by R. L. Stine
“No, she didn’t,” Samuel told his brother. “No one escapes me. She’s as good as dead, boyo.”
He saw the panic on his brother’s face. He knew he had to be brave, put on a good front. Daniel had never encountered failure. It frightened Samuel to think how his twin might handle such disappointment.
Samuel could still hear her screams out in the street. He motioned with his head to the shoe. “Help me.”
Daniel hesitated for a moment, his face locked in horror. Then he wrapped his hands around the heel of the shoe—and pulled it out of his twin’s chest.
It slid out easily, making a sssllliick sound like pulling a spoon out of a jelly jar.
Daniel tossed the shoe across the floor. Then he smoothed down the front of Samuel’s T-shirt. “Afraid you’ve got a hole in your shirt, bruvver.”
Samuel jumped to his feet. “Let’s go.”
“Whistle while we work,” Daniel said. He whistled a short tune.
Daniel being Daniel.
They burst out through the screen door together. Jumped off the stoop. Samuel saw Daniel remove something from his jeans pocket and drop it beside the steps.
The morning sun was high over the shingled roofs of the little houses that lined the street. Houses not much bigger than cottages. Each with a trimmed square lawn. An SUV parked in the driveway.
Not a fancy Hamptons neighborhood, Samuel thought as they took off running in the direction of the shrill screams. This is where the workers live.
Saturday morning and everyone must be sleeping in, for there was not a person in sight. Oh, yes. A man in khaki shorts watering his flower garden with a hose in the next block. A small brown dog sniffing around him.
Samuel saw Autumn pounding frantically on the front door of a small brick house down the block. No one answered. She leaped off the front stoop and, screaming all the way, fled into a sandy, pebbly alley lined by wooden fences that snaked behind the houses.
“Nice of Autumn to scream like that and let us know where she is going,” said Daniel, trotting beside his brother, eyes straight ahead.
“She’s a nice girl.” Samuel’s earnest reply.
They caught up with her behind a stack of blue and yellow boogie boards tilting against a wood picket fence. The boards formed a low tent. Autumn probably thought she would be hidden by them.
They found her huddled behind the boards, her body hunched and shaking, her breath coming in loud wheezes.
Panting like a dog. Like a cornered dog.
Samuel set his eyes to glowing. He felt anger now and new dedication to the task. No hesitation.
Did she really think she could wound the Avenger? The Heater? Punish the Punisher?
“Please . . . Oh, please . . . please . . .” She was begging now. Actually wringing her hands in front of her. She climbed to her feet. “Please?”
Samuel trained his gaze on the white skin of her tummy between the top and her low-riding shorts.
She shrieked in shock and agonizing pain as he cut a long line across the bottom of her stomach. Reflexively, Autumn grabbed at the deep opening in her skin and spread both hands over it.
But she couldn’t keep her insides from spilling out.
The twins watched in intent silence, as if watching a medical demonstration, as her intestines came sliding out over her hands and poured like long pink sausage links to the ground.
She made a hoarse choking sound, grabbing frantically at the waterfall of shiny wet organs spilling out. Spilling out of the deep slit across her belly. A gusher of pink and yellow sausage oozing through her fingers.
She choked and gagged until her eyes rolled up and her knees folded and she slumped face forward with a loud splaaat into the still-throbbing puddle of her insides.
The twins gazed down at her in solemn silence.
Samuel waited for his eyes to cool. Then he stepped back, let out a sigh, and called down to her, “Oh, poor Autumn. Lassie, where are those beautiful new shoes now?”
Daniel laughed and gave him a shove. “You’re a poet.” He stared down at the young dead woman. His smile faded. “You know, bruvver, we don’t have to worry about Pa now.”
That made Samuel laugh. “I think Pa is deep in trouble,” he said softly. “Come on, bruvver. Let’s find our way back to the Harbor of Sag.”
“A poet,” Daniel murmured. “My bruvver is a poet.”
It was a beautiful morning, just starting to warm up, the air so fragrant and fresh. White butterflies danced over a flowering hedge. A soft breeze tickled his skin and cooled Samuel’s hot face.
It made him think of the island. The ocean breezes over Cape Le Chat Noir. The simple life. Waves splashing as he and Daniel and Ikey ran along the cool, wet sand.
“I think the bus stop is over here,” he told Daniel. “It’s such a pretty day. I know we’re going to have a nice ride.”
58
When Lea’s Skype bell rang on Saturday morning, she was tempted not to answer it. But when she saw it was Martha calling from Cape Le Chat Noir, her curiosity won out over her weariness.
She clicked to take the call, and a second later, Martha’s pale blue eyes gazed out at her from the laptop screen. Martha’s short blond hair was wrapped in a colorful kerchief, but her face appeared pale and lined, and she wasn’t smiling.
“Martha? What a surprise.” Lea adjusted the laptop to get her face in the frame.
“How are you, Lea? Is this too early?”
“Well, no. Actually, I’m still up from last night. Look at me. I’m still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. I . . . didn’t get any sleep.”
“Well, I’m sorry to call so early.”
“That’s okay. Really. It’s nice to see you. We haven’t been in touch for a few weeks.”
“You look awful, Lea. What’s going on there? Why were you up all night? Is everything okay?”
Martha’s image froze on the screen. Her face didn’t move but her voice continued. Then the screen popped, and her mouth caught up with her words.
Lea sighed. She rubbed her eyes with her finger and thumb. “It’s a long story, Martha. What a horrible night.”
“Why? What on earth happened?”
“The kids are gone. I mean, disappeared.”
Martha’s mouth dropped open. The screen stopped again with her face frozen in her startled expression.
“You mean the twins? You can’t find them?”
“No. All the kids.” The words tumbled out of Lea in a trembling voice. “The twins. Ira. Elena. Her friend. And a lot of other kids.” She sucked in a deep breath. “Oh, Martha. I don’t know what’s happening!”
“I don’t understand, Lea. You called the police?”
A bitter laugh escaped Lea’s throat. “Oh, yes. The police have been here. Local police. State police. The FBI. They’ve been here all night, Martha. All night asking Mark and Roz and me questions. Questions. Like it’s our fault. Like we’re hiding something from them. Like we know something we’re not telling.”
“Oh, wow. It sounds like hell. Do you want me to get off? I could Skype you some other time. Or I could email—”
“No, it’s fine. Actually, it’s good to have a friend to talk to. I can’t see straight I’m so frazzled and worn out. But it’s good to have a friend.”
“Well, where do they think your kids are? Do they think—”
“It’s not just my kids. There are maybe seventy or eighty kids missing in Sag Harbor, Martha.”
“Huh? That’s insane.”
Lea rolled her eyes. “Insane but true. At first the police thought it started here. You see, a bunch of kids were hanging out in our guesthouse in back.”
“Seventy?”
“No, not seventy. A few. Several. I . . . don’t know. Mark and I went out last night and—”
“Are you sure you want to tell me all this now? You look so tired and—”
“I don’t understand it, Martha. They’re just gone. Where would they go? How could they all sneak off tog
ether? It can’t be a mass kidnapping. Whoever heard of that?”
“What do the police think? The FBI?”
“At first they didn’t believe us. There’s been some other trouble here. With Mark. And we had all these totally upset parents calling us and coming over. All night. Expecting Mark and me to know where their kids were. Angry at us. I mean, they blamed us for . . . for . . .”
“And no trace of any of them? No clues at all?”
“Not yet. The Sag Harbor police station—they started getting call after call. All from frantic parents reporting their kids were missing. So they finally caught on it wasn’t just Mark and me. It was happening all over town.”
“And so—”
“But that didn’t stop them from searching our house. And tearing up the guesthouse. I don’t know what kind of clues they expected to find. A map leading them to the kids? A ransom note for seventy kids? I—I—”
“Take a breath, dear. This must be so horrible for you. I can’t believe what you are going through.”
“No, you can’t.” Lea wrung her hands. “Elena is so sensible. I can’t imagine . . .”
“Well, I’m sure they’ll all be found soon. Such a big group of kids can’t stay hidden for long, can they?” Martha leaned toward the camera. “Have the police considered this might be a big prank?”
“Huh? A prank?”
“You know. One of those mass jokes people dream up and spread over the internet?”
Lea shut her eyes. “No. No one is treating it as a joke,” she said in a whisper.
“Well, I don’t think I’m going to tell you why I Skyped,” Martha said, rubbing her cheek. “Oh, wait. Maybe I’d better. Actually, as I think about it, what I called to show you might help.”
Lea swallowed. Her throat felt dry as dust. “Help?”
Martha nodded. “I’ve been doing some photo research. You know. That’s what I do for a living. I promised you I’d do some checking.”
Lea nodded. “I remember. Did you find something interesting?”
“Interesting, yes,” Martha replied. “But not good news, Lea. In fact, it’s totally disturbing.”
Lea rolled her eyes. “Oh my God, Martha, what did you find out?”
“Let me email you the photos. I think you’ll understand why I wanted you to see them right away.”
“Okay. Send them to my gmail account, Martha. We can talk about them as I look at them. But what did you find? What is so disturbing?”
“Just wait. I’m sending them now. There are three JPEGs in all.”
Lea watched Martha’s fingers move over her keyboard. Her expression was tense, almost bitter.
“I’m really sorry to burden you with this, Lea. Especially with the hell you’re going through. I hate being the messenger, really. James and I care about you. We think you did such a brave thing. I mean, adopting those boys. But you need to see these photos.”
Martha blinked and typed some more. “Also, James and I . . . we kept something from you. We kept a big secret. We thought you’d be better off not knowing. We did it for your happiness, Lea. But the secret . . . I guess I just have to come out and say it. It’s making us feel too guilty.”
“What the hell, Martha? What are you talking about? Such a big fucking mystery? Maybe this isn’t the best time. I—”
“Did you get the photos, Lea? You should have gotten them by now. Check your email. I’ll just wait.”
Lea slid the mouse and opened her in-box. Yes. There was the email from Martha.
Lea clicked twice to open the attachments. She waited for them to download, watching the little line slide across the screen. Her heart started to pound.
She clicked again, the Picasa program came to life, and a thumbnail photo appeared on the screen. She clicked it. And watched as it sprang up full-size.
A black-and-white photo. A beach scene? No. “Is it Cape Le Chat Noir?”
“Yes.” Martha’s reply in a soft voice.
“Oh, wow. I see. It’s after the hurricane. All the houses are down. And the trees. I see.”
She saw several forlorn people huddled in the background, fuzzy and out of focus. And near the camera . . . Standing together, one with his hand around the other’s shoulder . . . Yes. The twins.
No mistaking them. Daniel and Samuel standing close together, surrounded by the hurricane’s destruction.
“Martha, I see the twins.”
“Take a good look, Lea.”
“I am taking a good look. The twins are standing there together after the hurricane. They’re holding on to each other and looking very alone and forlorn.”
Her eyes scanned the photo. “I don’t see anything else, Martha. Am I missing something? Why is this photo interesting?”
“Well, do you notice the photo is in black-and-white?”
“Yes. So?”
“It wasn’t taken after the hurricane here last month, Lea.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The photo was taken in 1935. The day after the hurricane of 1935.”
59
The morning went by in a blur, and even two cups of strong black coffee at eleven didn’t wake Mark’s mind. Half an hour earlier, he had lifted his head, not recognizing where he was.
It took him a few seconds to remember he had fallen asleep after five in the morning on the couch in the den, the soft couch, his favorite napping couch, in the clothes he had worn to Nestor Bridger’s house.
The police. The angry, frightened parents. They hadn’t left till five. And then, his head throbbing, he had collapsed on the couch.
But who could sleep with Ira and Elena and the twins gone—missing—and at least seventy other children, and after an endless night of the phone ringing nonstop with frantic parents at the other end, and police and FBI and who-knows-what invading every corner of his house. And the questions . . . the accusing stares.
Could they possibly think he had kidnapped seventy kids? Where would he keep them? In the basement? In an upstairs closet?
Somewhere around three in the morning, they asked if he wanted a lawyer. He’d gone into a long rant—he should have held it in—but the wine and the exhaustion, not to mention the anxiety, made him open up and tell them how stupid they were to think he had any answers or anything helpful to say or anything to do with the disappearance of the kids.
Maybe his rant encouraged them to leave. No. Now he remembered. More angry, frightened parents showed up at the door, and the round of questions grew even more intense.
He pictured the two Sag Harbor officers he’d become very acquainted with, Pavano and Pinto. They’d been pushed to the back. Too low on the ladder to speak, they watched the whole thing, leaning against the living room wall, occasionally muttering among themselves as their superiors—who was that big guy, Franks, who paraded back and forth with his Glock hanging out of its holster?—asked all the questions.
The officers and agents didn’t leave until after five. Mark sprawled fitfully on the worn-soft couch, the questions tumbling through his mind, struggling to think clearly about a theory of his own. It wasn’t forthcoming. He didn’t have a clue.
He was just as puzzled upon waking up. And where was Lea? A glance at the clock. Ten-thirty. This is Saturday, right?
She must be up in our room. Can she sleep? This is late for her not to be downstairs.
Rubbing the dark stubble on his cheeks, he shuffled into the kitchen for coffee, feeling stiff and not at all rested and in need of a shower. He squinted at a note in Roz’s handwriting: Axl upset by all the noise last night. Took him to the beach. Home after lunch. Have my phone. Call with any news.
“No news, Roz.”
He peered through the kitchen window at the guesthouse. Dark and silent.
His eyes burned. He suddenly craved a cigarette. Crazy. He hadn’t smoked since college.
Don’t be crazy. Don’t give in. You have to be the sane one.
———
Lea printed out the three photos
and sat at her desk gazing at them over and over. The first two—the twelve-year-old twins in 1935—came as a frightening shock.
The twins were twelve in 1935 and twelve today. Cape Le Chat Noir . . . It’s the island where the living coexist with the living dead.
“It can’t be! Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Please. It can’t be true!”
She sat in the glare of the monitor, gazing from one photo to the other, screaming at them without even hearing herself. Screaming at the beautiful twelve-year-old twins. Beautiful more than seventy-five years ago. Beautiful today.
“Oh, shit. Oh, shit. I brought them here. Martha warned me. Mark warned me. Oh, shit. It’s all my fault.” And then: “But I care about them. They made me care about them.”
She slammed the two printouts onto the desk and gazed at the third one. This photo was not a surprise. She had suspected it. She prayed and prayed it wasn’t true. But somehow, all along, Lea knew.
Martha had signed off, and her apologies reverberated in Lea’s mind.
“So sorry. Really so sorry. I think I warned you not to rush into adopting those boys. I just had the feeling there was something off about them.”
Not much of an apology, really. Of course, Martha was sorry for the way things turned out—not sorry for providing Lea with the truth.
And what did she mean by something off about them? Martha said she would send an email—immediately—with all the information she had been able to dig up about the boys. “It’s not good news, Lea. I’m so sorry. I wish it weren’t true. I’ll send it right now.”
And as for the third photo, Lea could see even on the grainy Skype image how uncomfortable it made Martha and how reluctant she was to discuss it at all.
“James and I hoped we were doing the right thing.”
After that, Martha made an excuse to end the conversation. And repeated her apology, sounding a little more heartfelt this time. “I only wish . . .” No finish to that sentence. And then she was gone, and Lea sat in front of the screen, her eyes shut tight, but not tight enough to keep the pictures from her mind.
And things began to come clear, began to connect, starting with the twins, and moving to the murder in the driveway and the murder of Derek Saltzman and the disappearance of Ira and Elena and some seventy other kids.
