by J. A. Huss
But one door remains closed and this alone makes me want to cry. I walk slowly to the last door on the left at the end of the hallway and open it.
My baby’s room is not a mess. In fact, it’s almost neat and tidy—the bedding in the crib is in a heap, the mattress ripped down the side, but it’s all there. When I pull open a drawer all the tiny clothes are messed up, but they are all still there. Proof that whoever the searcher was, they must’ve either taken their time to look through things properly or they fixed everything after they were done.
I wonder what kind of thug does that?
The crib is white and the bedding is blue. All the bottles are lined up near the bottle warmer on the changing table. The Diaper Genie is still standing at attention in the corner, its askew top the only clue that it was searched by the thugs who trashed my house.
I suck in a breath as my eyes wash over the picture frame on the dresser.
It’s me. Eight months pregnant.
I’m wearing a fluffy peach dress, I’m barefoot, I’m huge, and I’m standing outside in front of the blooming purple lilac bush on the east side of the house.
I’m also smiling. Because even though my world would fall apart very soon after this picture was taken, I was happy that day. I was hopeful that Jon was changing, that this baby was a good idea after all, that he’d be better, happier, satisfied—if he just had a son.
I didn’t miscarry at six weeks like most girls. I carried that baby to term.
I went to all those check-ups, heard the heartbeat, saw the ultrasound, had a name picked out, had a room, a car seat, a crib, breast pump, baby swing, the cute bedding, the adorable onesies, the rocking chair by the window, and a baby bag packed and ready for the hospital—I had everything.
I slip the photo out of the frame real fast and stuff it inside my jacket. I didn’t want it when I left because I thought I could just forget it ever happened. Just put it behind me and move on.
But I can’t move on. I never had the chance to properly grieve because as soon as I came home from the hospital, Jon was even worse than ever. He blamed me. And I never had a chance to feel the sadness. I had to push it away so I could survive.
I don’t have time to feel anything right now either, but some day. Someday soon, I will look good and hard at that picture and figure it out. Let it all out and really say goodbye like I should’ve when it happened.
I take one last look at what I almost had and then I back out of the room and pull the door closed behind me.
Let that one room remain sweet and hidden away from the ugliness out here.
I walk briskly down the hallway, picking my way through the various pieces of broken things, and go through the kitchen to the back of the house. The basement is where I need to be. That’s where everything is. All the horror, all the tears, all the beatings, all the death, all the sickness, all the filth, all the bad, bad things that happened in this house took place in this basement.
When I get to the top of the stairs I stop and replay it all in my mind.
His hand on my shoulder.
The smack across the back of my head that turned into a push.
The fall.
The blood.
The hours it took for Jon to decide that I really did need to go to the hospital.
The look on the doctor’s face when he told me it was too late.
The screaming as they strapped me to a gurney and rolled me down the hallway so they could medically induce me into giving birth to a dead baby.
And then waking up in a hospital bed to the man who caused it all, handing me balloons.
Balloons.
And a card.
The anger and hate I felt that day washes over me again. But I let it flow like wind and then it dissipates. Because I came here for a reason and this memory lane shit needs to be over now.
I walk slowly down the steps and let the baby go so the other horrors can fill in the space. The basement is tossed too, and while it does make me a little sad to see all my things trashed upstairs, down here nothing belonged to me. Down here I was a piece of property. Down here I was his piece of property and I spent most of the months after the baby down here being punished for some reason or another.
Jon likes the kinky stuff. And I’m not talking the fun kinky stuff. I’m not talking about cute pink cheeks from an erotic spanking, or teasing a girl so she wants to come, but can’t. Or any of that play stuff.
I’m talking painful, ‘I never signed up for this, there is no word that will keep me safe, I don’t want this, it does not feel good, please, for fuck’s sake, stop’ kind of kinky stuff.
Ford likes the kinky stuff too, so he hints. And Ronin thinks he likes the kinky stuff.
But I’m doubting either of them have ever hog-tied a teenager and hung her up from the ceiling with a ball gag in her mouth and then proceeded to sexually torture her and called it fun.
I eye the ceiling hook as I step onto the cobblestones that line the basement floor and let out an uncontrollable shiver before taking my attention to the room around me. Most of the walls are made of some sort of gray rock. The floors are these old-ass bricks in some places, and crumbling concrete in others.
I head to the laundry room where the floor is crumbling concrete and try not to look at the shattered pieces of the St. Andrew’s cross as I pick my way past. This is a long room, but it’s pretty much bare of anything except the laundry stuff. Washer, drier, ironing board, folding table.
And one secret.
There is only single small basement window on the far side near the utility sink. The late afternoon light seeps in and blasts about six feet of air with illuminated floating dust particles. Across from that is the massive coal-powered furnace left over from when the house was first built. I used to hide behind it sometimes, but Jon always found me. He always found me.
I bend down and pick up the crowbar that’s mostly hidden underneath the washer, then insert it into the large drain grate in the crumbling floor. It lifts up so I set it aside and I lie down so I can peek in, straining to see if what I’m looking for is still there.
It is and the tips of my fingers just barely graze across the metal safe when a car door slams outside.
Fuck!
I get up and run to the little window which looks out to the front walkway.
Men’s voices.
And one of those voices belongs to Jon.
Chapter Thirty-Seven - ROOK
How? How is this even possible? He’s supposed to be in jail!
I’m so stunned I stand there gazing up at three sets of feet as they walk up the front steps. I waste any time I might’ve had to get out of this basement. The front door slams closed and I panic. What the fuck?
I look around frantically for a hiding place. The coal furnace calls to me, I could crawl behind that, but what if Jon knows I’m here somehow? He’ll definitely look there first because that’s where I always went. Hard footsteps thud over my head as the men walk across the living room floor. My gaze travels past the coal chute and I rush over, swing the door up, and I’m just about ready to climb in and crawl up to the side yard when I realize the footsteps are crossing into the kitchen.
They’re coming down here.
I give up on the coal chute—I’ll be caught for sure—and I refocus on the drain where we hide the secret shit. I’m not as skinny as I was when Jon made me climb in here, dig out a hole around the sewer pipes, and shove that fire-proof box in a little nook down there. But I wiggle as the first thuds on the basement stairs pound in my head, then slip through and pull the grate over the top.
Fuck, I left the crowbar. The footsteps are louder now, but not down yet. I slide the grate, grab the crowbar, slip back inside the hole, and slide the grate again.
“We’re tired of playing, Jon,” a voice says. “We know it’s here and the only way you’re getting out of here alive is if you give it to us. So let’s make this easy.”
I scoot away from the light filtering throu
gh the grate and push my back against the dirt wall as the men continue to talk near the stairs. I fish out my new iPhone and start the video camera and set it on a pipe on the other side of the hole, pointing up at the grate.
“Where is it?” another man says.
I’m so busted if he tells them because I’m sitting right next to the very thing they’re looking for.
“I told you,” Jon says. “I gave it to friends to hold for me. You kill me, they release it to the public. We walk out of here together or we don’t. But if I go down, so do you.”
A loud crack and a thud as someone falls to the ground almost makes me gasp. “You want to threaten me?”
There’s more shuffling and then the men are headed my way. I hold my breath.
“It’s in this basement, we know it is. One of your buddies gave you up.”
“That right?” Jon says, then spits on the floor, swallows hard, like he’s swallowing blood, and then coughs. “Then why don’t you tell me where it is, since you seem to know so much.”
They hit him again and this time he falls to the floor and his cheek lands right on the grate above me.
I suck in a long breath.
His eyes shift downward.
At first I think he can’t see me. And then his expression morphs though several different phases. Shock. Grimace. Anger.
And then nothing.
We open our mouths at the same time, but only he speaks. “I’ll never tell,” he says, looking me straight in the eye.
What? Is he talking to me?
One of the guys kicks him in the ribs and he spits out more blood. This time it clings to the rusty grate and drips down.
Please, God, I pray. Please don’t let me be caught here with these men.
“I won’t tell,” he says in a low voice. “I won’t tell.”
“You’ll tell, asshole. Because we’re gonna beat the living shit out of you if you don’t,” one of the other guys says.
“They ransacked the baby’s room, but I cleaned it up as best I could,” he chokes out. And then he whispers so softly I almost miss it. “I swear it was an accident. I swear to God, it was an accident.”
He is talking to me. I sink back against the wall and try to hold my tears in.
“Yeah, yeah, your dead baby’s room. We’ve already heard about it. Now you either tell us where the shit is, Jon, or we’ll go get that little raven of yours next. And if she thinks what you did to her was bad, she’s in for a surprise. I have a guy in Columbia who’ll pay a half a million for a girl like her. I can pick her up and have her sold before anyone knows she’s gone. We’ve got her boyfriend in jail, and she’s on the run from the other two, just like we planned. Hell, they might not even miss her. Might just figure she moved on and found a new place to hide.”
Jon coughs again and more blood comes up. “I’m so sorry,” he breathes, again so low it almost doesn’t exist. He stops for a moment, his eyes still looking down at me. “I’m sorry. You’ll just have to kill me, boys.” And then his gaze finds the iPhone in a hazy beam of light that slips past his body and hits it in just such a way as to create a glint. He smiles for a moment, the blood spilling out of his mouth, and I quickly reach out and move the phone slightly just as Jon rolls himself over.
“It’s not here, Agent Abelli,” he says loudly. Plenty loud for the phone camera to pick up the name. “I gave it to the media, so just do what you want, I’ve got nothing to give you. Nothing at all.”
I close my eyes and put my fingers in my ears after that. They beat him, they kick him, they lift up his head and crack it against the grate so hard pieces of blood and bone from his cheek spray down on me.
His screams fill the basement and then, gradually, they turn to moans.
And even though I spent years wishing I could make him writhe in pain like that, it brings me no comfort.
I hate this. I hate everything about this. It makes me sick.
But I’m forced to listen for what seems like an eternity as they pummel him, knock him unconscious, bring him back, and then do it again. Until finally, he’s unable to be brought back and there is a moment of heavy silence when everyone realizes it’s over.
“Shoot him to make sure he’s dead then burn this place down. I’ll be in the car,” the Abelli voice says as he walks away. “If he’s hidden anything here, it’ll all go up in flames.”
That Abelli guy doesn’t even make it to the basement stairs before the gunshot rings out and pieces of Jon splatter down into the hole.
I clamp my hand over my mouth and close my eyes tight as the smell of gasoline fills the basement.
I wait for the whoosh of flame and then the heavy footsteps of the other man going back upstairs. I frantically push against the grate so I can climb out, but Jon’s body is in the way.
My breath starts coming in ragged gasps as the smoke fills the basement and I start to panic, my chest hitching as I try to take in air and push against Jon’s body. I’m ready to give up when I think of Ronin’s words the last time I saw him. Don’t panic, Gidget.
Calm down, Rook, and push for fuck’s sake!
I get to my feet, still crouched down, and push my shoulder up against the grate.
It moves, barely, but it moves. So I do it again and Jon’s body rolls a little. I do it again and again and again.
And finally the grate flips on its side.
I reach up, push the grate across the floor, and then shove Jon’s body until he’s clear of the hole in the floor. I’m so filled with adrenaline and fear trying to make my escape, I almost forget the phone and everything I came for. I grab the key from my pocket and try my best to steady my shaking hand as I insert it into the lock. For a second it refuses to engage and I swear to God, I almost have a panic attack. My whole plan flashes before my eyes and I feel the crush of defeat.
Keep calm, Gidget. Don’t panic. Ronin’s voice in my head soothes me and I take a deep breath, push the key in farther and feel it click into place. I turn it and swing the metal door of the safe open.
I scan the contents then stuff all of it inside my jacket pocket and pull myself back up into the basement. The smoke is so thick I can’t even see the stairs and the flames are too high that way to even consider escaping. I panic again.
No, be still.
“How will I get out?” I ask Ronin’s voice in my head. I look over at the window, already coughing and gasping as the thick smoke penetrates into my lungs. But it’s just one of those small basement windows. And this house is too old to have a window well as a fire escape. My eyes dart around, panic starting to consume me again, when I spy the coal chute. And then I’m lifting up the metal door and shoving myself inside.
The negative pressure from outside sucks the fire in my direction and the flames are nipping at my boots before I’m even halfway up.
I scream from the heat and then the outside chute opens, forcing the flames to lick up against my legs even higher. Two hands reach down to grab my wrists. It never even occurred to me that those bad guys might still be around, but it’s too late now.
The hands pull me up with force and then the fresh air rushes into my lungs and the heat on my legs is replaced with cool autumn air.
I land in a heap at the feet of some biker boots.
And when I look up Spencer Shrike is shaking his head at me. “I’m gonna tell Ronin what you did and he’s gonna spank the shit out of you for this.”
I pat my jacket as he lifts me up and pulls me back towards the woods. “I have so much proof,” I cough out as I half-limp, half-run from the burning pain in my lower legs as Spence and I make our way through the nature preserve.
And when I look back at the burning house I realize something…
All my old demons are going up in flames with that piece-of-shit place.
I’m finally free to fight another battle.
And I’ve got a team to help me.
Chapter Thirty-Eight - ROOK
Spencer and I trek all the way back throu
gh the woods, me coughing so hard I keep looking around to make sure no one is gonna come kill us because I can’t be quiet.
“Don’t worry, Rook, Ford’s just up ahead with the van. He’s got your bike loaded and I saw those assholes back there leave, we’re cool.”
“How’d you know where I was?”
He chuckles and grabs my arm hard, saving me from a nasty fall that could’ve made the pain in my burned legs unbearable after I trip over a tree root. “I put a tracker on your bike and your jacket. You’re not gonna get away from us that easy, chick. We’re a team, remember?”
“But you’re not allowed to help.”
He glares down at me for a moment and then the hard expression in his eyes softens a little. “We have rules for a reason, Rook. You could’ve really fucked things up. You could’ve been killed, you could’ve—”
“OK, I get it. But Spencer—” I stop and pull on his leather jacket to make him stop with me. “If you knew what I got out of that house you wouldn’t be angry with me.”
“You’re wrong. If they knew you were there they would’ve killed you, you almost got burned alive. You got lucky, Rook. And we’re all pretty attached to you. Ronin will get himself out of this eventually. And when he does, the last thing he wants to hear is that the girl he’s gonna marry died doing something stupid.”
I stay quiet and just limp along after that. We exit the forest a few hundred yards down from where I went in and there’s a large white van waiting for us. Ford gets out of the driver’s seat with a gun in his hand, not even trying to hide it. Spencer and I are walking casually across the parking lot when Ford’s expression rests on me.
I stop dead in my tracks, making Spence stumble. “He’s mad at me.”
“Damn right he’s mad at you. And you deserve it.” Spencer pulls on me hard and hands me off to Ford, then walks over to the driver’s side and gets in.
I look up at Ford and try a pouty frown.
“Save that shit for Ronin. It won’t work on me. I am not talking to you. You scared the fuck out of us, you made me drive a thousand miles in a van alone with Spencer. You missed your university application deadline, and most of all, you didn’t trust me enough to help you.”
