by Mia Sheridan
The sound of a door to my right caught my attention, and I saw a man with a head full of gray hair just exiting. Something about his stride looked familiar, and I wondered for a moment if it was George. But I decided not to follow him. I decided this day was about me, and no one else.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
You know what you have to do, right? You must. It’s your only choice.
Racer, the Knight of Sparrows
GABRIEL
Spring came early, bringing buds to the trees and flowers sprouting from the softened soil. I was thankful the quarry was open for the season again, and most days I worked myself so hard, I hardly had the energy to think. Then I’d go to my workshop and lose myself in whatever piece I was currently carving.
I missed Ellie so damn badly it was a constant hollow ache inside me. The holidays came and went, and I wondered if she was lonely, if she’d celebrated at all, and I felt so sad I didn’t think I could bear it.
Was she hiding herself away from the world in a self-protecting bubble, allowing no one in? Or even worse, was she allowing people in who might hurt her? Did she have a job? Was she eating? I wanted so desperately to check on her in some way, in any way. I even considered driving by her apartment just to see the lights in her window, but I didn’t. I knew if I went there, I wouldn’t be able to drive away, knew I’d find myself at her door, and she didn’t want that. So I stopped myself.
But, ah hell, I wanted to. I wanted to so much it gnawed at my insides as if I were being slowly eaten away. Those were the days I went moment to moment, finding something to be grateful for, some beauty to make me believe the pain wouldn’t always be so bad.
I went into town more often, and though the whispers were worse after what had happened in the fall, and because of the newspaper articles that continued to mention my name, I found I cared less, and that made it easier to endure the gossip.
On a mild day in late March, I pulled into the parking lot of the hardware store. The air held the scent of damp earth and the tang of ozone. It was going to rain, although the thunderclouds looked to be a ways in the distance.
The bell over the door jingled and I entered the store, the familiar smell of dust and oil hitting my nose. It was Saturday and the place was busy, customers ready to get started on all their spring home and garden projects.
I was just picking up an order, so I stood in the line of people waiting for Sal at the cash register. As I waited, my mind wandered to the projects I needed to do around my house. I planned to exert myself cleaning up my yard and getting it ready for the trimming and mulching that would need to be done as the weather warmed.
A man at the register laughed at something Sal said, and I froze, my whole body going rigid. As if I were moving through a black tunnel, I was suddenly back there in the damp basement, listening to the sound of footsteps above me and that same distinct laugh full of wet-sounding congestion.
I blinked, pulling myself from the memory as if I were swimming to the top of a pool of water I’d just been plunged into.
I knew that laugh.
I leaned around the customer in front of me and took in the man being helped at the register. He was in his sixties and was tall, wearing a cowboy hat and a pair of cowboy boots with spurs on the backs. My brow furrowed underneath the baseball cap I was wearing. Who wore cowboy boots in Vermont?
You’re gonna ding up my baseboards with those. Quit walkin’ near my walls.
The memory of the words slammed into me as if I’d been hit on the head with a two-by-four, and I jerked backward. It had been such a strange thing to say, and I’d thought about it later, wondered what it meant. Could it be …
The man waiting in line directly in front of me glanced back and frowned and then looked forward again. Ah, Jesus. It couldn’t be … could it? My captor, Gary Lee Dewey, had had a visitor—just once—and I remembered that phlegmy cough, remembered the strange click-clack of his shoes, what Gary had said to him. The kitchen had been right over my head, and I’d listened as water ran and bits and pieces of conversation drifted to me through the heating ducts. I’d been stunned to hear voices, and it’d taken me a moment to decide what to do before I started yelling, “Help! Help!” A door had slammed and the voices were gone. I’d assumed whoever had been there hadn’t heard me. But maybe he had heard me. Maybe he’d known I was there and didn’t care because he was the same as Gary Lee Dewey. Or wanted to be.
God, but it was just the shadow of a memory. Nothing really. Only …
The man in the boots thanked Sal and turned from the register, heading for the door. As he passed by me, I smelled the overpowering scent of cigarette smoke—most likely the cause of that awful, loose cough.
Without letting myself consider it too much, I turned and followed him out, lagging behind so he didn’t notice. He got in a nondescript black pickup, and I followed as he turned out of the parking lot.
I stayed a few cars back, and continued driving as he pulled into the driveway of a home about ten blocks from the house where I’d spent six miserable years of my life.
Pulling to the curb a few streets over, I considered what to do. Should I call the police? Were a laugh and the sound of some shoes, a few remembered words, enough to get the authorities to check it out? I thought back to the way the two detectives had questioned me, and felt even more uncertain. If this turned out to be nothing, as it likely would, I’d appear even crazier.
But I’d dismissed my instinct before in favor of my own pride, and because of it, Ellie had ended up bloody and beaten behind a Dumpster. I let out a loud whoosh of breath, turning my truck around and heading back toward the house where the man presumably lived. This time, there was no truck in the driveway. I thought maybe he’d pulled it into the garage, but I’d seen him exiting his truck as I’d driven by. Had he returned home momentarily and left, or was it not his house? “Jesus,” I muttered. “Help me out here if you have some spare time.”
I drove past the house and parked a block up the street, walking back and trying to look as normal as possible. There was a woman in a track suit power walking on the other side of the street. I slowed down so she passed me, and I turned into the driveway of the house the man had gone into. Removing my baseball cap and tucking it into my back pocket, I peeked into the window of the garage. The garage was dark and the window tinted, but I couldn’t see a vehicle parked inside. I let out a relieved breath.
There was a row of junipers between that house and the one next door, and I circled around, concealed completely by the closely spaced trees. The last thing I needed was the police showing up while I cased the house. If I wasn’t considered a person of interest in the Wyatt Geller case now, I’d most likely be one after something like that.
There were small, tinted basement windows below the line of the yard with curved, tin window wells. Bars covered them. My heart started beating more harshly. I supposed it wasn’t unheard of to have bars over basement windows, but at the sight of them, in conjunction with the tint on the glass, my blood ran cold.
I looked down into the small gravel area and eyeballed whether I’d fit or not. I just needed to get a peek into the basement. If I didn’t see anything, I’d leave and determine whether I should call the police. I’d prefer to do it with a little more information than a long-ago memory and a gut feeling. I didn’t know if the police were overly responsive to such things.
Looking around to make sure I was completely out of view from the street and from neighbors, I maneuvered myself into one of the wells and squatted down to look into the window, shielding my eyes against the light. It was so dark inside, I had to press my forehead directly against the bars.
There was movement on the other side of the window. I pressed my face harder against the unforgiving metal. The tinted glass looked like the same type of glass that had been on Gary Lee’s windows—soundproof, unbreakable. Oh, Jesus. Jesus. A shadow moved behind the glass, small and childlike.
I heard a sound behind me and jerked j
ust as something hard came crashing down on my head. Everything went dark.
* * *
The world swam around me, colors and light breaking through the fog in tiny pinpricks of pain. I moaned and tried to grip my head, but my hands were bound. I fought for consciousness, a burst of adrenaline bringing me from the depths of the blackout I’d been in.
I cracked my eyes open and looked around, immediately spotting a scared boy sitting at the end of the couch I was on. He was gaunt and terrified. I widened my eyes. “Wyatt Geller?” My voice croaked.
His eyes were wide, too, as he nodded his head.
Up above I heard a voice. “Goddammit, get over here and help me figure this shit out. There’s enough on my computer to have the police at your door in fifteen minutes.” He paused as if he was listening to someone on the other end of the phone. “I know what you told me. I’ll get rid of it, just help me out here.” He was quiet again, and then he mumbled some sort of goodbye and hung up. For a moment all was silent, and then I heard him pacing, recognized the click-clack of what I now knew to be cowboy boots.
I pulled at the bindings on my hands, feeling more alert. My head was pounding with pain. My feet were tied, too, and I’d been shoved on the sofa in a strange position that made my back ache. I straightened myself as much as possible and started frantically working my bindings. “I need help,” I told Wyatt.
“He said he’d only be upstairs for a second. He’ll kill me if I help you. He’ll kill my parents, too.”
I glanced at the stairs, fear licking at my spine. I’d been here before. Oh God, I’d been here before. I worked to control my racing heart, the frantic need to free myself. I knew from experience that the longer we were here, the less chance we had to escape.
The man upstairs had been taken off guard by my presence, and I had to use that advantage if we were going to get free. If not, he’d come up with a plan, he’d calm his own nerves, his reinforcements would arrive—maybe all of those things—and we’d stand no chance. I knew. I knew better than anyone. It was now or six years from now. More likely never.
I turned my eyes back to Wyatt. “He’ll kill both of us if you don’t. Help me out of these and I’ll help you get out of here.”
He was shaking so hard, his lips were quivering. “I just want to go home.”
“I know, Wyatt. God, believe me, I know. Your parents are waiting for you—Brent and Robin, they want you home so badly. Help me, please.”
Hearing the names of his parents caused his lip to start trembling and his eyes to fill with tears. “They want you back,” I repeated. “Help me so I can bring you home. It’s now or never, Wyatt. This is our best chance. Please.”
He paused another moment as I held my breath, and then he slid toward me, glancing back once at the stairwell. I let out a burst of relieved, pent-up air and turned and held my hands in his direction so he could work at the knots. “I … I was a Boy Scout. I kn-know how to work on knots.”
“That’s good, Wyatt. That’s perfect. Just do it quickly, please.”
He’d only been working at the bindings for about thirty seconds when the footsteps suddenly started getting louder and the door at the top of the stairs banged open. Wyatt jumped away from me, back to where he’d been cowering, and I turned quickly, laying my head back and moaning as if I was just regaining consciousness.
The man in the cowboy boots appeared in front of us. He’d removed his hat. “You’re awake,” he noted. His face was flushed, and there were dark rings of perspiration staining the armpits of his light blue shirt.
“Who are you?”
“Won’t matter to you.” He paused. “I’m gonna have to put you in the ground. Damn sorry about that. You shouldn’t have come nosing around. Goddamn it to hell.” He turned, running his hand through his thin, blondish-gray hair, pacing for a few minutes. I worked frantically to remove the loosened rope around my hands. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he murmured. I glanced at Wyatt, and his face was white with fear as he pressed himself into the couch as if trying to disappear inside the cushions. His eyes moved back and forth between the man and me.
The ropes loosened and I slipped one hand free, halting all movement the second he turned back toward me. “You’re going to kill me?” I stalled. I already knew the answer.
“What fuckin’ other choice do I have?”
The sound of my own heartbeat thrashed in my ears. I had to do something now before the other person he’d called got here. I might have a chance of taking on one man with my feet tied together, but I’d never take on two. They’d knock me out again, and I knew that time I wouldn’t wake up. I had to do it now because, as God is my witness, I’d rather die than let the opportunity to give Wyatt a chance slip by.
Working to gain control of my heart rate, I pictured Eloise, pictured that smile that had been on her face when the prism cast rainbows around the room, the way she’d grasped one in her hands. If I don’t make it out of this room, if I never know whether you would have come back, keep grasping rainbows, Ellie. Hold them in your hands and know I loved you until my dying breath. I whispered it in my mind, hoping the feeling behind my words would carry—somehow, someway—straight to her heart.
Thunder suddenly cracked loudly, shaking the house, and we all startled, the man looking back toward the window. My opportunity. I gripped the rope in my hand as I lunged with every ounce of strength in my body.
Taken by surprise, the man yelled as all my weight crashed into him. We both went down hard, but he took the brunt of the fall, breaking mine with his body. A loud grunt came from his chest as I scrambled up on my knees next to him as fast as I could with my feet bound together, grasping the rope between my hands and wrapping it around his neck.
“Run!” I bellowed at Wyatt as I used all my strength to strangle the man. I thought I caught movement in my peripheral vision—Wyatt running past me and up the stairs. God, please let him be running. But I couldn’t check. I was in the fight of my life with the man beneath me. He tore at the rope at his throat as I pushed it down with all my might, hoping desperately to cut off his air. He was big, and he was strong, but I used the strength in my arms and my thighs—the strength that had been gained lifting rocks and walking up and down a canyon as if in preparation for just this moment.
We struggled and fought for what felt like forever as I prayed that I could hold him down at least long enough for Wyatt to get out of here. My arms were straining so hard, they were shaking with fatigue. At one point, with a sudden burst of renewed energy, he surged upward and I was knocked backward. He came over me, now having the upper hand. I allowed my gaze to move to the couch. Wyatt was gone. Thank God, thank God. Had he been able to escape the house? Had he made it to a neighbor’s home?
With the knowledge that Wyatt was gone, my body and my will strengthened once more, and I let out a guttural yell, pulling my bound legs upward and slamming my knees into his soft gut. He let out an ugly gurgling sound of pain and reared back slightly. But when I tried to get out from under him, he pulled his fist back and slammed it into my face. Stars exploded all around me, and my head hit the hard concrete floor. For a minute, I thought I’d pass out again, but I didn’t. I gave it my last bit of strength and grabbed onto his shirt, pulling him toward me and pushing him to the side so I could swing at him. The punch I landed was sloppy and ineffective since we were in motion, but I swung again and connected to his face in a sickening sound of cracking bone and splattering blood. He screamed and suddenly there were footsteps and a door slamming open and loud shouts from above.
Two young black men were suddenly right on us, yelling and pulling the man off me, holding him down as I fell back on the floor, gasping for breath.
“The boy’s okay,” one of them said, directing his statement at me as the older man struggled fruitlessly. His energy was used up, and his will was obviously gone as well. There was a bright red mark across his neck where I’d attempted to strangle him, and his expression was dazed. “The police are on thei
r way.” With those words the man gave one last attempt at escape, but it was a wasted effort. The two men holding him looked like linebackers. In the distance, I could hear the wail of sirens, and outside the small window, the soft pitter-patter of rain.
I could feel blood running down my cheek, knew one eye was swelling shut, but I didn’t care. Help was here. “The little boy’s safe,” one of them repeated. “He’s with my girlfriend.”
I offered a weak smile and held my thumb up in the air. It was all I could manage.
* * *
Rain pounded on the hospital room window, the noise drowning out the hustle and bustle of the corridor outside my door. I lay back on my pillow, enjoying the first moment I’d had with my own thoughts since the EMTs had carried me up the stairs of the basement I’d later learned belonged to Neil Hardigan, now in the custody of local police.
My head swam with everything that had happened since I’d walked into Sal’s hardware store the afternoon before. I was still having trouble believing it hadn’t all been a strange, fuzzy, half-formed dream. And yet, the joy that moved through me at the thought of Wyatt Geller at home with his parents right this very minute felt overwhelmingly real. They’d come into my room that morning and had barely been able to form words. His mother had hugged me so long and hard, it’d hurt my battered body, but that didn’t matter. They had their son back. I hadn’t been so lucky to be reunited with my parents the day I’d shown up in the hospital after facing the same trauma Wyatt had faced. But he had. He had, and I’d taken a part in it, and I took deep comfort in that.
We’d both arrived at the hospital together, and I’d later learned that after Wyatt had run up the basement stairs, he unbolted the front door and raced out into the street, waving his arms frantically, too terrified to yell at all.