Whittaker 02 The One We Love

by Donna White Glaser

  Enough. I sucked a deep breath and slipped inside. Dark, yeah, everything in gray tones, but not as bad as it would have been if I’d walked straight in. Irregular shafts of light stabbed through splits in the weathered walls, through knotholes, and ragged gaps low along the wall where wood met stone; rat doors, my daddy used to call those. I shivered.

  Senses I rarely relied on came alive. Smells rushed in: horse, the heady, distinctive smell that all horse lovers inhale like ambrosia; cow, too, but an old smell, not as insistently pungent as if they were still raised here; hay; straw; dust; diesel. Barn smells that triggered memories of my childhood home on the farm, before Daddy died and we had to move.

  And hearing. I felt like my very skin was straining to hear. I could have been fooled into thinking the silence was pure had I not known that a deviant version of hide-n-seek was playing out inside. It felt like the barn was breathing. After a moment of concentrating, I was sure I heard something. Something moving deep inside, but so quietly that I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t my imagination.

  I felt exposed standing so close to the door and slid over to the wall, a wooden partition, the first in a series of box stalls. A concrete strip ran in front of the stalls, the first thread of what I knew would be a concrete and wood maze. Farmers didn’t plan for “flow” in these old barns. They’d throw a wall up here, tear one down there, whatever they had to do to suit the purpose of their current need using the least amount of money and time, with whatever tools they had available. MacGyver had probably been a farmer before that secret agent gig.

  And I was stuck in the middle of it. In the dark. With a killer and a traumatized six-year-old.

  Splendid.

  I had to find the stairs to the hay loft. Right or left? I decided stairs would most likely be at the front of the barn and headed left. I wanted to keep to the shadows along the stall fronts, but I found if I got too close my clothes snagged on the rough planks. It created too much noise, not to mention the likelihood of running a needle-sharp splinter into my skin.

  Moving away from the side door meant moving away from the light. A feeling of Jungian foreboding swept over me as I moved deeper into the darkness. Instinct wrestled with irrationality as my senses continued on the high alert designed to keep me safe while, at the same time, I fought a battle with hysteria.

  Involuntary shrieking has a tendency to give your position away.

  As a child, I was always the first one found in the marathon games of hide-and-seek—the normal kind—that my cousins and I played every summer. I’d find a fantastic, guaranteed can’t-find-me hiding spot and then be consumed by the urge to giggle or to make peeping sounds, giving my position away. I always felt sorry for the kid who was It. Co-dependency starts early.

  I felt no such urge with this It.

  A third of the way down the hall, a narrow offshoot aisle created a dilemma for me: keep forward or turn toward the barn’s center? Usually I liked options, but this time all the choices felt like traps. Having a killer at the end of one of them does that.

  I kept moving forward, body systems going haywire under the burden of fear they carried. The barn was cool, yet I was slick with sweat. Despite a dry mouth, I had to pee like a race horse, but the timing seemed ill-advised. Plus, I found that, in trying to be silent, I kept forgetting to breathe.

  Fun fact: what would normally be black dots dancing in front of your eyes signaling impending asphyxiation turn green and sparkly in the dark. I thought they were fireflies until the dizziness kicked in.

  Another problem occurred soon after when the stall fronts gave way to a long row of open cattle stanchions. Apparently, horses needed more privacy than cows, which didn’t seem quite fair. On the other hand, nobody milks horses, so they didn’t need to set up a system to keep them side to side in a long row. What it did mean was that I would be completely exposed if I kept going forward.

  Instead, I crept up to the dividing partition that the stanchions butted up against in order to peek through the slats. That was the plan anyway. I’d forgotten one very important detail about stanchions. Namely, a gutter—the concrete channel that runs behind the cow butts to deal with the stuff cows output. The gutter makes it handy for the farmer to hose the manure away. Very nice for the farmers. However, gutters are also very, very easy to stumble into.

  I went sprawling. I managed, barely, to not scream, even after barking my shins on the gutter rim and skinning both knees. Unfortunately, a “whomph” sound escaped when I belly-flopped on the concrete pad. Crawling forward, I huddled on the floor in front of the manger, sucking back whimpers, tensed for an attack.

  Nothing moved. I forced myself to breathe quietly, listening hard between each breath. If she had heard me, she was probably holding still, too. We were listening to each other listen. I shuddered.

  After several heartbeats I raised myself up to look through the boards. I found myself gazing out at a large, open area in front of the double doors. A sort of lobby. The doors were still ajar and a large wedge of light allowed me to see a set of stairs leading up to what would be the hayloft. To get to them, I’d have to cross that lighted area. Right out there in the open.

  CHAPTER SIXTY ONE

  I wanted to cry. The whole damn barn was shrouded in darkness except for the one section I needed to cross. I sat back, leaning against the manger, praying for … anything.

  Something metallic clanged. I was fairly certain it had come from the opposite side of the barn, farther back, deeper in. My heart was thumping so hard I wasn’t sure I’d be able to hear a second noise, but I didn’t expect one. I imagined It, frozen as I had been after my fall. If I hurried, I’d probably get across.

  But she’d be listening now. Straining to hear any reaction to her blunder. If she heard me go up the stairs, I’d be leading her right to Mikey.

  Just then, I heard the blessed sound of a car pulling up and the silence after the motor shuts off. My heart leapt. The cops were here. A door slammed, more gravel crunched, and one of the doors rumbled back along its metal track.

  Astrid stood just inside, blinking. She should have done the eye-covering trick. If she wasn’t the killer, was she here to stop her or to ally with her?

  “Joyce?” she called. Astrid’s voice was laced with fear and … deep sadness. “Joyce, I know you’re here! Come out.”

  I heard something again. From the other side. Astrid heard it, too. She darted across the entrance, hurrying through a doorway leading toward the sound.

  I took off at a dead run, hit the stairs and, for once, God help me, kept my balance. I prayed Astrid’s noise would disguise my own and took the stairs two at a time.

  The hayloft was huge. A great, open space with timbers curving gracefully overhead like an upside-down Noah’s ark. Long ago, as a fully working farm, this space would have been filled to the rafters with hay or straw bales, stacked crisscross, as tight as bricks to keep the moisture out. Now, not even a quarter of the space had been used for the current stack. They’d used small, rectangular bales here, not the great round bales that start dotting the fields in the fall.

  If Mikey had a fort, it would be a space dug out on the flat top of the stack, bales arranged to make a cozy hidey hole. Perfect for a little boy running away from the world.

  Or a girl. Been there.

  The stack was a flat wall rising twenty feet or more. A corner had been chipped away as the bales were removed, one by one, to feed the horses. It was too early in the season for them to have been used much. Pasture grass was free and plentiful.

  That meant that, although I had a few feet of dislodged hay bales to make it easier to clamber up, most of the stack rose straight up in a vast, green wall. But there were always handholds and places to cram your foot if you were adventurous or dexterous enough.

  I was neither, but I got up, anyway.

  At the top, I flung myself flat out for no other reason than my thigh muscles had separated themselves from the parts of my leg that they were supposed to s
tay tethered to. My arms were scratched into hamburger, wrist to elbow, from the spiky stalks and my shoulders burned like someone had poured acid down my back. If Joyce came for me now, I’d hand her the knife.

  Except I really didn’t like knives, and the thought of one roused me enough to peek over the side of the stack to see if Joyce or Astrid or some murderous combination thereof had followed me up the stairs. Nobody in sight, but I could hear them. Not the words, but their voices, shrill and angry, somewhere down below.

  I had to find Mikey. I started making my way across the “floor” of the hay stack, watchful of gaps between the bales where a misstep could break my ankle. It took a few minutes, but I found a break in the pattern, a spot where the bales had been realigned, widening a hole so a kid could slither through to the dark space beyond. The fort. I dropped to my knees, sticking my face close to the hole, hoping Mikey wasn’t armed with a BB gun or blow dart … or machete.

  “Mikey?” I whispered. It is inherently difficult to inspire trust in a whisper. Whispers are, by nature, designed to signal danger, mistrust, secrets. Had to work with what I had, though. “Mikey, I know you’re there. It’s okay. I’m here to help. Your mom’s gonna be okay, buddy, but we have to get you out of here. The police are coming.” And so was Joyce if I didn’t get him out of his burrow.

  Nothing. I prayed I wasn’t wrong.

  “Mikey, I’m going to have to move the bale. Don’t be scared. I just have to get you out of here before …” Right. Don’t be scared. There’s a crazed woman, whom you’ve witnessed killing your therapist and brutally attacking your mother, hunting you down, but don’t be scared. Good lord, I was an idiot.

  “Okay, go ahead and be scared. I know I am. But we have to get out of here. We have to get outside where the police can help us.”

  I heard a stirring. A pale splotch rose up through the black opening. Mikey’s tear-streaked face came into the dim light. “You came to my house.”

  “That’s right. I talked to your mom and your Grammy.”

  At the mention of his mother, Mikey face crumpled. “That lady killed her, didn’t she?”

  “No. No, Mikey. I found your mom. She’s alive.” Oh God, don’t let me be lying. “She was still breathing and a friend of mine is helping her. He called an ambulance. We’re going to be hearing the sirens any minute.” I held my hand out. It would have been more reassuring if it wasn’t shaking, but I’d already told him I was scared, so maybe it added an aura of truthfulness. He let me pull him out, and we crab-crawled to the edge.

  Part of me wanted to stay here, dig another Letty-sized burrow next to Mikey’s and take up residence. It was doubtful that Joyce would ever think to come up here. But if she did … we’d be trapped like rats in a bucket.

  The sounds from below were not encouraging. The arched, gambrel roof heightened the acoustics. They’d stopped yelling, but I could still hear something. Scuffling and thumps. Grunts. The dull thud of flesh against flesh. I recognized that sound. So did Mikey.

  “She’s fighting someone. Is that your friend?” Mikey’s voice quavered.

  “I think it’s Astrid. She came in after me. She’s trying to stop Joyce, I think.”

  It sounded like they were duking it out right at the bottom of the stairs, explaining why the sound traveled so well. And then, a guttural scream lifted to the rafters, darted around the timbers, and filled our ears. Mikey ducked his head, covering his ears with his hands. The smell of urine overtook the faded green scent of hay as his bladder let loose. I hoped it was his.

  Something bad had happened down there. Something really bad.

  A raspy panting floated up the stairs. Astrid or Joyce? If Joyce came up, I’d have no choice but to take her on so Mikey could get away. As long as he didn’t rabbit for the fort, he’d have a chance. I found myself gripping Mikey’s arm so tightly, I probably left dents, but he didn’t pull away. Probably didn’t even feel it. We were frozen, eyes glued to the top of the stairs. Watching.

  She didn’t come. Instead, it got quieter. Not silent exactly, more like a brooding hush. The slightest sounds—a footfall, cloth whispering, the panting dopplering in retreat—gave me hope that she was moving away.

  “Is she leaving?” I whispered to Mikey. He shook his head, confusion more than denial, I thought. “I think she’s leaving.”

  I still didn’t know who I meant by “she.” If it was Astrid, she might not know Mikey and I were here. If it was Joyce …

  Better to assume the worst. We waited. The longer I heard nothing, the higher my heart shrilled. I decided it was better to stay put until we heard sirens. We had no clue where Joyce was or if she was coming back. I listened so hard for her return that my concussed head flared up.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t sound that ambushed our senses. It was smell.

  Smoke.

  CHAPTER SIXTY TWO

  I saw the smoke before I smelled it. At first glance, I couldn’t make sense of the grey, ephemeral tendrils rising from the cracks between the floor and walls on the north side. Then, Mikey and I stared at each other in horror.

  Why do these crazy bitches like fire so much?

  Joyce hadn’t made a run for it. She was busily setting fire to the barn. To smoke us out? To finish off what she’d started with Astrid? Or, if poor Astrid was dead, was she trying to destroy the evidence?

  “We got to go,” Mikey said. With that, he flipped over on his belly, unmindful of the prickery hay, and slithered over the side.

  Oh, crap. I followed, far more mindful of my stomach being razored open. Just in case, I tossed up another quick prayer—this time for a gravity-defying miracle that would keep me from bashing my head open on the plank flooring, nearly two stories below.

  Somebody must have heard my plea, because I made it down safely.

  I started for the stairs, but Mikey yelled a warning. I’d been so busy concentrating on not falling down the haystack that I hadn’t heard what was going on below. Joyce had, indeed, returned and, although I couldn’t see what she was doing, the smoke rising on one side of the building coupled with the sloshing and bumping sounds I heard from just beyond the stairs told me she was kindling her fire at the front of the barn. If we took the stairs, we’d run right into her.

  Mikey grabbed my hand, pulling me back toward the haystack away from the stairs.

  “Mikey, no, we can’t go back. We have to get out of here!”

  He clamped his hand tighter on mine and kept tugging. I was afraid if I pulled out of his grasp, he’d take off on me, panicked into running the wrong way like a wild animal darting toward a car’s headlights.

  “Come on!” he persisted. His face, when he turned to me, was set in grim determination. This wasn’t panic. He had an idea. I looked up at the bales of hay. Then, it came to me.

  “Mikey, is there a hay door up there?”

  “Yeah, come on!” He almost pulled my arm out of the socket.

  “Mikey, it’s three stories down! We can’t jump out of there!” But wouldn’t that be better than sitting on the floor waiting to burn?

  The smoke became more insistent and the wind outside seemed to be rising, too, a blowing, susurrant sigh that seemed to encompass the whole structure. I would have expected a breeze to dissipate the smoke. Instead, it hung suspended in dense veils, solid and unshifting. If anything, it seemed to be thickening.

  Because, of course, it wasn’t wind. It was fire.

  In the distance, sirens wailed.

  “ABOUT DAMN TIME!” I bellowed.

  But were they too late? A surge of resentment clouded my thinking. The one time I was ready to trust my life to the authorities, and they’d taken so long, it had turned into a weenie roast. I decided if it got too bad I could try to free-fall on top of a cop. At least my mom would have one small pleasure from my death, and it would serve them right for taking so damn long. Mikey scurried up the stack like a trained squirrel. I got about six feet before I remembered something.

  I dropped down, landi
ng with a thud that rattled my teeth and sent shooting sparks through my legs. Mikey’s worried face appeared over the edge of the topmost bales.

  “Go on,” I told him, waving him away. “Go find the door. Wait as long as you can for the police or firemen before you jump. They might be able to catch you.”

  He reached a hand over the side. “Come on! You’re gonna get burned up.”

  “I have to get Astrid. She’s hurt down there. I have to try. You go on. Get going!”

  His face scrunched up and he started to cry again. But he left.

  I headed back to the stairs, arguing with myself the whole way. I don’t even like Astrid. I didn’t like Regina, either, and look what happened. The closer I got to the stairs, the harder it got to see. And breathe. She probably isn’t even down there anymore. Maybe she crawled to safety. I took my shirt off, holding it to my face. I found the first stair by tapping forward with my foot, churning the billows with my frantic jabbing motions. This isn’t my job. I shouldn’t have to be doing this. The only thing I should be worrying about is myself … And Mikey. Okay, two things. Isn’t that enough? Do I have to save everyone?

  The farther down I went, the hotter it became. The heat and smoke became solid, a pressure, something I had to push against to get through. The big double doors were aflame. Tongues of fire flowed along the edges, biting and hissing at the century-old wood. More flames danced along the walls, racing up the timbers, sucking at the oxygen, and growing as they fed.

  I found Astrid by tripping over her body. I fumbled over her, blinded, eyes burning. Feeling my way to her face with hands that quickly grew sticky with blood. All I could hear was the fire, roaring now, an element of combustible rage.