by Tom Leveen
But I stopped dead as I saw Mrs. Wallis unlatch a half-door, kind of a gate, at the top of a set of stairs beside the kitchen door.
“Basement?” I said.
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Mrs. Wallis said, waving at me. “It’s finished. There’s heat and a bathroom. No shower, but there’s always the guest bath. I’m sure this young man will be just fine. I’ll even put on an extra comforter.”
“Perfect,” David said.
I took one step closer to the kitchen but didn’t cross the threshold. I couldn’t have even if I wanted to. My legs quivered fearfully as I asked her, “Do, um . . . do all the houses around here have basements?”
“Well, I don’t know for certain,” Mrs. Wallis said. “But in this area all the houses were built by . . . oh, shoot, Kirk? What was the name of the family who built all the—”
“Daniels,” Kirk said from the living room. “Maurice Daniels and Sons. Did about half this side of the mountain years back.”
“Daniels, that’s right,” Mrs. Wallis said. “They developed a large portion of this side of Canyon City.” She looked over at me. “Several of our neighbors have the same floor plan as ours,” she added, and shrugged. “They have basements as well. I don’t see why the others wouldn’t.”
“Oh,” I said, but it came out as nothing more than a breath of freezing air. “David, um . . . could I . . . talk to you for a sec, please?”
David’s face, still bemused, turned serious when he looked back at me.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, and came over quickly.
“Are you all right, dear?” Mrs. Wallis said. “You look pale. I’ll fix you some oatmeal to go with the hot chocolate. You both look like you could use it.”
I nodded and pulled David toward the front door.
“He has a basement!” I whispered fiercely.
“What?”
“It wasn’t a pantry,” I said, digging my fingers into David’s arm. “The pantry I told you I saw, in his house, it’s not a pantry, it’s a basement. A basement with a padlock, David, a padlock. What’s he got in there? Who’s he got in there . . . ?”
“Whoa, hold up,” David said gently. “So it was a basement, that doesn’t prove anything, Pelly. He probably has antiques or tools or something locked up, that’s all. Maybe it’s a wine cellar, even. Or just an extra room, like this one.”
“I’ve got to go back.”
“Pelly! No.”
“David, I have to, I have to see—”
“Pel, you’re lucky you didn’t get caught and hauled off to jail as it is,” David said. “C’mon. We’ve been over this. It was a mistake, a legitimate mistake, that’s all.”
I’d never convince him. The reality of this crushed my lungs in my chest, heavy chains that cinched me tight.
Maybe David was right, maybe it was a legitimate mistake, but now I had to know for sure. I owed Tara that much. God, maybe I owed myself that much too.
But I would never convince David to go back with me.
Plus I knew that my “evidence” was meaningless to the cops. Tell them what, exactly? That I broke into this old man’s home? That he was guilty of putting a lock on his basement door?
I made up my mind.
“You’re right,” I said. “Of course you’re right. It just sounded so plausible, I guess.”
David hugged me. “I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m going to get some sleep. I’m wiped out.”
“No joke,” David said. “What about your oatmeal?”
“You can have it. I’m good.” I pulled away from him and called toward the kitchen, “Thank you, Mrs. Wallis. I’m going to go upstairs now. Thanks again for everything.”
She walked into the living room, drying her hands on a red dish towel. “You’re perfectly welcome, dear,” she said. “You just let me know if you need anything. Please help yourselves to whatever you find in the kitchen, now, I mean it. Kirk and I will probably be in bed shortly.”
“Thanks,” I said. I turned back to David and very nearly kissed him good night, but settled for a squeeze of his hand instead. “See you in the morning,” I said.
“You want to call your mom again?” he asked. “I need to call mine, let her know . . . well, something. That I won’t be back till tomorrow, anyway. How about you?”
“You can text her, I guess,” I said. “Tell her I’m . . . trying to spend the night at Alecia’s. See if I can do it without freaking.”
“Okay. If she texts me back—”
“I’ll be asleep. I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”
“Okay,” David said. “See you in the morning.”
I walked upstairs, went into the spare room, and closed the door. I sat on the edge of the bed and waited.
Oh, I made up my mind, all right.
Once the house was asleep, I was going to Franklin Rebane’s house and rescuing my best friend.
FIFTEEN
It hit me while I paced back and forth across the hardwood floor of the Wallises’ spare bedroom that I hadn’t heard back from Mom. Had she called David’s cell back yet? Would he come up and get me if she did? Maybe he was pacing the basement right now too, debating whether or not to come up here and give me a message or let me talk to her.
The thought of David pacing the basement pretty much destroyed any lingering worries about Mom. David at least could come and go as he pleased. Somehow I doubted the same would be true for Tara, locked up in Rebane’s crypt. Whatever trouble I’d be in when I got home, I didn’t care.
I wondered how long Tara had been there. All six years? Or had Rebane moved around, throwing people off his scent? I forced myself to stop thinking about it once my mind wandered toward what he might have done, might even be doing this very minute, to my best friend. The sick bastard.
Tara, I’m getting you out of there, I’m on my way, I thought.
An hour later the house was quiet. Time to go.
I shut off the bedroom light and opened the door, sticking my head out. The Wallises kept a nightlight in one corner, and it was plenty bright to see by. I slipped out, closed the door silently, and crept down the stairs. I hadn’t noticed any squeaks on the way up, but you never knew.
The coast was clear when I reached the bottom. I went quickly to the front door, unlocked it, and sneaked outside, closing the door behind me. I hated leaving it unlocked like that, but I didn’t have much choice. And anyway, I doubted a lot of house burglars were out in the cold checking doorknobs at this time of night, and in a little neighborhood of small homes like this.
It had stopped snowing. Little drifts piled up against bushes, trees, and mailboxes like sugar anthills. I took a deep breath of cold air and began walking in the direction we’d come during the drive, hoping my sense of direction would be enough to get me to Rebane’s house.
Doubt crept up my back by the time I reached the intersection of Rosemont and York at the entrance to Rebane’s neighborhood. How did I plan to get inside his house? And even if I did get into the house, then there was the padlock on the basement door. How exactly did I plan on breaking that off?
I stopped walking. I should’ve at least gone through the Wallises’ kitchen, grabbed a knife and a flashlight or something. My God, I had nothing, not even a cell phone. Some rescue mission this was going to be.
That’s when it hit. The panic. The fear. So familiar it was almost cozy.
My breath shrank in my lungs, making me pant. The cold outside my jeans and hoodie was repelled by waves of an internal freeze, colder by a factor of ten.
I hadn’t even brought David. But he wouldn’t have come. He didn’t believe me. But what if I’d tried a little harder? Maybe I wouldn’t be standing out here in the cold, alone, defenseless, and without anything remotely resembling a plan to rescue Tara.
Still. A few hours ago I’d been inside Rebane’s house on a whim. I’d beaten my own fear and entered the demon’s lair. Maybe I’d have the same luck this time.
“Let’s do this,” I whispered, and forced myself into the neighborhood.
I walked past his house first. I saw no lights on, but there seemed to be a glow in some of the windows, like ambient light from maybe a nightlight. It wasn’t the blue-gray flicker of a TV, anyway.
I followed the street north and turned left. I came to the alley we’d used earlier, and used it to reach Rebane’s back wall.
So, first problem. How would I get up and over the wall? I could jump and get my hands on top of it, but there was no way I had the strength to pull myself over without help.
Right?
First time for everything, I guess. I jumped and got my hands on top of the wall, then pulled as hard as I could, pushing the toes of my sneakers into the rough brick for traction.
Made it!
“Holy crap,” I whispered to myself. I didn’t remember being that proud of myself in a long time.
With my heart beating separately in every organ of my body, I slid to the ground behind the bushes. From there, I could see the source of the ambient light; it came from the kitchen, a yellow tube over the stove. Well, at least I’d be able to see.
Now:
. . . what now?
Smash and grab. That seemed the only possibility. First I’d need to see if the kitchen door was open—I mean, it wouldn’t cost me anything to at least test it again. But if it was locked as I suspected, one good-size rock would bring that window down. I could unlock the door, rush in, and beat the holy hell out of the padlock . . . no, the latch. The wood around the latch would be the weakest part of the mechanism. I could break that with a rock or a brick, run downstairs, grab Tara, and run back up and out, then race straight for the street, screaming. He wouldn’t dare chase us; he’d have to take off, and fast, before the cops got here.
Didn’t say it was a good plan.
I crawled out of the bushes and stayed on my hands and knees, headed for the car. I used the car as cover to pause and try to catch my breath, which was pretty much impossible at that point. I peered over the hood and scanned the rear windows of the house. Other than the dim glow from the kitchen, the house was still dark. Keeping low, I scurried to the kitchen door and tried the knob. Locked.
I crawled over to the garage and checked the padlock. It lay heavy and cold in my hand, and firmly in place.
Hmm.
As a test, I pulled on one of the double doors. Due to the way the chain was wrapped through the handles, it had some slack, and I was able to open the door a couple of inches. So I tried the second door, and it, too, pulled open a bit.
Just enough room?
I wrapped my scarf around the chain to keep it from rattling. Stretched one arm through the gap in the doors. My shoulder. Gently and slowly, put my head between the doors. I pulled myself through, inch by inch. The red hoodie caught up under my arms, exposing my belly to the cold. After another minute or two of wriggling, I was inside the garage.
Not bad, I thought. For an amateur.
I couldn’t see really well at first, but after a minute my eyes were decently adjusted. Windows in the doors allowed additional light, but not much.
I saw nothing surprising. A couple of shovels, flowerpots, sacks of dirt, a pick, rolls of black plastic. I spotted a tool chest and cracked that open. Inside I found a couple rolls of duct tape and the usual assortment of hand tools.
The tape gave me an idea. I had no earthly clue if it would work, but it would beat using a rock.
I pulled a heavy claw hammer, screwdriver, and roll of tape out of the chest and made my way back to the garage doors. I checked through the windows set high on the doors, but nothing outside had changed. I dropped down and squiggled my way out the same way I’d come in. It was easier this time because the doors opened out and offered less resistance than they had coming in.
Pulse thundering in my ears, I moved to the kitchen door and peeked inside. The shade was still raised. He wasn’t in the kitchen, and the padlock was still fastened to the basement door. Looking at it practically made me throw up.
Don’t quit now, I told myself. You can be scared all you want after you get Tara out, but please, Pelly, please hold it together and get this done right.
I knelt down and pulled a few strips of tape from the roll. The kitchen door window was divided into nine small panes. I pressed the tape against the lowest-right corner pane, closest to the knob. I put two layers of tape across the entire pane, then rested the screwdriver’s flathead tip against the lowest-right corner.
Hoping, or maybe praying, I raised the hammer and tapped it gently once against the screwdriver handle.
Nothing. I tried it again, a little harder, then again. Finally I heard a small crack.
I released a breath. It might work, son of a bitch, it just might . . .
I’m not sure how long I spent chiseling at the pane, but when it let go finally, of course it fell inward and smacked the kitchen linoleum. I gritted my teeth and shrank inside my skin. It hadn’t shattered—the tape kept it intact—but glass falling against the ground still sounds like glass falling against the ground.
I leaned back and scanned the upstairs windows. They remained dark. I watched them for a while, to make sure, but saw no sign of life.
I didn’t think my heart could beat any faster, but it picked up speed as I reached through the empty pane and twisted the lock. It gave readily under my fingers.
You really are insane, I thought.
“Maybe, but at least I don’t talk to myself,” I whispered, and almost laughed hysterically. I should probably get back on my meds. If I survived.
Holding the hammer tightly, I opened the kitchen door and put my head just inside, ready to run at the first sign of danger. If Rebane came out, I’d run screaming from the house. I’d make so much noise the whole world would wake up. The police would come. They’d get Tara out and arrest Rebane, send him to prison for a million years.
So why not do that? my little voice screamed at me.
Because cops have to follow rules. Me claiming my best friend was locked in his basement wasn’t enough. Plus I was here. I had to get her out myself.
I heard nothing in the house. Just that same odd electric hum.
I moved immediately to the pantry door—I mean, basement door—and put the claw end of the hammer between the latch and the door. Just before I began prying, I paused.
Instinct kicked in. I could be wrong, but it would only take a couple seconds. . . .
I slid over to the drawers beneath the counter in the hallway. I pulled one, then another, then a third carefully open. And there they were. A set of keys, several imprinted with the Master Lock logo.
Yes!
I put the hammer in the drawer to free my hands and rushed back to the cellar door, trying each key as quickly as possible. The third one slid in and twisted easily.
Mouth dry, I pulled the lock off and opened the door.
I don’t know what I expected as I took that first step onto a splintery wooden stair. A hand to grab my ankle, maybe, or the scent of decayed flesh wafting up to assault me. Neither of these things happened. In fact, I thought I smelled vanilla. The same scent I’d noticed before, only much stronger now.
I descended the stairs slowly, slow enough to count each pore in the gray cinderblock wall on my right. The bricks matched the wall I’d climbed over out back, except for their dismal, unpainted color. The basement seemed surprisingly warm; not as warm as the little hallway behind me but not freezing, either. No lights were on, and I hadn’t seen a light switch on the wall anywhere; maybe it was in the hallway and I’d missed it?
As my head cleared the floor level above me, I saw the room’s only source of light and likely s
ource of scent. A lit jar candle on a card table in the center of the room flickered slowly, waving back and forth. In its light I saw the room had been sparsely furnished; two folding chairs sat tucked beneath the card table, and a narrow doorway led to a minuscule bathroom that looked unfinished and installed by an amateur do-it-yourselfer. A narrow cot sat pushed into one corner, with a bundle of blankets jumbled on top of it.
That was it. Nothing more.
He had a spare room down here just like the Wallises’, and he’d left a candle burning, and that was it.
I would be caught and taken to jail and go to prison for life over a partially finished basement. That’s it?
The depth of my stupidity could never be measured.
Time to go. I turned and raced back up to the hallway. I didn’t bother with the lock, who cared? I just needed to go before—
“Hi there.”
SIXTEEN
I sucked in a breath. Clutched my stomach. Spun around and reeled backward into the kitchen door.
Rebane stood in the doorway between the kitchen and hallway, chin tilted down, looking at me over his glasses. He seemed to take up the entire doorframe. He didn’t look like he’d been sleeping.
“If you’re looking for drugs,” he said, “you chose the wrong house.”
I could not speak.
“And I hate to tell you,” he went on, not moving, “I don’t have a lot of cash lying around.”
Absurdly, I shook my head. As if agreeing that he didn’t have a lot of cash in the house.
I stuttered, “I’m—I’m—I’m—”
“Breaking and entering,” Rebane said. “I suppose I should call the police.”
His eyes darted to the pantry door as if just now noticing it was open. His gaze lifted back to me. Thankfully, the kitchen door behind me was still unlocked. I knew I could get out that way. If he didn’t grab me first.
Break and enter into a suspected kidnapper’s house, my little voice snapped. You are some critical thinker, Penelope. Nice work.