by Kelly, Sofie
Justin sat on the arm of the sofa, slapping the end of his closed fist against his palm. “Who knows you’re here?” he asked.
“Lots of people,” I said.
“Now, you see, I don’t think so.” His tone was conversational. “Because if lots of people knew, then lots of people would be here with you, and they’re not.” He extended his arms and looked around the room with that same unsettling smile. “Ruby told you I was going to be out of town, didn’t she?”
I didn’t say anything.
He tossed the key up in the air and caught it. “Yeah, I lied about that. Sometimes I just need a little space.”
“How did you manage to get a truck just like hers?” I asked.
Justin laughed. “The fact that my old truck is like Ruby’s is just bullshit luck.” He held up his hands like a doctor who had just scrubbed for surgery. “The fact that it’s running is because I’m good with my hands. I told you that when I was in juvie I learned how to hot-wire a car. I learned a few other things, too.”
“You killed Agatha,” I said.
“Miss Marple.” His eyes narrowed. “You didn’t think I was that well-read, did you?” He shook his finger at me. “The village busybody. I should have guessed it would be you. You are a librarian.” He said “librarian” like the word left a bad taste in his mouth.
Suddenly his hand shot out, pulling the strap of the messenger bag from my hand. “What’s in the bag, Miss Marple?”
I swallowed hard. “A flashlight,” I said. I hoped the cat was invisible, but if he wasn’t, I hoped he’d launch himself out at Justin’s face, because I wasn’t going to waste another chance on either door. I was going to grab the old chrome chair in front of the rolltop desk and launch it through the window.
Justin peeked in the bag and then tossed it back on the couch. Owen didn’t make a sound, but I was guessing he was mightily pissed. And he was probably plotting his revenge.
“Why did you kill Agatha?” I asked. I was going to have to stall him until I figured out what to do. My voice didn’t shake, although I was struggling to keep the rest of me from trembling.
“I didn’t kill her. Not on purpose. It was an accident.”
The creepy joviality was gone like that. He was still fidgeting.
“People will understand that.”
“What the hell was she doing in that damn alley in the middle of the night, anyway?” He yanked both hands through his hair. “It was dark. She was wearing that big, dark coat. How the hell was I supposed to see her?”
I nodded. “It was an accident.” The taste of something sour filled my mouth. Even if Justin had hit Agatha by accident, he was drinking and driving and he had literally left her there to die. “You took Eric to the restaurant rather than home. That’s why you were in the alley.”
“I didn’t know she was going to leave me the money in her will.” His eyes darted around the room. I wasn’t sure I believed him.
“But you knew she had money,” I said. “How? No one else did.”
He started smacking his hand with his fist again. “Post office was holding a bunch of mail for her. Ruby picked it up. I saw the return address on one of the envelopes and I knew it was an investment firm. Didn’t mean anything to Ruby.”
“You opened it.”
He shrugged. “You’d think a fancy place like that would spring for envelopes with better glue.”
Maybe if I kept him talking he’d let down his guard and I could make a break for it. “You told Ruby how worried you were about losing your funding, banking on her telling Agatha. What were you planning to do? Use Ruby to convince Agatha to invest?”
“What if I was? What the hell was she going to do with all that money?” he said derisively. “She was just sitting on it.”
I shifted on the sofa, moving a little closer to the edge. “And the truth is, you took the envelope Agatha wouldn’t let out of her sight, because you figured if she was holding on to it so tightly, it had to have something to do with the money.”
He looked past me, out the front window. “You know what’s true? Some people really can’t drink, and Eric is one of them.”
“You spiked his drink.”
His eyes came back to me. “Very good. Yeah, I did. I was trying to make a point.” His jaw tightened. “It didn’t work out quite the way I hoped. Eric’s not like me.”
“You can have a drink or two. You can stop.”
“What? You don’t believe me?”
“You’ve had a drink or two since the accident,” I said. “Haven’t you? I couldn’t tell.”
He came down off the arm of the sofa and paced in front of me. “That’s because I’m not an alcoholic. That’s a load of crap they’ve been trying to feed me since I was sixteen. I’m not like Eric. For God’s sake, he doesn’t even remember Wednesday night.”
“So why don’t you just explain what happened to Agatha? Explain it was an accident.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I can’t do that.” His hands were everywhere. “I’m really sorry about the way things worked out for other people. But I can’t do that.”
“You mean Ruby.” I pulled the bag closer. “And Eric.”
“Like I said, I’m sorry, but sometimes stuff happens. Sometimes people have to make sacrifices.”
“Or be sacrificed,” I said softly.
He stopped in front of me. “Yes, or be sacrificed.” He wiped his hand over his neck. “Do you know how hard and how long I’ve worked to make this place”—he gestured around the room, but I knew he meant the camp, not the space we were in—“a reality?”
“I probably don’t.”
“No, you don’t,” he said. “There are so many kids who need a place like this. And everywhere I turned people got in my damn way.”
I nodded.
“This place is going to change lives. It’s going to save lives.” He pulled the chrome chair out from the desk and straddled it. “So that makes it worth it. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”
Aristotle.
“Does it have to be that black-and-white?” I asked.
He laughed. It was a harsh sound in the almost-empty cabin. “You’re one of those people who see shades of gray, aren’t you, Kathleen?” His long, strong fingers were beating out a rhythm only he could hear on the chair back.
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly very dry. “Not always, but a lot of the time.”
“That’s what’s wrong with the world; too many shades of gray and not enough black and white. Not enough clear decisions. Not enough absolutes.” He shrugged, swung his leg over the chair and got up.
“I have to do what’s best for the most people. I’m sorry about Ruby and Agatha. I’m sorry about Eric. Hey, I’m even a little sorry about you.” He bent down and hauled me up by my elbow, yanking my arm up behind my back so hard that I whimpered as the pain shot from my elbow to my shoulder.
“Justin, what you doing?” I said, as he dragged me into the kitchen.
“I’m doing what I have to do.”
There was a trapdoor in the kitchen floor. I hadn’t noticed it.
Still holding my arm with one hand, he bent and lifted it. Crude wooden stairs disappeared down into the darkness. The hairs rose on the back of my neck and for a second the room whirled around me. Tight, dark places and I were not friends.
Justin patted the pockets of my coat and pulled out my cell phone. “I’m sorry, I can’t let you keep this,” he said. He dropped the phone and then stomped on it with the heel of his heavy boot. Then he pushed me on to the first step.
“Please . . . please don’t put me down there,” I stammered. “I . . . I . . . I’ll help you with the police. I’ll help you with Ruby. I don’t . . . I don’t like small spaces. Please just don’t put me down there!”
He studied my face, looking at me with something close to pity and regret. “You shouldn’t have come out here. You really shouldn’t. There are so many kids who need help.”
He sighed. “I can�
��t let you ruin that. I don’t have a choice.” He let go of my arm and at the same time gave me a shove. I tumbled down the stairs, instinctively holding Owen in the messenger bag close to my body.
The trapdoor slammed shut over my head.
And I couldn’t breathe.
I was sprawled on the steps, about two-thirds of the way from the bottom, as far as I could guess. I couldn’t tell for sure because it was so dark.
My chest was tight and my breath came in ragged gasps as my lungs tried to suck in air. There was a rushing sound in my ears, as though I were trapped under the tumbling water of a waterfall.
Owen twisted in the bag and pushed his head out the top. He laid it against my chest, over my racing heart. I slid my hand up the bag and onto his fur. He kept his head against me, and slowly I could breathe again.
I was in a small, dark basement but I wasn’t alone. I had Owen. He was fierce, he was loyal and he had claws. I knew from past experience that when something bad happened Owen would fight back.
“We have to get out of here,” I said. “I have to see if I can get the trapdoor open.”
I worked my way up the stairs, step by step, bumping from one riser to the next, holding Owen with one hand and feeling my way with the other.
A couple of steps from the top I stopped and reached over my head for the outline of the trap. “Okay we have to get you out of the bag.” I said.
Owen started to pull himself up, and I remembered the flashlight. “We have a flashlight.” I fished it out of the bag, held on to the cat and let the bag fall over the side of the steps. I turned on the light with my free hand.
Owen blinked his golden eyes at me. “We’re going to get out of here,” I said. He meowed softly. “I’m going to put you on the steps so I can use both hands on the trapdoor.”
I set him on the step below me, shrugged out of my jacket, braced both feet on the wooden stair and pushed the trapdoor over my head with all my strength. The muscles in my neck and shoulder strained and sweat popped up along my hairline.
The hatch didn’t move.
I dropped my arms, hung my head and caught my breath. And muttered a couple of swear words. Then I took a deep breath and tried it again. I leaned back and the edge of the step dug into my back as I pushed with everything I had.
It wasn’t moving. My best guess was that Justin had latched or locked the trapdoor in some way.
I edged up another step and turned on the flashlight. The hatch was a solid piece of plywood and it fit flush into the hole. We weren’t getting out that way.
My throat squeezed shut and the darkness began to blacken. Justin wasn’t just holding me in the basement. He’d left me there to die.
I pressed my head between my knees and put my hands over the back of my head. I wasn’t going to die in this damp, dark basement in the middle of nowhere. Neither was Owen.
I felt behind me for the papers I’d managed to get out of the envelope. They were still safely tucked in my waistband. And they were the only shot Harry had of finding his daughter.
“Okay, puss,” I said. “We have to figure something else out.”
I looked down at the stair below my feet. Owen was gone. He wasn’t on any of the stairs below either.
“Owen, c’mon,” I called. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, I could see the steps went down to a dirt-floor cellar. I couldn’t see the cat at all. In fact, nothing moved in my range of vision at all—both a bad thing and a good thing.
“Owen,” I called again, leaning forward. This time I got a faint meow in return.
“Come back here.”
He meowed again. That meant I was going to have to go get him.
I eased down a couple of stairs. My skin crawled as I concentrated on not looking at how close over my head the floor beams were.
The basement smelled musty with a sweet, fetid odor, like something had started to rot. I made myself think of rotting apples or rotting potatoes with dark mold and soft white patches. I didn’t let myself think of all the other things that might be decomposing down there.
I worked my way to the bottom. The dirt floor was cold even through my heavy socks.
“Owen, where are you?” He meowed from the back wall of the cellar. “You had to pick a spot over there,” I said as I made my way over the cold ground. “What are you doing? Did you find some way out of here?”
I kept talking because there were things I didn’t want to chance hearing, and as long as I was talking, I wasn’t screaming. And there was no way that could be bad.
I kept my eyes fixed on where I’d heard the cat’s meow. I didn’t look at any of the boxes or discarded piles of junk. If I didn’t look at it, it couldn’t scare me.
Owen was sitting on a discarded metal bedspring, probably from an old bunk bed. “This is what you wanted me to see? Why?” He pulled at one of the coiled metal springs with a paw. I could feel tendrils of panic creeping up the base of my skull.
I took a couple of deep breaths. “I’m going to have to drag this over to the stairs,” I said. “You think we need it, okay with me.”
The spring framework wasn’t as heavy as I’d thought. It wasn’t that difficult to pull it over to the bottom of the steps, where I felt more secure—relatively speaking.
I dropped onto the second step and wiped my hands on my snow pants. And then I saw it, above me in the cement-block wall: a small, grimy window almost completely boarded over. A window with just a small sliver of light showing. For a moment it felt like I had two Slinkys for knees.
I grabbed Owen and hugged him in relief, a tad too hard, and he squeaked his objection. “I’m sorry,” I said. “But there’s a window. We can get out of here.”
I scrambled up the steps and got the flashlight from where I’d left it and grabbed my jacket, too, because I was cold.
I shone the light on the window. The small bit of glass I could see was black with encrusted dirt. Weathered gray boards had been nailed over the top of the window into the frame.
When I stood on tiptoe I could get a grip on the top length of wood. I pulled with every bit of strength I had, but it didn’t so much as wiggle. I tried the board below it, but it was nailed tightly, as well. My right foot slid out from under me and I lost my balance and banged my leg against the steps.
I sank to the basement floor. Tears filled my eyes. I held on to my leg, rocking from side to side for comfort. Owen climbed onto my lap and licked away one tear that had gotten out and rolled down my face.
I stroked his fur with one hand. “We’re going to get out of here,” I told him. “All we have to do is find something to pull off those boards.”
I set him on the dirt, struggled to my feet and swiped away the tears. “Come on. There’s got to be something.”
Except there wasn’t.
We looked in discarded boxes that were full of moldy paperbacks and old issues of National Geographic. There was a broken toaster and a tangle of cutlery.
I don’t know when exactly I first smelled the smoke. It was faint, barely more than a hint, but as we got closer to the back corner of the basement the odor was stronger.
Justin had set the cabin on fire.
I jammed half my hand in my mouth so I wouldn’t scream, because I knew if I started I might not be able to stop. Owen went back to the stairs and I ran back, as well, trying to ignore how cold my feet were.
“We’ve got to get those boards off,” I told him. I pulled frantically at them, but nothing happened. I kept yanking, splinters slicing into my hands.
I beat on the wood in frustration, my eyes burning again with unshed tears. Then I couldn’t help it; I dropped to the dirt and let the tears run down my face. “I should’ve called Marcus,” I whispered. “I should’ve told Maggie or Lita or someone I was coming here.”
I kicked the bedsprings in anger and frustration. The frame slid across the dirt and one of the metal slats came loose from its spring, whipping into the air, the sound and movement sending me back a
gainst the stairs.
I looked at the window. I looked at the thin piece of metal. It was very flexible and very strong. Would it work? I had no other options.
I knelt on the cellar floor and grabbed the end of the slat. Twisting and pulling, I managed to get it free from the other spring. I took it over to the window. Stretching over my head, I eased the length of metal under the edge of the top board near where it was nailed and pulled up on the other end. The rough edge of the strip cut into my left hand.
This wasn’t going to work.
Breathing hard, I leaned my forehead against the cement block wall. Think, think. I remembered Roma saying chocolate or duct tape could fix just about anything.
Roma’s roll of duct tape was still in my jacket pocket. I pulled it out and tore off a long piece, winding it around the metal bar for a handgrip. Then I pulled with everything I had, Owen at my feet, seemingly cheering me on. The wood groaned. I ground my teeth together, braced one leg against the block wall and pulled. There was a splintering sound as the dry old wood gave way. I left it hanging by one nail and went to work on the second board.
“We are getting out of here,” I told Owen through clenched teeth. “And the next time I see Justin . . .”
I channeled my fury into pulling, the muscles in my arms shaking.
The smell of smoke was getting stronger. I coughed, shook my head and pushed in the edge of my makeshift pry bar just a little bit more.
It was enough. The wood cracked and I was able to pull it loose the rest of the way with my hands.
“Yes!” I shouted, nearly out of breath. I made a small shooing motion to Owen. “Get up there a little bit.” He moved up the stairs about halfway. I turned my head, put a forearm in front of my face and smashed the three small windowpanes with the metal bar, beating out the wooden dividers between the squares of glass.
There were needlelike slivers of glass everywhere. They cut into my feet through my heavy socks as I moved to the window. The icy air had never felt so good.
I used my sleeve to brush away the worst of the glass. Then I turned around and grabbed Owen. I reached through the window and set him in the snow outside, grateful that it had drifted away from the house on that side of the cabin.