light from the hall spilling through the hole in the closet.
I stand in the workroom breathlessly, trying to anticipate his next move. The bathroom door slams shut again and I don’t delay. I climb back into the closet and push myself into the corner beside the bloody bag.
This is the worst frickin’ game of hide-and-seek ever.
He returns to the workroom, ready to catch Harriet’s angel. The closet door is ajar and I can see a narrow slice of the room. If I tried to peer around the door, we’d be face to face. I don’t move a muscle, hoping against hope that he doesn’t search the closet.
Fortunately, he doesn’t spend too long examining the room, and he steps out. Unfortunately, as soon as the door to the workroom closes, I hear the rattle and shwick of another padlock being fastened to the door.
I wait to hear his footsteps go up the stairs before I risk moving—but I only hear a tap tap tap at the door.
“Is that you, Anthony?” Why does Jack’s voice sound so familiar? “Are you Tom’s angel?”
I don’t answer, hoping he’ll wonder if anyone’s actually here.
That hope is immediately shattered.
“No need to be shy, Anthony. I know you’re in there.” Then he shouts down the hall to all of us, “Don’t go far, any of you. I’ll be back for you all really soon.”
chapter 130
Once I know Jack has gone back upstairs for sure this time, I crawl back into the bathroom to double-check the door. Yup, still locked, but a guy can hope. I need to figure a way out before he gets back.
“Hello? Who’s there?” Harriet calls out again.
I crawl back to the hole.
“Tony.”
“Oh, I thought—I thought I had imagined you.”
“Nope, I’m real.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “How—how can I be sure?”
This guy is going to need a lot of therapy.
If we get out of here.
“You’ll just have to trust me. Do you know what your brother has planned for us?”
“My brother—?” I certainly hope he hasn’t forgotten who’s locked us in here. “He says I must be punished for my sins.”
“Sins? What sins?”
“I suffer from temptation. I desire. Covet.”
I wonder if this has something to do with Autumn. “But did you actually do anything?”
“I don’t— I’m not sure anymore.”
Harriet’s pretty fragile, but I hope he’ll be able to help me figure this out.
“What do you remember?” I ask.
“There was a student …” There’s another long pause, and if I could see him, I’m sure it would be obvious that he’s doing his best to fit the fractured pieces together.
“Were you close?”
“I—we—talked.”
“But did you like her?”
“She … was trouble.”
At least he’d figured that out. “And that stopped you?”
“I—I spoke to her. At school— And I would see her at her job—” Then clarity comes, all at once. “They said I was text-ing her, Tony. Sending her pictures. Asking her for pictures.”
“And did you?”
“No, she’s a student …” The disconnect returns. “But she had proof. I don’t remember. But I must have. And then … oh God, Tony. Carol—she left …”
As he remembers and relives every troubling moment, his voice rises in pitch. Better ease off, slow him down before he gets his brother down here again. Jack might not have been ready to deal with us a minute ago, but I’m sure not going to push our luck.
“Mr. Harriet, can I tell you something?”
“Yes?”
“I thought you were a good teacher.”
He’s hyperventilating, breath whistling through the hole, but he’s listening. “I—I was?”
“You were. You taught me Grade 11 biology.”
“I did?”
I know what the next question will be.
“What was your name again?”
I no longer need to lie. “Anthony Shepherd.”
“Anthony? I—I remember—”
“I’m going to look for
a way out, okay?” I say. “I’ll be back.”
“Promise?”
“Yes. I promise.”
chapter 131
I crawl back to the workroom and consider the situation. I check my phone—it’s got battery, but still no signal.
I study the workbench, thinking maybe one of these tools might help bust me out, but I’m not getting through any of these doors without a lot of noise, and none of them will be particularly helpful if I come face to face with him. You don’t bring a hacksaw to a gunfight.
I need a different plan.
Across from the workbench are shelves filled with old paint cans, power cords, leftover insulation, even an old fish tank—all of which are covered in a thick layer of dust, and none of which will help. Above are the exposed beams and floor joists of the main floor, and the subfloor itself.
Basically, I’m in a box.
However, I now notice that where the wall behind the shelving meets the ceiling, there’s a gap. When I stick my hand up to it, I feel a cool draft. I close my eyes, visualizing the house and how it’s put together, where all the rooms are above me. The kitchen should be directly overhead—almost. This room feels like it’s half the size it should be.
I push the aquarium aside and rap my fingers against the drywall until I find a thick-sounding solid section. I clear away more of the shelves, exposing a piece of wall that’s all water-stained and mouldy from years of moisture.
I know exactly what’s behind it: the kitchen’s cold cellar—and its collapsed walls.
I push my hand against the soft plaster and it crumbles with ease. I pull and yank, and the smell of rot hits my nostrils. I nearly gag and have to take a step back to catch my breath. Still, it’s got to be better than what Charlie’s smelling right now, and the thought makes me move faster, pulling my shirt off and wrapping it around my face to reduce the impact of the stench.
I dig, and dirt and crumbling brick spills through the hole. It doesn’t take long for me to work my way into the slick, slimy peat of vegetable matter. I have to actually climb onto the shelf to dig deeper into the hole, being careful not tip the whole structure over. As I stretch halfway through, long,
orangey-pink earthworms spill down over my arms, and oval sow bugs skitter their many, many legs over my face.
I don’t care. I get enough traction to push against the wood studs in the wall, forcing my way up through the muck until I break through the surface in the cold cellar in an explosion of flies and sludge. The deep muck stinks and my eyes water, but I drag myself through the rest of the way.
I want to get out of this cellar. I feel disgusting—and smell worse—and I’m pretty sure there are bugs crawling into every one of my crevices. I listen for Jack but can’t hear anything over the buzz of flies.
I risk it, and push the trapdoor to the root cellar open a crack. My field of vision is limited: I can only see the back door and the entrance to the hallway. I don’t know where Jack is or what he’s doing. He could be right behind me for all I know. I hope like hell he isn’t.
I smell smoke.
Jack must have lit the fireplace, but that doesn’t matter to me at the moment. The smart thing to do would be to climb out of here and get as far away from this house as possible—
There’s a scream from downstairs—Harriet—followed by the growl of Jack’s voice saying, “Come on.”
They struggle at the bottom of the basement steps.
Then a gun goes off.
Even though I’ve half-expected it all along, his gun is now a reality I have to deal with.
In the ringing silence that follows, I think Harriet’s dead. Then I hear the heavy scuffle of two pairs of feet coming up the stairs.
There’s the sickening thud of a body hitting a wall, and through the crack, I see Harriet’s head hit the hall floor so hard it bounces. He’s gaunt and pale and looking my way. He blinks and scrambles to regain his feet. I can’t believe he’s still alive. I hope he has the sense to keep his mouth shut—any indication from him that I’m here and I’m a dead man, no question.
I let the trapdoor sink back down, staying quiet. The struggle continues above me, hollow clomps echoing through the boards. They stumble through the hallway, and then up the second flight of stairs.
What’s Jack doing with him?
As soon as it’s quiet, I don’t waste any more time. I quickly climb out of the cellar, the noxious odour making me dizzy, and gasp for air, only to be assaulted by the taste of smoke at the back of my throat.
The air is hazy. I’m coughing and retching and have to fight to clear my head. Is the chimney blocked? We’ve got to get out of here.
I need to get to Charlie.
chapter 132
I look around corners and get back down to the basement. Although I’m almost certain Jack is upstairs with Harriet, I’m really hoping I’m not walking into a trap. It would really suck if he were waiting for me, gun pointed dead centre.
The padlocks are still in place on both tool room and bathroom, but the door to Harriet’s cell is wide open. Inside is fuel for the wickedest nightmare.
The room reeks of human filth and is nearly engulfed in darkness. The hallway light casts a thin sliver across the floor and wall, illuminating the folds of a grimy blanket.
Harriet’s been living like a beaten animal. I have no idea how he’s lasted so long.
I don’t waste time, though—there’s none to spare—and I rush through the storage rooms on the other side of the hall to the boarded-up doorway and my friend.
I kneel down to a crack between the wood. “Charlie?”
There’s movement and his eye appears. “Shepherd,” he says solemnly from behind the wood slats.
“You okay in there?”
“I am now that you’re back,” he says, renewed hope in his voice.
“I’m going to get you out.”
“About damn time.”
There’s no way I can pull off the board Jack’s just hammered into place, but I’m hoping I can break the others.
“Step back,” I call out, and throw a desperate shoulder check into the wood. It hurts like hell but nothing seems to move.
“Again,” Charlie says.
I put a little more force into it this time and definitely hear the wood crack. I take two steps back and literally run at the doorway, and a couple of the two-by-sixes bust off.
Charlie’s face appears in the hole. “Took you long enough,” he says.
I’m so grateful to see he’s okay that my comeback couldn’t be more lame. “Sorry, princess. I was a bit busy.”
“That all you got?” he asks, rolling his eyes.
Gah. This guy.
“Can you just help me here?” I ask, ramming against the rest of the boards.
“Gladly.”
It takes us no time to knock out enough pieces so that Charlie’s able to climb through. He reaches back to grab the big stick. As he does, I fill him in.
“Haven’t you been a busy boy,” he says with a smartass grin.
Now that I’ve got him beside me again, my own humour returns. “Well, someone has to cover your ass!”
The smile fades. “Seriously, Shepherd, thanks for coming back for me.”
“No problem, brother.”
He looks shocked at the word. “Brother, huh? You know, I like the sound of that!”
And I think he honestly does.
chapter 133
We race to the top of stairs. Smoke now hangs low in the room, making our eyes tear up, and we drop to our hands and knees. I pull my shirt up over my face again and wait while Charlie adjusts his.
“What the hell’s Jack doing?” I ask.
“Besides trying to murder all of us and frame Harriet for it?” Charlie asks.
That aspect hadn’t occurred to me. Jack might be ma
d at his brother, but what did we ever do to him?
“Why’s he pissed at us, do you think?”
That’s when we hear Jack clomping down the stairs from the second floor, and Charlie makes a suggestion. “Why don’t we ask?”
“Because he’s got a gun,” I say.
“Yeah, but there’s two of us,” Charlie replies, hefting the club.
We hide in the hallway as Jack moves into the living room. Charlie signals for me to wait as he cuts through the kitchen into the dining room.
I sneak to the living room doorway.
Jack’s at the fireplace, back turned.
He’s a tall guy, well-built, and again I get the feeling that I’ve met him before. At the moment he’s wearing what looks like a breathing apparatus from a dive suit, so I can’t be sure. The gun is tucked into the back of his pants and he’s leaning over the fireplace, digging at it with a poker, trying to dislodge a burning log.
He pulls it loose and pushes it into the corner beside the rocking chair. It won’t take long for it to catch fire and turn the place into an inferno.
We need to act fast.
As if reading my mind, Charlie races from the dining room, but Jack sees him coming and reaches for his gun. He’s not fast enough, though, and Charlie’s already swinging the club, hard. It connects with the mask on Jack’s face and the plexiglass cracks. It’s got to hurt, and the gun skitters across the floor, but Jack takes the hit and turns on Charlie.
Shit!
I dive for the gun.
Jack rushes Charlie and tackles him, shoving him hard against the wall. Charlie’s head makes a resounding thunk, splitting the old plaster into a web of shards. He drops like a rock and Jack’s on top of him, bludgeoning him with his fists. They’re one big tangle and I don’t dare shoot without risk of hitting Charlie, so I fire a warning shot into the floor instead. My ears ring and the gun kicks in my hand—I feel it through my whole arm.
Jack freezes, mask askew, and lifts his hands in surrender. He twists toward me, furious, and I find myself staring at Gekas’s boyfriend, Spencer.