“Do it,” Peter said.
Bob gasped and contorted his face again.
Peter lifted the receiver and put it against Bob’s mouth. “Say it.”
But Bob refused. Finally the beeping stopped.
Peter shoved the maintenance man back. “Bob!”
“I’m sorry,” Bob said. He began to cry.
“Is there a way to the top from in here?”
Bob retreated against the wall and pointed to a door at the far end of the room. “Ventilation chimney. There’s a ladder to the top.”
“How far below are we?”
“Seventy feet.”
That wasn’t too bad. Peter had to make quick work of it, though. If security arrived while he was still on the ladder, he couldn’t trust Bob to keep his mouth shut. If they found him midway up the chimney, he’d be a dead Santa.
With the handgun tucked into the waist of his pants, Peter ran for the door, threw it open, and launched himself onto the ladder. Hand over hand he climbed, as fast as his legs could push him upward. Above him there was a grate, and on the other side of the grate was daylight. As he climbed closer to the top, he noticed trees, leaves, clouds. Freedom. He only hoped the grate was not bolted shut from the outside.
When he was ten feet from the top, his shoulders and legs now burning, his lungs working hard to deliver oxygen to his racing heart, he heard the door from the corridor to the room below slam open and men shouting.
He pressed on, ignoring the pain, ignoring the fatigue. Five rungs to go.
His single focus was on the grate above him, growing ever closer. He imagined himself pushing on it and it flying up and off the hatch.
Two rungs to go. His legs felt as though they were made of wood; his arms felt dead, limp. But still he willed himself to continue.
Finally Peter reached the top. He pushed against the grate, but it didn’t move, didn’t budge. His heart sank. His shoulders were on fire, and his legs threatened to give out and send him plummeting the seventy feet to the concrete floor below. He pushed harder but still nothing.
Peter climbed one more rung so his upper back was against the grate. Lifting with his legs, he pressed against the grate. It moaned and moved ever so little. It wasn’t bolted in place, only rusted shut. Again he pressed upward with his legs, gritting his teeth, straining every muscle. And again the grate moaned and creaked.
On the ground level the door to the ventilation duct opened. Peter looked between his feet and saw a man poke his head through the doorway and look up. He stayed like that for a full three seconds. From the ground level, anything at the top would be merely a silhouette against the daylight on the other side of the grate.
Peter remained motionless, his back against the wall of the duct, his shoulders and head against the grate.
The man stepped into the shaft and continued looking up.
Beads of sweat that had formed on Peter’s brow now gathered at the bridge of his nose. He held his breath. To move and wipe at them would certainly give away his position. The sweat moved down his nose and stopped at the tip.
Below, the man continued looking up, not sure of what he was seeing.
A droplet of sweat dislodged from the tip of Peter’s nose. Before it could hit the man below, Peter launched himself upward one more time, shoving with all his force against the grate. It creaked, snapped, gave way, and flew open, swinging up and out on hinges that moaned terribly. Sunlight rushed in like water over a breached levee.
The man at the bottom shouted something to his colleagues, and with his torso out of the shaft, Peter heard a gunshot. A round ricocheted off the shaft. Peter twisted and writhed. Another shot sounded. Peter’s legs cleared the top of the ventilation shaft, and he tumbled to the ground, breathing heavily, sweating profusely. His legs and arms felt as lifeless as lead.
He lay there, panting like he’d just run a mile at top speed, but he knew they might start climbing at any moment. Peter sat up and slipped the gun over the edge of the chimney, firing off two rounds. He heard a low grunt and a soft expletive from below. Not a fatal wound, but certainly no fun to climb with. And now that they knew Peter was armed and shooting, they might not risk being such easy targets inside the shaft. Even so, Peter didn’t want them sneaking up behind him. He fired two more shots down the shaft and flipped the protesting grate closed again. There was a slot where the grate could be padlocked, but he didn’t see anything sturdy enough to do the job. As a last resort, he jammed the barrel of the handgun into the opening, sealing his captors below. He hated to lose the weapon, but it was better than having an armed posse right on his tail.
After a minute of rest, Peter climbed to his feet and surveyed the area. The shaft had opened into the woods surrounding Centralia. All around were trees and underbrush, leaves and dirt. He had no idea which direction to go. He wanted to get back to town and find his truck. From there he could go somewhere safe where he could think about his next move, contemplate how he would lure Nichols out, and formulate a plan.
The shaft was on an elevated area of land, and a gentle slope downward lay directly in front of Peter. He knew Centralia was in a bit of a valley with hills all around, so he figured he’d try going downhill and see where it led. It was his best guess.
After five minutes of hiking, he noticed a home set back in the trees. It was dilapidated and in ruins, the roof caved in, the windows shattered, but a sure sign that he was headed in the right direction. Another five minutes and he came across what remained of a road. The asphalt was now broken and eroded, mostly covered with dirt and overgrown with serviceberries and saplings.
Peter followed the road to the edge of Centralia. From there he stayed in the woods along the perimeter of town until he came across the service road that led to where he’d hidden his truck.
Moving carefully but quickly and staying concealed by the growth around him, Peter located his truck, found the keys he’d hidden. At the driver’s side door he reached for the handle and heard the crunch of leaves behind him. Before he could swing around, the cold, hard metal of a gun’s barrel pressed against his skull.
“Don’t make a move, Patrick.”
Habit. It was Habit.
Without saying a word, Peter lifted his hands.
“Now slowly,” Habit said, “on your knees.”
Peter did as he was told.
“I’m sorry to do this to you, Patrick. Really, I am. But don’t think you didn’t have it coming.”
The barrel pulled away, and a second later a terrible explosion went off in Peter’s head. He felt his body go limp and then sank into oblivion.
Peter awoke feeling confused and disoriented, as though he’d just been through the spin cycle of a washing machine and the whirling had yet to stop. Only he wasn’t awake; he was in the house again, sitting at the top of the stairs, staring down at the first floor and its nearly empty rooms.
On the second floor everything was the same as usual, only this time the three doors nearest him were closed as well. It was as if his subconscious mind, the ringmaster of his dreams, were telling him that he’d looked there, done that, and now it was time to move on to the fourth room or give up altogether.
Peter wasn’t about to give up.
He stood, holding on to the banister until his head stopped swimming, then proceeded down the hallway. At the fourth door he tried the knob, but as usual it was locked.
Then the girl’s voice. Peter couldn’t tell whether it was Lilly or Maddy. Or maybe both of them together. If there truly was a Lilly. Or a Maddy. “Do you trust him, Daddy?”
And that verse in the Bible: “I am the door. If anyone enters by Me, he will be saved, and will go in and out and find pasture.”
The words echoed through Peter’s head again and again. “Find the key” . . . “Do you trust him?” . . . “I am the door.”
He reached for the knob again but stopped. No, he couldn’t do this on his own. It wasn’t about him, not really. It wasn’t about finding the secret beh
ind the door. It wasn’t even about finding Karen and Lilly.
It was about giving up his hold on everything he’d been trying to control. It was about giving it all to him regardless of what he found, regardless of the outcome. Give it all to him. In fact, it wasn’t about the room at all. It was about the door; it always had been.
Peter put his hand on the knob but did not try to turn it. He closed his eyes and felt a warmth pour over him. It started at the top of his head and traveled down his face, neck, shoulders, and chest, to his waist and over his legs, all the way to the soles of his feet. And then it reversed direction and moved up, like water defying gravity, to his waist, to his chest, and back to the top of his head.
“I trust.” He said it aloud and meant it. He had no power to find Karen or Lilly, no power to find the truth, let alone face it head-on. He had no ability on his own.
“I surrender.” He whispered the words. Sweet words. Words he’d never said, or at least didn’t remember ever saying, but fully felt.
Beneath his hand, the knob moved on its own as if someone from the other side of the door was turning it. Peter lifted his hand from the knob and exhaled. The door swung open and the room with all its precious secrets was finally revealed.
And it was empty. Stark empty. Nothing there but four white walls, a white ceiling, and a wood floor. No furniture, no memorabilia, no person. The shadow pacing back and forth, always back and forth, had disappeared and proven to be bodiless.
Peter entered the room and stood in the middle of it, half-expecting Lilly or Karen to round the corner and join him. But they didn’t. The emptiness was almost overwhelming, almost enough to spring tears from his eyes and release sobs from his throat. Where were his answers? Who was he? Where were Karen and Lilly? He had put so much hope in this room. His subconscious had done so much to protect him from its contents. And now that he’d discovered it was empty, the disappointment was nearly too much for him.
He ran from the room and tried the other doors. Maybe there were more clues in each of them, pieces of a puzzle he could assemble and get the full picture of who he was. But they were now locked.
No, God, no. Please. I trust you. I do. Please.
He fell to his knees outside the first door, and the hallway once more began to spin as fog moved up the stairs and swallowed the hall as slowly as it rolls in off an early morning ocean.
Yet again Peter awoke disoriented after being hit on the head. Slowly the world around him cleared and it all came back. He was outside. He’d escaped the bunker and found his truck. Then he’d been approached from behind. No, more than approached . . . assaulted. Habit. It was Lawrence Habit. He’d come back. Or maybe he’d never left.
Peter realized he was sitting in the passenger seat of a car, a sedan. Leather seats. Black interior. He was seat-belted but that was the only restraint. His head rested against the window, his cheek and ear pressing against the cold glass.
Slowly Peter lifted his head and looked to his left. Habit was driving, the burns on his face still bandaged from the grill. That seemed like such a long time ago—months, maybe years. How long he had been shut away in the dark was still a mystery.
Habit glanced at Peter but said nothing. He had both hands on the steering wheel, and there were no weapons in sight. Peter did not feel immediately threatened.
“Where are we going?” Peter said.
Habit checked the rearview mirror, looked out the side window. “There’s someone you need to meet.”
“Who?”
“Someone.”
“That doesn’t tell me much.”
“He’ll tell you everything.”
“How do I know you’re not going to kill me?”
Habit motioned toward a duffel bag on the floor at Peter’s feet. “Thought you’d like a change of clothes.”
Peter ignored the bag. “How do I know you’re not going to kill me?”
Habit lowered his brow. “We’ve already had this conversation. If I’d wanted to kill you, I would have done it already. Besides, why would I bring you clothes only to kill you before you had a chance to put them on?”
“Then how do I know you won’t turn me over to Nichols?”
“I could have done it while you were out.”
“How’d you even know I’d escape?”
“You’d be surprised. There’s more than just me who’re less than pleased with the way Nichols runs the show. And it pays to still have some friends inside. When they told me you were out of the hole, I had a feeling you’d make it back to your truck sooner or later.”
Habit bit his lip. He checked the mirrors again, then leaned forward and, peering out the windshield, scanned the sky.
“What are you looking for?”
“Making sure we’re not being followed.”
“By Nichols?”
“And whoever he sends after us.”
Peter rubbed his face, then the back of his head. There was a lump there, tender to touch.
“Sorry about that,” Habit said. “But I knew you wouldn’t come voluntarily.”
“No, I probably wouldn’t have.”
“No probably about it.”
Peter was quiet for a moment, thinking, watching the trees blur by outside the car. “You know, I was once one of Nichols’s soldiers. So were you.”
Habit nodded. “Once. I’m not anymore.” He glanced at Peter. “And neither are you.”
“Sounds like we didn’t have much of a choice.”
A slight smile curved Habit’s lips upward. “I had a choice. At first. But things get complicated when you deal with Nichols.”
“Complicated doesn’t seem like the appropriate word.”
“Dangerous.”
“There it is.”
They were both quiet for a while. Peter watched the outside world slide by in a silent blur as the hum of the car’s tires tugged at his eyelids. He fought sleep, though. He still didn’t fully trust Habit; he couldn’t. He couldn’t trust anyone. Finally, still looking out the window, he said, “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Helping me. I thought guys like you worked alone. Acts of kindness usually aren’t part of your repertoire.”
“Is that what you call this? An act of kindness?”
Peter said nothing. He really wasn’t sure what it was, but he knew Habit was telling the truth when he said he could have killed Peter on multiple occasions and had chosen not to. And that—sparing his life—was certainly an act of kindness of sorts.
Habit shifted in his seat, glanced at the rearview mirror, adjusted the collar of his shirt. “I owe you.”
“You owe me?”
“You don’t remember. You saved my life.”
“In combat?”
“Not the kind you’re thinking of.” Habit once again checked the mirror.
For the first time, Peter noticed a hint of vulnerability in the set of the big man’s jaw, the arch of his eyebrows.
“We’d come home after a tour in Afghanistan,” Habit said. “I hated coming home because I had nothing to come home to. Only an empty apartment and a head full of nightmares. See, we were different. You did what you were ordered to do. I did that and so much more. Evil stuff. Violent stuff. And when I came home, I had time to dwell on it. This particular time I returned in a dark place. All I could think of was death. The killing I’d done and my own. I wanted to end it, you know? Just put a stop to it all. I was ready to—I was literally seconds away from pulling the trigger—when you called.”
Peter remembered none of it, but he wished he did. He could see reliving those dark days was painful for Habit, and he wished he could assure the man he didn’t have to retell the story. But Peter felt he needed to hear it.
Habit glanced at Peter. “You talked to me, walked me out of the valley. You told me there was hope for me and I believed you. I don’t even know why I believed you. I think it was because I wanted to believe there was hope. Then you told me about your wife and da
ughter. You’d talked about them before but never like that. It made me want what you had. And I wanted it bad enough, I began to believe maybe it was possible.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“No. Not for me. After you disappeared, I thought you were dead. They wouldn’t tell me what happened to you. I lost whatever hope I’d had, and that’s when I started working for Centralia, doing their dirty work.”
“But I wasn’t dead.”
“Nope. When I saw you at Cantori’s house, it was like all that hope came rushing back. I’m not sure I could have killed you then even if they’d ordered me to. I’d all but forgotten what you did for me. They messed with my head too. But I remember it now. I owe you my life.”
“You can repay me by helping me find Karen and Lilly.”
“You’ll get answers where I’m taking you.”
Habit slowed the car at an intersection and turned right. The landscape changed from forest to farmland. On the left side of the road, an open field stretched to the horizon, undulating in rolling hills.
Peter said, “So will this mystery man be able to tell me where Karen and Lilly are?”
Habit’s eyes moved from the road to the mirror to Peter, then back to the road. “Yes, he will.”
They drove in silence for a couple of hours. Peter watched the world go by outside. Mostly, Habit stuck to rural roads that passed through forests of maples and oaks and sycamores and eventually turned to pines. Occasionally they’d pass through a field, newly harvested and brown with the death of autumn. Deer were there, foraging the grains left by the heavy equipment that had recently scoured the land. The roads took them over mountains and through valleys, across streams of glistening water and under remote railroad overpasses.
They were headed north. Ever north.
After two hours of travel, they passed a Welcome to New York sign, and Peter said he had to use the restroom.
Habit pulled the car into the next gas station and shut off the engine. They both sat there, watching an older man fill his Ford with gas.
“We need to keep moving,” Habit said, “so make this quick.”
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