Nothing.
Her already-thumping heart went into overdrive. Where the hell was he?
“Franklin!”
“Sorry. I’m here.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Uh…”
“What is it?”
“A black Mercedes just pulled into the lot. A man got out and started pounding on my door.
I’m kind of surprised you didn’t hear it.”
So was she. She glanced down at the flashlight in her hand.
“Oh. I was doing some pounding of my own. So who’s at your door?”
“It’s him.”
Her stomach dropped.
“Are you sure?”
“He just texted me. It says ‘Open the door. You can’t hide from me.’ What do I do?” his voice shook.
She made sure hers was steady when she answered. “Listen to me. Do not let him in. Just barricade the door and call the police.”
“Okay.”
“Franklin, I mean it, no matter what he says—if he threatens your mom, whatever—do not open the door. Do you understand?”
“Yeah. It’s a metal door. He can’t get in, right?”
“Right,” she hurried to assure him. “How’d he find you?”
Franklin’s voice was thick with shame and anger. “I think he must have a tracking device on the phone he gave me. I checked it over and didn’t see anything, though.”
“Could be on your car,” she offered. “It doesn’t matter, though, okay? Just hurry up and get the police out here before he gets here.”
If the tracking device had been on the car, then the man would know where Franklin dropped her off. He might not know she was here, but he’d know that his secret spot had been compromised.
She ran around to the window to tell Joe and Mrs. Chang that their morning was about to get eventful.
________
Franklin wrapped his arms around his knees and rocked back and forth on the grimy bathroom floor. The cell phone the man had given him a lifetime ago sat on the tile, the text on its display searing itself into his brain:
Congratulations. You just sealed your mother’s fate.
The man was still banging on the door to his room.
“Open this door, Franklin!”
The man’s accented voice was hoarse from yelling but his rage hadn’t abated.
Franklin used the sink to pull himself to standing. He turned on the cold water full blast and splashed his face. Then he lifted the receiver to the phone affixed to the wall beside the light switch and tapped the digits 9-1-1 with shaking fingers.
As the phone rang, he craned his neck through the doorway and yelled toward the outside door. “I’m calling the police right now!”
The man stopped battering the door and let out a guttural roar. A moment later, Franklin heard the squeal of tires as the car sped from the lot.
He stared at the water swirling down the drain and started babbling as soon as the emergency operator answered the call. He seemed to have no control of the stream of words pouring from his mouth. He couldn’t tell if he was coherent, but he just kept talking until the calm voice of the operator assured him she had all the information she needed. Then he let the phone fall, dangling by its spiraling cord, and gripped the edge of the sink while he dredged up a prayer from the recesses of his memory.
________
Joe’s pale, stricken face filled the window.
“He’s coming!” Aroostine shouted. “He’s not far away.”
Joe’s eyes flashed, and he hoisted a black sock into view.
“We’re ready for him.”
If she hadn’t felt so desperate, she would have laughed at the absurdity.
“Is that a sock?”
He smacked it against his hand.
“It’s what I have.”
She held both palms up in a conciliatory gesture.
“Listen, just hang tight. Franklin’s calling 9-1-1. They’ll be here soon. It’s almost over.”
He stared at her silently for a moment then forced a grim smile.
“Right.”
She looked back at him, choking on so many things she wanted to say that she couldn’t manage to say anything. Then the distant rumble of a car engine pierced the air.
Through the trees, she could make out a dark car snaking its way up the gravel road to the cabin. The man was here.
She turned and ran toward the woods, kicking up pebbles in her wake.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Joe and Mrs. Chang were ready for the man when he burst through the door, his shotgun leveled and his eyes blazing with unconcealed rage.
“Get back,” he demanded, gesturing toward Joe, who stood in the threshold of the back room with his hands behind his back. He waited for Joe to comply and didn’t seem to notice Mrs. Chang was nowhere in sight.
Joe rooted himself to the floor and managed to keep his eyes on the man’s face through inhuman effort. If he glanced toward Mrs. Chang’s hiding spot she would be dead almost instantly.
The man glared at his defiance and took a menacing step forward.
Mrs. Chang stepped out from behind the door as it swung shut and wielded the sock like a sledgehammer. It glanced the side of the man’s head.
Whomp.
The blow sent him stumbling sideways. He roared in pain and surprise, then pivoted away from Joe and advanced toward Mrs. Chang with the business end of the gun, blood gushing from his head.
Joe ran toward him. The sock was slippery in his hand, and the weight of the can pulled it sideways. He managed to connect with the man’s head anyway, very near the spot Mrs. Chang had hit.
The man howled and fired a wild round into the wall.
Mrs. Chang threw herself to the ground and covered her head with her arms.
The man was wobbling, but he stayed on his feet.
He lifted the barrel of the gun and aimed it at Joe’s head.
This is it.
Joe tensed and waited for the slug that would destroy his face and end his life. It never came.
Mrs. Chang dropped her sock and popped to her feet. She charged the man from an angle and forced the gun upward, pointing it toward the thick ceiling.
Joe pulled back and struck a third blow on the man’s skull. This one connected solidly and reverberated through his hand.
Rivers of blood poured down the man’s face. His hands slipped from the shotgun, and he crumpled to the ground.
Joe and Mrs. Chang stared at the shotgun as it fell. He felt himself tensing, waiting for a second blast. None came.
The gun rocked against the floor twice, and then was still.
Joe took his eyes off the weapon and saw the man crawling toward the door.
Mrs. Chang hurried toward the shotgun. Joe ran after the man.
As the man used the doorframe to pull himself up to standing, Joe grabbed his arm.
The man wheeled around to face him. Anger blazed in his unfocused eyes.
Without breaking his gaze, the man reached for the door. At the same moment his foot came up and kicked Joe squarely in the groin.
Joe gasped and lost his grip on the man’s slick jacket as he doubled over.
The man opened the door and slipped out before Mrs. Chang could get a shot off.
She dropped the gun and joined Joe at the door.
He was focused on not sinking to the floor. The pain from the kick was radiating out from his groin in white-hot waves. Mrs. Chang grabbed his arm so he wouldn’t fall.
The sound of the padlock swinging against the wood shook them into action. Joe forgot his pain.
They both tugged at the door handle two-handed.
The man was holding it closed on the other side as he fumbled with the lock.
“Harder!” Mrs. Chang cried.
They struggled to pull the heavy door open until a metallic thud confirmed it was no use.
“It’s locked.”
“We got so close,” Mrs. Chang whispered in a defeate
d tone.
“Don’t give up. Aroostine’s out there. Franklin called the police. We’re gonna get out of here.”
He pushed back his own feelings of helplessness and found himself rubbing the old woman’s arm and murmuring words of reassurance that he didn’t quite believe.
She began to sob softly, her thin shoulders shaking.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Aroostine peered out from between the trees. Dawn had broken over the hill and the morning light threatened to reveal her.
She tried hard not to think about the shotgun blast that had come from the cabin moments before the man staggered out drunkenly.
“Where are the police?” she hissed.
“I called them,” Franklin said in her ear. “They’re on their way. What’s going on?”
“He went in. Joe and your mom had this plan to ambush him and run out, but it looks like it only worked partially.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re still in the cabin. He’s back out but he looks pretty bad. He’s unsteady on his feet, and he’s covered in blood. Pretty sure it’s all his,” she whispered, even though she had no idea if it was true. She didn’t mention the shot that had been fired.
If Franklin had heard it through the radio, he didn’t bring it up.
“What’s he doing?”
She squinted. He rested his forehead against the door and seemed to be holding it shut. She realized he was trying to lock his hostages back in.
“Crap. He’s locking them in. I’m going to talk to him.”
“What? No. Just wait for the cops now.”
“I don’t want him to leave.”
He spluttered something, but she tuned out the noise and stepped out from behind the trees.
The man slapped a hand against the door then stumbled toward his car but, so far, she hadn’t heard the roar of an engine springing to life.
She started along the gravel path.
A car trunk thumped shut.
She stepped into the path, blocking the route to the cabin and planted her feet solidly.
The man came back into view, lugging something heavy, judging by the way whatever it was bumped against his thigh. She narrowed her eyes for a closer look. It was a plastic gallon container. The kind a person would keep in the trunk of a car to fill in case he ran out of gas.
“Oh, no. No.”
Her mind flashed back to the piles of dead leaves and twigs that had ringed the house. She hadn’t given them a second thought when she was trying to get into the house.
Kindling.
“What?”
She ignored the question as the man caught sight of her and stopped short.
He stared at her in disbelief through a curtain of blood.
“You.” The word came out thickly.
He was in bad shape. He appeared to be bleeding from several spots on his head, but all she could focus on was the container in his hands. She could hear the liquid sloshing inside as he fumbled with the cap.
“Yes, it’s me,” she said. Her voice was calm and smooth despite the fear churning in her mind. “As you can see, I won’t be in court today. The judge will declare a mistrial, just like you wanted. I kept my end of the bargain. Now you’re going to keep yours, right?”
He wiped his face, one-handed, and spat on the ground at her feet. Then he chuckled. “No.”
He advanced toward her, continuing to uncap the container as he walked.
“Listen. I don’t care about the trial. I really don’t. Just, please, unlock the door and let Joe and Mrs. Chang walk away from here. You don’t want two deaths on your hands.”
“Two? I think you miscount. The number will be three,” he said as he lifted the container and swung it in an arc.
A wave of gasoline splashed over her, running into her eyes and mouth. She gasped and retched. By the time her vision cleared, he’d already struck a long wooden match.
“I suggest you step aside,” he said through clenched teeth.
He jabbed the match toward her, and its flame danced in the air.
She hesitated.
He threw the match at her feet, where the gasoline dripping off her had already begun to pool, and fire rose from the ground.
He raised a second match. She jogged backward, afraid to turn her back on him, until she reached the bushes that led into the woods, then she turned and sprinted toward the stream.
She waded out to the middle and submerged her head in the icy water without stopping to think about the effect it might have on the radio or the earpiece. Her only thought was to get the taste of gasoline out of her mouth and wash the fuel off her body.
She dragged herself out of the stream, her wet clothes hanging heavily, and trudged back up the hill.
The cabin was already surrounded by a ring of flames when she reached the top of the hill. The black car was gone.
“He started a fire. The cabin’s on fire!” she barked into the earpiece
There was no response. She had no idea if the radio was working or if Franklin could hear her.
“Franklin?”
No response.
The phone tugged at her waterlogged clothes and slowed her down. She pulled the earpiece from her ear and tossed the unit aside.
Flames leapt hypnotically, ringing the cabin. The heaps of dry wood and densely-packed leaf debris the man had placed around the small structure were ablaze and burning quickly. If her husband and an innocent old woman weren’t trapped inside, the sight would have been strangely beautiful.
Think.
It would take time for the flames to spread to the cabin. She had to douse them now.
How?
She had nothing to use to haul water from the stream. And the fire was spreading rapidly.
She searched the ground for a long stick, something she could use to pull back the ring of debris, create a pocket of space between the fire and the structure. She saw nothing.
But as she focused on the cold earth underfoot, a small, brown shape zigzagged passed her in a blur, racing away from the back of the cabin toward the water.
She raised her eyes and let her gaze travel up the hill.
A second animal was darting down the hill behind the first. Strong thumping legs; long ears; fluffy, unmistakable bunny tail.
Her heartbeat ticked up and she combed her memory as she followed its trajectory down to the water.
The Eastern cottontail rabbit didn’t make its own burrows. It spent the winter holing up in tunnels dug by groundhogs and other burrowing hibernators. Or by man.
She spun back toward the cabin.
A stream of field mice and chipmunks were fleeing the fire behind the rabbits.
She sprinted toward the back of the structure. The kindling was fully engulfed now and the flames were roaring. A wall of heat hit her in the face. She stared hard at the ground, searching desperately for a way in that wasn’t cut off by the fire.
And then she saw it. A terrified vole burst out from beneath the far right corner of the structure and dodged the circle of flames.
She dropped to her belly and crawled along the hard ground on her elbows, shivering in her cold, wet clothes. When she was five or six feet short of the house, she started digging furiously.
She scooped the hard earth two-handed and threw it wildly over her shoulder for a few moments. Then she stopped and lay there panting. This would take forever.
Think like a tunnel dweller.
Some of the animals were coming above ground, but most of them probably followed their tunnels to a ravine near the stream. She ran back to the water and squatted along its edge.
She didn’t have to wait long before a large groundhog popped up from the stream and darted into the trees.
She ran to the spot where it had appeared and there it was: Her way in. The mouth of a tunnel was dug into the bank. It was covered by the bare limbs of an overgrown tree. During the spring and summer months, it would be nearly undetectable behind its curtain of foliag
e. But she could see it clearly behind the skeletal winter limbs.
She waded to the opening and then plunged into the dark earth.
The tunnel was larger than she’d expected, smooth-walled and cold. She jogged forward, stumbling over rocks and fleeing rodents. She reached for her flashlight, but her pocket was empty. She’d probably lost it when she dove into the stream.
She pressed on as quickly as she could in the dark, close space. The thin light that had filled the tunnel’s mouth dissipated into blackness. She couldn’t see her hand in front of her face.
Use your fingers then. Use your ears. And your toes.
Six-year-old Aroostine could track a deer through a thicket while blindfolded. Grown-up Aroostine could surely feel her way through a cave.
The ground rose under her feet as she worked her way uphill. The pungent smell of fresh dirt filled her nose. The sound of the skittering rodents gave her comfort. She couldn’t hear, or smell, or feel the warmth of the fire. So at least she knew she wasn’t walking blindly into an inferno.
After several long minutes the tunnel widened and the ground beneath leveled into a cave.
She reached out and touched the side of a wall. She ran her hand along the wall and stepped slowly, waiting to kick an old potato bin or canning jar, proof that she was in a cold cellar.
For several agonizing seconds, she felt nothing but bare rock under her fingers and smooth earth under her feet.
Then her hand connected with a dowel of splintered wood. She reached above and felt another. Then another. Rungs to a ladder.
She gripped the sides of the ladder and hoisted herself up, feeling for the bottom rung with her foot. She slipped once, her hands sliding down the sides of the ladder and her chin butting against the cold bare wall of dirt.
She steadied herself and continued to scrabble upward until her head bumped up against something solid. She ignored the stinging pain and reached up one-handed to touch more wood.
If she was right, she was under the floor of the cabin. And if some long-dead cabin dweller had dug out a cellar for vegetables or cold storage and gone through the effort of putting in a ladder, there had to be a trapdoor that opened into the house somewhere.
She clung to the ladder one-handed and ran her other hand along the wood overhead, searching for a hinge, a latch, something.
Mortal Crimes 1 Page 47