The Unquiet past

by Kelley Armstrong

  Tess crept toward the door, her heart pounding.

  Drop it, she thought. Please, Jackson. Just drop it.

  Of course, he didn’t. He might hate answering questions himself, but when he asked them, he expected an answer. He continued to badger Steve until the man said, “I don’t know what she told you—”

  “That she met some guy,” Jackson lied. “And that’s how she lost her bag.”

  “It was a misunderstanding.” A whine crept into Steve’s voice. “I was trying to be friendly, giving a girl a lift. If you’re her friend, you need to teach her not to hitch. It isn’t safe.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Hey. No. I was helping her. Giving her a lift and offering her a place to stay—”

  “A place to stay?”

  “It was just an offer. She freaked out and jumped from the truck. She must have been high on something. She left the bag behind, and I was waiting for her to come down from the drugs and get it. Now take—”

  “I will. And I’ll get the full story from her. When I do, it better match yours, or I’m going to be back with the police. Is that clear?”

  “Get the hell out of my house before I—”

  Tess crouched, ready to swing around the corner, but Jackson was already dragging the suitcase, scraping the floor.

  “I’ll be back,” he said. “You’d better still be here.”

  Jackson walked out, his face hard, eyes blazing. When he saw her, his expression changed. No softening of his features. Just a change in his eyes. From blazing with anger to ice cold, skewering her with an accusing glare. She reached for the bag. He jerked his chin, telling her to get moving, and followed her off the porch.

  Thirteen

  THEY WALKED DOWN the dirt road in silence. Several times, Tess tried to take the suitcase, but Jackson stopped her with a grunt and kept walking, and she could do nothing but hurry along beside him.

  “You lied to me,” he said.

  “I—”

  “What did he do?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Thérèse.” He said her name in the French way—Tair-ez—and she flinched. “If you don’t tell me, I’m going to have to presume he’s right and it was a misunderstanding and you overreacted, and if that’s not the truth, then you need to tell—”

  “It might be.”

  “What?”

  “It might be the truth. I…I don’t know. He didn’t say anything weird or try to touch me. He offered me a place to stay, and I said no.”

  “You said no.”

  She stiffened. “Of course.”

  “I’m not questioning that. I’m pointing out that’s not his story. If you refused and he insisted…” He glanced over. “That’s what happened, isn’t it? He insisted, and that’s why you jumped from the truck without your suitcase.”

  “I took my suitcase.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “I’m just saying I took it. I had to leave it behind. In the woods.”

  “Because he chased you?”

  She nodded.

  A hard look. “And you still think it could have been a misunderstanding?”

  “I—I guess not. I said no more than once, and he started driving to his place…”

  “Not a misunderstanding.”

  “I don’t think it was planned. He was just—”

  “Taking advantage of the situation? Getting you to his place so he could figure out his next move?”

  She nodded.

  “That doesn’t make it any better, Tess. Not at all. It’s still kidnapping. The moment someone tries to forcibly…” He trailed off and cleared his throat. “The legal definition isn’t important. But just because he wasn’t grabbing you and telling you what he planned to do doesn’t make him any less culpable. You knew something was wrong. Go with your gut. Don’t ever worry that you’re overreacting.”

  She nodded.

  A flicker of discomfort as silence fell, and he said gruffly, “I have sisters. That’s what my parents taught them. Someone should have taught you the same thing.”

  She nodded again.

  “You knew whose house it was, didn’t you?” he said after a few minutes of silent walking. “That’s what you lied about. You let me go up there, knowing—”

  “That’s why I told you to talk outside. So I could listen.”

  A humorless quirk of a smile. “And run to my rescue?”

  “I know I’m not exactly big and intimidating. But I could have done something.”

  “I appreciate that, and you’re right—it would have helped. However, what would have helped me even more was a warning. I’m not accusing you of putting me in danger, Tess. I’m saying that if you want my help, you need to give me more than five bucks. You need to give me some honesty. Otherwise, I’m fumbling in the dark.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He looked over, as if checking that her apology was sincere. It was, and he seemed to see that and nodded.

  “That’s why you asked me his name, isn’t it?” he said. “You saw the road and thought it was him, and the name confirmed it.”

  “Actually, no. When he picked me up, he said his name was John.”

  “So he lied about his name, and you still think he might not have been planning anything?”

  “You’re right. The age seemed wrong too. It’s hard to tell with the gray hair. It wasn’t until I saw the truck that I knew. But I should have told you then.”

  “Yes, you should have.” It wasn’t a rebuke. She almost wished it was. This was quiet, thoughtful, and that stung more.

  Tess reached into her pocket and pulled out the other half of the five. “Take this. You’ve done more than enough. I’ll get that cupboard moved—”

  A snort, sounding more like his usual self. “By yourself? I don’t need your mon—” He stopped short. “I’ll help you with the cupboard. I’m heading there anyway, obviously. Might as well.”

  I don’t have anything better to do. He didn’t say that, but she heard it in his tone. He’d told her to be honest, but that seemed to apply only to her. He’d said he was almost eighteen, which meant there wasn’t much chance he was a runaway. By that age, he could get a job and find a place to live, and no one would bother him. He said his father was a lawyer, which meant he wasn’t poor, despite his rough clothing. Well educated. Well spoken.

  The dirt from earlier had been accidental—the result of sleeping in an abandoned house and not having a mirror handy, and as soon as it was pointed out to him, he’d rectified it with his kit of hygiene supplies. Not a vagrant or a runaway then. Finished his last year of high school and hit the road for a summer?

  She could ask him if she was right…and she knew the response she’d get. None. She’d have to wait for more clues to this particular puzzle.

  It was late afternoon by the time they returned to the house. They got right to work. Jackson grunted that he wasn’t hungry and didn’t need lunch. She knew he was lying after he spent ten minutes trying to pry off one nail, cursing it in three languages for its stubborn refusal to yield.

  “It would help if you did more than supervise,” he snapped when Tess defended the poor cabinet.

  At the time, she was sweating and straining to pull the cabinet far enough from the wall to allow him to wedge in the pry bar.

  “I’m putting all my weight into it,” she panted.

  “All ninety-five pounds?” he said.

  “A hundred and five.”

  A snort of disbelief, and a shake of his head, as if her size was clearly a personal failing, one designed solely to annoy him.

  “You’re hungry,” she said. “It’s making you more irritable than usual.”

  “Than usual? I’m not irritable.”

  “He says, snapping and glowering.”

  A scowl her way. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Liar.”

  He opened his mouth to retort, but the rumble of his stomach stopped him. He tossed down the pry bar, and it cl
anked to the floor, making her jump. As he stalked off, she followed, saying, “I know you’re curious about what’s in there—”

  “No, I just want to get this job done so I don’t have to share my lodgings again tonight.”

  “You didn’t share them last night.”

  “I woke up to find a girl in my room. Bad enough.”

  “Most guys wouldn’t think that was so awful.”

  She said it lightly, teasing him, trying to draw out a smile, but he only glowered at her and then moved faster.

  “I was joking,” she called after him.

  “Good.”

  “You are curious,” she said. When he looked back sharply, her cheeks heated. “About the basement, I mean.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Liar.”

  Another scowl, and he picked up his pace. She smiled and hurried after him.

  Jackson wolfed down his sandwich. Then he ate half of hers. He’d only take it after she insisted she wasn’t very hungry—somewhat true—and that she could eat the bakery goods they’d bought in town—completely true. It was a relatively small sacrifice that bought her some goodwill. She even got a “Merci” out of it.

  Moreover, when they headed back to work and she continued speaking in French, he didn’t insist they switch to English. He did pause, and she could see him considering whether coaching her language skills added another layer of inconvenience to a conversation that seemed inconvenient to him even in English. But he seemed to decide that having eaten half of her lunch, he was beholden to her and should make some small sacrifice of his own. It wasn’t long, however, before she was the one regretting the idea.

  “Bon sang! Ça fait mal!” he said when she accidentally let go of the cabinet, squashed her fingers and said, “Damn it! That hurt!”

  “Not funny.”

  “Ce n’est pas drôle,” he translated, then caught her look and said in English, “I’m not mocking you. If you want to speak French, you need to stick to it. Even if your fingers get crushed.”

  “It’s heavy,” she said.

  “C’est lourd. And don’t give me that look. If you’re going to do something, fais-le correctement.” Do it right. “Now, do you want to learn French?”

  “Oui.”

  “Très bien.” A pause, and then he jerked his chin toward her fingers. “Est-ce que ça va?” Are you okay?

  “Oui.”

  Fourteen

  IT TOOK OVER an hour to move the cabinet. It seemed to have been nailed from the opposite side, which was impossible, of course. But they had to wedge the cabinet from the wall and awkwardly work at each nail. Ten in all. Finally, they pulled the cabinet away…to reveal a door, nailed shut.

  “Fais une pause,” Tess said. Take a break.

  “Non, ça va.” No, I’m doing fine.

  He wiped the sweat from his forehead; dirt had trickled down with it, smearing his face. She didn’t mention that. The cabinet was filthy, and she must look just as bad. He’d been the one doing the prying, though, and while he might be in good shape, his lean biceps quivered from the exertion.

  “Tu es un bon professeur,” she said, telling him he was a good teacher to distract him and give him a break whether he wanted it or not.

  He only grunted in answer. She was beginning to learn that the grunts and snorts were a vocabulary all their own, equally translatable. This one wasn’t derisive but acknowledged the praise with mild discomfort, a boy who’d rather skip the niceties of polite conversation, even when they flattered him.

  “You said you’re almost eighteen,” she said in French.

  He replied with a nod and eyed the nails on the door, as if coming up with a plan of attack while also taking a moment to catch his breath.

  “Are you still in school?” she asked. “I don’t know how it works in Quebec.”

  “Junior matriculation is grade eleven. Senior is grade twelve.” He switched to English for that, but she still had no idea what he meant.

  “Junior…”

  “Matriculation. It means you can graduate from high school then, but if you want to go to university, you take the extra year. Senior matriculation.”

  “So you’re done school,” she said, switching back to French. “Are you going to uni—”

  “We need to move this cabinet farther. Give me more room.”

  And that was the end of the conversation. As long as it stuck to the general, he was fine. Personal? That was none of her business.

  They spent another hour working on the door. Finally, the nails were out. Jackson swung it open, and they peered down into darkness.

  “Shit,” he said.

  “Merde?”

  A hard look. Then. “Oui. Merde. The lesson ends here. We have more important things to worry about.”

  “Je vois.” She cleared her throat. “Sorry. I mean, I see.”

  Despite the darkness below, they could both see enough to know that they were not seeing something very important: stairs. The basement door opened into yawning darkness. Tess walked to the edge and put her foot down. Jackson yanked her back, only to release her arm so fast she nearly did tumble through the open doorway.

  “I wasn’t actually stepping down,” she said. “I was checking.”

  He picked up the flashlight and shone it through the doorway. “There. Better? No stairs.”

  She moved forward, and he rocked on his heels, as if refraining from grabbing her again.

  “I’m not stupid,” she said. “I won’t fall through.”

  “Says the girl who already did so less than twenty-four hours ago.”

  “But I can see this hole.”

  “And it draws you, like a magnet, to repeat the experience. If you fall through again, I’m not rescuing you.”

  “Of course you are. The alternative is to let me die, and I don’t think you want to be rid of me that badly.”

  He muttered something under his breath.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m just looking…” She peered into the basement, lit by the flashlight beam. “No ladder either. It’s a straight drop. Maybe ten feet? Twelve? About the same as the room I fell into. We can use that rope to get down.”

  She expected him to laugh. Call her crazy. Refuse to help. But he walked a step closer, keeping his distance from the open doorway, as if she might shove him through. He angled the light down and said, “We can try.” Then, without another word, he went to get the rope.

  They tied the rope around the cabinet, which, Jackson pointed out, was not only heavy but wouldn’t fit through the doorway, making it a safe anchor. He insisted on going down first and then made sure he could climb back up, lest they both found themselves trapped in the basement. Curious but cautious.

  Jackson lowered himself to the bottom again and let Tess shimmy down. They found themselves in an empty basement room with closed doors on all four sides. Jackson walked to one, turned the knob and put his shoulder against it, as if ready to force it open. As soon as the knob turned, the door opened and he nearly fell through. Tess bit back a laugh and walked past him. He reached out as if to pull her back, then seemed to think better of it and said only, “Careful.”

  “I know.”

  This room was also empty…and again, it was a hub for three more doors. Jackson passed her this time, heading for the door on the left. Tess walked to the one straight ahead, threw it open and stepped inside.

  Stepped into darkness. Complete darkness, Jackson’s flashlight beam already lost in the other room. Her hands shot out instinctively, the old nightmare flashing even as she told herself she was being silly, that her hand would not touch down on—

  Wood. It touched on solid wood, right in front of her. Tess spun, hands still out, feeling wooden walls on either side. A box. She was trapped in—

  “Thérèse,” Jackson said. He said something more, about wandering off, but Tess didn’t catch it. All she heard was the thundering of blood in her ears as she turned toward the door, and then she saw light and�
�

  The door swung shut. Her foot had been holding it open, and as soon as she turned, it closed and Jackson said, “Tess!”

  Her fists crashed down on the door, banging as she screamed and—

  The door opened. The flashlight shone in her eyes and she stumbled back, panic filling her, seeing bright light, her gut telling her that was worse, worse than the darkness, worse than—

  “Tess!” The light lowered, and Jackson grabbed her arm, steadying her. “It’s a closet. The door is on a slant, so it shut by itself.”

  His lips twitched in a wry smile, as if about to tease her. Then he saw her face and stopped.

  “Tess?”

  She pushed past him and out into the main room as she gulped air.

  “Are you claustrophobic?” he asked.

  “Y-yes.”

  “All right. Put your head down. Take deep breaths. Close your eyes.”

  She did fine with the instructions…up to the part about closing her eyes. The moment she did, she was back in that room, clawing her way out, air thinning as she—

  She opened her eyes and stuck with the deep breathing.

  “That’s some serious claustrophobia. Have you talked to anyone about it?”

  She shook her head vehemently, still bent over.

  “You should. My mom’s a psychologist and—”

  “Wh-what?” She jerked upright. “A psychiatrist?”

  “Psychologist. That means she has a phD. A psychiatrist is a medical doctor. Doctor, doctorate, it’s confusing. They’re both called doctor, but a psychologist doesn’t have medical—”

  “I don’t need a shrink.”

  His face tightened. “It’s not like that. Therapy is for anyone who has a problem that interferes with normal life—”

  “I don’t.”

  “And I’m not saying you do. I was…Never mind. So you found a closet.”

  “It’s not a closet.”

  He sighed. “If you’re still upset over the therapy thing, I wasn’t recommending—”

  “It’s not a closet.”

  She strode over and looked inside. Four walls, enclosing an area of less than ten square feet. It might look like a closet, but she knew it wasn’t. She took the flashlight to shine it up on the ceiling.