A bare slit of light accosted his eyes. It was all he could manage. They wouldn't open all the way. He saw fog in the cabin.
Alex was in the snow outside his window, still crying. He had fallen down. He was only two. The snow scared him. He didn't understand.
Why was there fog in the cabin?
Panic seized him, and he yanked at the door handle. It snapped back closed. The door was locked.
His head throbbed and grated; his eyes started to sink closed again. He yelled incoherently, trying to make noise just to keep himself awake and moving.
He fumbled at the lock, trying to pop it open, but it kept slipping out of his grip. It was a tiny nub, nearly flush with the door frame, and his fingers were fat and clumsy.
He forced himself to slow down, to swallow his panic. Darkness nibbled at the edges of his vision. He settled the nub of the lock between his quivering thumb and forefinger as if he were trying to pick up a tick. Then he squeezed and pulled.
The lock popped up. He threw the door open and tumbled into the snow, gasping.
He climbed to his feet and leaned against the car. The world swirled gently around him. He closed his eyes for an instant, trying to ease the dizziness, and immediately opened them again to fight off a wave of drowsiness.
A fissure of pain split his head from front to back. He wanted to reach inside and turn the car off, but he'd need to hold his breath to do that, and it was all he could do to keep dragging at the air. It burned in his throat, cold and caustic. There wasn't enough in the world.
Suddenly he remembered Alex. He threw a look backwards, into the snow bank, but the boy was gone. Ian was alone.
What the fuck. The thought clattered down the chasm of pain in his head like bouncing scree. How...?
He had slept in his car with the engine running a hundred times. This had never happened. It was supposed to be safe anyway, there were catalytic converters and all kinds of safety technology, he was out in the open air instead of an enclosed space, how did - ?
Maybe he had parked too close to the snow bank. He inched his way toward the back of the car, his head spinning. There were at least a couple feet clear behind his back bumper.
But his tailpipe was bulging with snow.
He stared, shaking his head slowly, still panting. Someone had stuffed his tailpipe? Why would anyone - ?
Justin, he thought at once. Or Sheila. They wouldn't really be pissed enough to kill him, though. Would they?
He craned his head around the side of the car, but the snow was unblemished. No one had come that way. He looked behind him, and saw nothing there either. The only tracks were his own.
99
The headache got worse as the day went on. He couldn't catch his breath. More than once he put himself into ACW to delay the next call, wondering whether he should leave for urgent care or an emergency room visit. Each time he decided against it. He didn't want to give Justin the satisfaction of seeing him leave, or risk another event that Barb might notice.
By 4:30 he could barely think clearly. He went to his normal urgent care clinic in Maple Grove, but they wouldn't see him; they sent him over to the ER, where the staff drew some blood, put him in a mask, and had him lie down. The air was cold and startlingly pure. He stared at the ceiling and breathed.
"That helping?" the doctor asked as he came in. He was an older man, maybe early sixties, with thinning hair and a craggy smile.
Ian nodded. It was actually helping quite a bit.
"Good." The other man took Ian's chart from the nurse and sat down. "You're lucky, you know," he said, flipping through it. "Napping in the car like that, with the engine on? Risky stuff."
I've never had a problem before, Ian wanted to say. It felt like being at the dentist.
As if picking up on his frustration, the doctor came over. "I'm going to take this off so we can talk a bit. I may want to put you back in it for a bit, later." He reached around, loosened the straps, and pulled the mask from Ian's face. The normal air felt dingy in comparison.
"Thanks."
"I'm Doctor Synech." He pronounced it cynic. They shook hands.
"Thanks," Ian said again.
Synech nodded. He told him his labs looked good overall, CO a little high but not dangerous. He walked through Ian's symptoms - Was his headache improved? Could he catch his breath better? - and made some notes.
"I'd like you to stay overnight for observation," he said. "Your symptoms sound better, but I like to be careful in situations like this."
Ian imagined Alex in the basement, without his father to banish Eston.
"You know, I think I'm doing all right." Ian gestured at the mask. "This helped a lot."
"Are you sure? Sometimes people think they're doing better than they are. CO poisoning can be tricky business."
"No." I can't afford it anyway, Ian thought to add, but skipped it. While it was true, it would lead down another avenue of argument he'd rather avoid. "I'm really doing better."
"All right." Synech gazed at him. "How old is that car you were napping in?"
"It's a '91," Ian admitted. The Check Engine light had been on for the last year or so, but he didn't mention that.
"Well, you need to get it checked. Even a '91 shouldn't be leaking that much CO."
"Yeah, I told the nurse - I backed up too far, hit the snowbank. The tailpipe got clogged with snow."
"Yeah," Synech said. "Listen, Ian. If you need someone to talk to, I know a guy - very approachable, very easy going, no pressure. I'm gonna give you his card here."
Ian scoffed. "I didn't do this on purpose, doctor."
"Well, I believe you. But I'm giving you the card anyway." He took Ian's hand, pressed the card into it. "Call if you need to, and if that headache comes back or you start getting lightheaded or short on breath, come back in."
"All right." Ian shook his hand.
100
The snow had dwindled to a whisper by the time he got home. He trudged up the front walk, buried under the day's snowfall. As he fished in his coat pocket for the house keys, he wondered with dread what awaited him inside.
He eased the door open a crack and fished inside for the light switch, flipping it on before stepping through. His brush with his own mortality had left him shaken. He didn't feel equal to encountering Eston in the dark of his living room tonight.
The couch was empty; the room silent. He stepped inside and stomped his boots on the entry rug, shaking off the snow, waiting for the call from Alex or the whispered greeting by Eston. Neither came, but that only left him expectant and unnerved.
"Alex?" he said. When there was no response, he picked up his boots and crossed into the kitchen. He glanced down the hallway to Alex's room as he passed by, but the room was dark and empty.
At the door to the backyard, he paused to put his boots back on. When he finished, he said again, "Alex? I need to talk to you."
His eyes darted around the room, but found only a sink full of stinking dishes, an old yogurt container on the counter, a small collection of empty, unrinsed milk cartons. The room grew more disgusting every day. To get away from it, he turned and went outside.
The snow shovels were in the little, one-car garage behind the house - along with the lawnmower, a mess of broken-down cardboard boxes, a stack of Alina's defunct painting projects, and a host of other miscellaneous crap. They'd filled the little garage so quickly after moving in that instead of fighting over who got to clean and park in it, they both opted to just park on the front street. Besides, the door opener was busted, and the only way to get in was through the little side door.
The lock gave him some trouble - it always stuck a bit in the winter - but he jiggered his way past it. As he swung the door open he caught his breath without thinking about it, bracing to find something horrible on the other side.
The sullen light from the streetlamps hung heavy in the windows, framing a single, long silhouette that comprised all the junk in the garage. He scanned it for just an instant
. If Alex or Eston was here, he'd be able to see them in the dark. But they weren't.
He let out his breath - it plumed from his mouth in a long, curling cloud - and flipped on the light. It took five minutes of hunting to find the snow shovel.
He should've done the back walk, too - the one leading from the house to the garage - but wasn't in the mood. He'd be keeping the shovel in the house for the rest of the winter, anyway, and he wasn't likely to make a lot of trips to the garage for any other reason. So he just did the front.
Other than the drone of a distant snowblower and the scrape-whuff of his own work, the street was silent. The snow was plentiful, but not too wet. It took him about twenty minutes to get through it. He spent the time wondering how much a new catalytic converter would cost him, and whether it was time to buy a new car.
He cleared up to the front step and paused to stretch his back. He hated shoveling those two stairs. One of them had a crack, and he could never tell where it was under the snow. His shovel would always catch on it. It was maddening.
He rolled his neck, determined not to spend all night trying to deal with that stair crack, and caught a glimpse of Leroy Eston through the front curtains, pacing.
For a long moment Ian stood still on the step, waiting. When several minutes passed and he saw nothing more, he carefully and deliberately finished shoveling the porch. Then he went inside, his heart pounding.
Eston was sitting on the couch. He said, "Where the fuck have you been?"
Ian's mouth worked, but he had nothing to say. The sight of the man was like the scream of fingernails on a chalkboard. Is he talking to me? Does he see me, or is he just -
"Whatever," Eston answered. "Answer your fucking phone next time." He glowered at some response that Ian neither heard nor delivered. "I'll talk to you however I fucking please. Now get in here, and close the door."
Ian realized he still had the door open. He closed it, staring carefully at the kidnapper, who had stood up and was chewing his lip.
"I think you're right," Eston finally said. "I think we need to move to your place."
A heartbeat. Eston fixed his gaze on a point somewhere around Ian's jaw. "Yeah. Careful. Thank god you're here. I could never pull this shit off on my own." He snarled. "Why the fuck do you think I said anything in the first place? This isn't working, it's - there's too many people. That boy is so goddamn mouthy, if he starts screaming at the wrong time -"
His eyes widened, affronted. "You must think I'm an idiot. No, I haven't told him that. Why the fuck would I tell him that?" Eston cocked his head, just slightly. "No. No, no, no. If anyone's going to let anything slip, it's you. You've been nothing but a constant fuckup since day one. You're lucky I share him with you at all."
He snapped his head toward Ian, lip curling. "Listen, bitch, you are in this as deep as I am. Don't fucking start with me. Just start getting the shit together." He yanked a palm up, his eyes blazing. "Don't. It's a twenty minute drive. I think even you can manage that. Just get the shit together. Now." He stalked into the kitchen.
101
Ian followed, but Eston was gone. So he stood staring into his empty kitchen while his thoughts smoldered.
Kelly had been Eston's accomplice. If that hadn't been obvious before, it was glaring now. He had to have been talking to her. Had to.
She had hurt Alex. Eston had shared him with her. She had worked with Eston to keep the boy under control. She had volunteered her place to keep him -
Was that where they had been going, when Alex had somehow gotten out by O'Dowd? Kelly, I lost him, get down to the shore.
And they hadn't caught her. The police didn't even know about her.
Ian's fist clenched. She was still out there.
"You son of a bitch," he muttered to his empty kitchen. "You fucked up tonight."
And suddenly, he knew. He was absolutely certain. This was why Alex had come back.
Because Kelly was still out there, someplace, and Alex couldn't rest until she was dead.
102
He thundered down the stairs, even leapt the last three. Stabbed at his computer's power button like he was murdering a bug.
When the desktop finally came up, he didn't go to the internet. He brought up an empty text document, and started typing.
- Kelly. Girlfriend? of Eston. He backed up, added: (Coworker? Partner? Maybe he beat her)
In the basement Saturday night, when Alex had looked away from Eston, Eston had said, "Don't look at her, look at me."
Her. He typed: Definitely a female, even though Kelly can be a guy's name.
Then he entered down and wrote:
- Black hat? Ski mask? Something to do with shoveling? Pause. Lives in Minnesota, maybe. Still needs to shovel snow.
Enter.
- They were moving. Going from Eston's place to hers. She must own a place. Or rent a place. Or HAD a place - this would've been in March or April. Maybe not any more.
Enter.
- Call the PD, see if they had any leads on her. Pause. He added: Or had even heard of her. Then he highlighted the entire entry and deleted it.
- She was out running an errand, or something. Eston was pissed she took so long to get home. Maybe she picked up the supplies for them? Maybe people saw her, at the grocery store or something?
Enter. His fingers shook.
- HE SAID HE SHARED HIM WITH HER.
ENTER. He knuckled it that time, as if he were pounding on a door.
What else. What else.
- They were at the lake. Eston sent her down to the shore. A terrible thought occurred to him. She might have fallen in. She might be dead. Check obits or news for a body showing up in Shakopee? But if they'd found a body in O'Dowd - a second one, after already finding Alex - he would've heard about it.
Enter.
As if he had just lunged headlong off a cliff, he realized he had nothing else on Kelly. His freefall lasted twenty seconds. Then he wrote:
- Donnie went off the road. Followed by: (?????????)
Enter.
- I don't like that black hat. Could be Kelly. Could be something else.
Enter. He rapped feverishly on the table four times.
- Delilah. New girl at daycare. Reference to Kelly? A "new girl". In retrospect it seemed obvious. If Alex could only repeat what he'd said in life, then he'd latch on to any kind of reference he could manage to a second person, or a female that Ian hadn't heard of before.
He froze. Jesus. He arrowed back up to Donnie went off the road, added: Another car went off the road. That was always how the game went. It started with Donnie, then another one. Someone had to come help them both. There were two cars.
Of course there were. The van for Eston and Alex. And something else for Kelly.
Alex had been trying to tell him since the first night.
Enter. What else?
"Daddy?"
Ian's heart nearly punched out of his chest. He snapped his head toward his son, standing on the bottom step, and stifled a scream.
"Jesus, Alex," he managed. "You scared the shit out of me."
The boy's eyes were heavy with sorrow. He was in his favorite footy pajamas, festooned with cars and racetracks. "I can't find Mr. Tuskers."
Ian took a shuddering breath. "He's not in your room?" He turned one eye back to the monitor, typed:
- Mr Tuskers? and
- What's that noise????
"I can't find him," Alex repeated. "May you look for him please?"
"Alex," Ian said. He felt a flush of annoyance, but swallowed it. "I'm trying to find Kelly. I'm trying to write down everything you've said, okay? And use it to find her. Because she got away, right? I think I finally figured out why you're here. Because of her, right? She hurt you, but she never got caught, and Daddy's gonna catch her." His vision blurred. His heart thundered. "Because I won't let anyone who hurt you live."
"Okay, but Daddy I can't find Mr. Tuskers."
Ian shook his head. "What?" He had expected someth
ing from Alex, some sign of relief, or happiness -
"I can't find Mr. Tuskers. Please, Daddy. Can you find him, please?"
The annoyance resurged, sharper than before. God damn it. "Alex, I'm doing this for you. This is what you wanted me to do. Remember?" He glanced back to the monitor, typed:
- Raped in the basement.
"But Mr. Tuskers -"
"Alex, I can't find him! Okay? He's gone! We got rid of him when you..."
God damn it.
"When we lost you. I'm sorry, pal, but I just don't have him. Okay?"
Alex's face broke with tears. Devastated, he turned and ran back upstairs.
103
Ian stayed at it for another two hours, eventually branching back online, looking for some leads on his new avenues of inquiry. He still found nothing.
His newfound reservoir of energy ran dry.
He just didn't have enough to work with. Even with the clues Alex had given him - even with everything Eston had let slip - there were too many holes.
What was Kelly's last name? Was her house in Shakopee, like Eston's, or somewhere else? What kind of car was she driving?
He briefly considered driving to Shakopee, to the neighborhood around Eston's house, to see if anyone remembered seeing her. But he didn't even know what she looked like.
A night of work, and nothing to show for it. Alex could find a way back from the dead, but his dad couldn't find the boy's other kidnapper.
Ian slammed his fist into the table. It rattled through his bones like a thunderclap. He did it again, then again, then struck himself in the forehead. His ears rang. "God damn it!" he shrieked. "You fucking idiot!" The accusation echoed in the basement twice and faded away.
His headache sprang back as if summoned. His wrist hurt; the soreness in his elbow from his tantrum with the Ouija board suddenly started throbbing again. He drew one deep breath, trying to calm down, then another, then he was weeping. His fist flailed weakly at the table.
"What the fuck am I doing?" he whimpered. For just an instant, like the clouds parting for a ray of sun, he realized how mad his little text document - now up to three pages - would look to his wife. He resolved, again, to seek help. Then he wondered: if he told Shauna what he was seeing, would she even let him leave the building? Could she have him committed the same night?
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