by Blake Pierce
She drew herself away from the other trembling captives and looked at them. They looked like little more the skeletons with skin stretched over their bones. Their eyes were deep and vacant. She wondered how long it would be before she was as wasted away as they were.
She shuddered as she remembered how their captor had killed the other girl when the clocks had struck twelve before. By her count, the killing had been over a full day ago. Just a snap of the neck was all that it took. She and these others were certain to share that fate sooner or later. They were probably overdue for it.
She felt what little was left of her energy ebb away. She lowered her head and cried, her sobs forcing their way painfully up through her throat.
Then she heard a rasping voice say, “Stop that.”
Meara looked up. One of the girls—the one named Kimberly—was staring at her with a renewed determination.
“Stop crying like a baby,” she said. “I’m sick of crying. I’m sick of doing nothing. We’ve got to get out of here.”
Meara was stunned. She couldn’t make sense of this. Kimberly was so wasted away that she could barely move at all. The one named Elise was even more emaciated and often seemed to be barely conscious.
“But how?” Meara asked Kimberly.
“You’re the one who’s still got some strength,” Kimberly said, croaking the words out with enormous effort. “You could still run for help.”
She looked right at her, and she had never seen more passion in anyone’s look, her eyes burning with intention, demanding.
“You could save us all.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Meara struggled to grasp what Kimberly was saying. Could it be possible? Was there a chance of getting out of this hell?
The other two girls had already been here when Meara was brought to this place. They had seemed completely resigned to their fate. And Meara had combed over every inch of their cage. The walls were solid, and the posts holding the strong chain-link fence were bolted to the floor and the ceiling.
“How?” Meara asked. “No windows. No doors. No openings at all on this side of the fence.”
Kimberly shakily raised a cadaverous finger and pointed toward the ceiling.
“Up there,” she said.
Meara looked up. It wasn’t the first time she’d noticed the ventilation pipe in the ceiling, about ten feet above their heads. It was hard to see in the constant dim light that came from the other side of the fence. Sometimes faint light showed through it, but they couldn’t tell what was beyond it.
But it was clear that the pipe wasn’t big enough for a person to fit through, not even an emaciated girl. It couldn’t be more than eight inches wide.
“You said that Chelsea tried to get out there,” Meara said.
“She said she did,” Kimberly said. “But she wasn’t making much sense.”
“Chelsea is dead,” whispered Elise weakly, as if to herself. “Little Chelsea is dead now.”
“If we don’t do something, we’ll all be dead,” Kimberly said.
Meara knew almost nothing about where they were. The windowless cinderblock walls and the solid concrete ceiling told her that it must be a basement. So there could be a whole house—a house where their captor lived—above their heads or very nearby. Even if they could manage the grueling feat of getting through the vent, they’d surely find themselves in his house or some other building. The noise alone would be enough to get his attention.
“It’s our last hope,” Kimberly said. “The next time he comes back, he’ll probably kill one of us.”
Did Meara see Elise nod in agreement? It was hard to tell. The poor girl, her face scarred from beatings from the whip, looked barely alive.
Meara looked up at the vent pipe. “Can we get up there?” she asked. “We’re all weak.”
“I’m too weak,” Kimberly croaked. “Elise is too weak. You’ve still got some strength. It’s up to you. Get through there yourself. Then get help. Get us out.”
Meara was almost afraid to hope. But now she felt a burden of terrible responsibility toward her two fellow captives. It felt like more than she could bear.
And yet she couldn’t disagree with Kimberly. How could she pass up the only possibility of escape, no matter how dim? And whatever danger might face her up above, could it really be worse than what she’d endured already—the beatings, the starvation, the total degradation?
She looked around. She saw only one way to get to the ceiling, and that was to climb up the chain-link fence. She braced herself for the unimaginable effort. Then she clutched the links with her fingers, painfully pulling herself up little by little. She felt Kimberly’s hands trying to help, pushing weakly against her. Soon she was completely off the floor, inserting her feet into the openings in the fence, making her way slowly upward. Kimberly’s feeble hands steadied her legs.
Finally Meara reached the top of the fence. The vent was a couple of feet away. She saw that the pipe was set into a metal plate that appeared to be screwed into the concrete itself. How could she possibly unscrew it?
Gripping the chain links with one hand, she reached out with the other and slipped her fingernails between the metal plate and the ceiling. She tugged and thought she felt a little give. The idea of ripping the vent loose seemed impossible. But she had to try.
She pulled with all the strength she had and felt a little space open up between the metal and the concrete.
With a cry of despair, Meara let go of the wire fence and clawed at the metal plate with both hands. She was falling, but a horrible rending sound told her that something had definitely come loose. She felt her body slam into Kimberly’s, and then she hit the floor. All around her metal banged and clanked into the concrete floor amid a shower of dirt and pebbles.
Everything was quiet for long moments, and then she heard Kimberly groan. Meara was dazed and in pain, her arms battered from the fall and her fingernails badly torn. But she could see what she had pulled loose scattered all around her. The vent pipe lay broken on the floor, looking rather like a smashed periscope. It was surrounded by other metal scraps, dirt, rocks, and clusters of weeds.
What on earth … ? Meara wondered.
Then she heard Kimberly gasp out, “Look!”
Kimberly was lying on the floor in the middle of the debris, pointing up. Elise was sitting a few feet away, staring upward. When Meara looked up, she could hardly believe her eyes.
Through the square hole she could see a grayish sky. Now she understood. The vent didn’t connect up into the house or any other building. It opened straight into the outdoors. She’d been wrong all along in thinking that they were imprisoned in a basement. Instead, it seemed to be some kind of underground bunker. And it must be very early morning.
Kimberly said, “You can get out! Go!”
“Are you hurt?” Meara asked her.
“Not much,” Kimberly replied. “Can you stand up?”
Meara got slowly to her feet. Yes, she could stand up. She could walk. For the first time in days, she dared to hope.
With renewed strength, she clambered back up the fence. Hanging onto it with her left hand, she reached upward through the opening with her right, clawing and pawing at the grass and dirt outside.
Soon she felt her fingers catch fast to some roots. She held tight and swung her other hand up, groping until it caught hold of roots as well. With more strength than she thought she possessed, she pulled herself up through the opening and out into the damp morning air.
She saw that she was in a small clearing in a wooded area. Beyond that, she had no idea where she might be.
She looked back down into the hole and saw Kimberly looking up hopefully. Elise still didn’t seem to understand what had happened.
“Come on up,” Meara said, reaching down through the opening.
“I can’t,” Kimberly said.
“I’ll help you.”
Kimberly looked up at her with sunken, desperate eyes.
“You’ll
never be able to pull me out,” she said. “And not Elise either.” Then she rubbed one arm. “I can’t climb the fence.”
Meara’s pulse was pounding.
“I can’t just leave you here,” she said.
“You’ve got to,” Kimberly said. “Go get help. Tell the police. They can come save us. Make it fast.”
Meara hated to leave her two companions behind, but she knew that she had no choice. She stood up, almost fainting from weakness. She looked all around. To one side she saw a well-beaten path leading through the wooded area. She could see the lighted windows of houses beyond it.
She stumbled in that direction until she heard a distant door slam.
Is that him? she wondered. Is he coming back?
She looked down at the path. This could be the very path that he used to come and go. If she followed it, she might wind up in his clutches.
She turned the other way. Another less used path led out among the trees. She couldn’t see houses or anything else in that direction. Even so, the path had to lead somewhere. It had to lead to people.
She staggered along the path, feeling weaker and dizzier with every step. She wasn’t sure how long she could stay on her feet, and she felt badly disoriented. Her vision blurred, and she couldn’t see clearly. Weeds and branches battered her, snatching at her hair and ragged clothes.
Then to her relief, she felt the thick underbrush end in another open space.
Where am I? she wondered.
She lurched forward and felt hard pavement beneath her feet. She’d reached the edge of a highway. She looked back and forth but saw no traffic. She had no idea which way to go. She chose a direction and staggered on her way.
Her head was swimming more and more. It was getting harder to see clearly or even to stay on her feet. She was too weak to go on.
Don’t give up, she told herself. Don’t give up!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Scratch stared up at the early morning sunlight coming in through the broken ceiling. He’d seen the ragged hole from outside, but he hadn’t been able to make himself believe it. Now he could see that the cage was littered with dirt and rubble. One girl—the freshest one, the Irish one—was missing, and the other two were huddled together staring at him fearfully.
Grandpa was furious. “Look how you botched it this time!” he said. “How could you let a thing like this happen?”
“I didn’t know it needed repair,” Scratch pleaded.
“Hell, do I have to tell you every damn thing to do?”
Scratch couldn’t stop staring at the hole in the ceiling. In his mind, Grandpa ranted on.
“You’ve got to get to work. You’ve got to get this place fixed up. Tight as a drum, I’m telling you.”
“I’ll fix it,” Scratch said.
“Damn right, you’ll fix it. You’ll have to haul this wreckage topside. Then you’ll have to mix up a batch of cement in the garage. Understand what I’m saying so far?”
“I understand,” he muttered.
“I can’t hear you,” Grandpa said.
“I said I understand!” Scratch said, almost angry with Grandpa now. He started pushing together the heavy debris.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Grandpa said.
Scratch stopped, his shoulders sagging wearily.
“What should I do?” he pleaded.
“First you’ve got to find the girl. Find her before somebody else does, before she gets a chance to talk.”
At that moment, the clocks started to strike seven. Scratch snatched up the cat o’ nine tails and entered the cage. He stood over the two captives threateningly.
“Where is she?” he said. “Where did she go?”
One of the girls barely seemed to be conscious. The other was trying to scream, but she was too weak to make much noise. The din from the clocks started to die away.
“I asked you a question!” he shouted.
He struck wildly at them with the whip. But instead of turning away, the one who looked stronger just stared at him defiantly.
“She went for the police,” she said.
Scratch grabbed her by the hair and stared into her hollow eyes.
“She what?” he yelled.
“The police! They’re coming! It’s all over for you, you sick son of a bitch!”
Scratch slashed the whip at her again. Then he turned and rushed out through the gate. He locked it carefully behind him. Then Scratch remembered the gaping hole.
“But the other girls …” Scratch began.
“Leave them for now. They’re too weak to get out. They’re too weak to scream even. Now get moving!”
Scratch ran up the stairs into the open area above the shelter. He could see footprints leading away from the hole, toward a nearby path.
“That’s where she went,” he told Grandpa, pointing.
Scratch took off down the little-worn path, branches and brush hitting him all over. The path ended after a few yards at the edge of the highway. He looked up and down. There wasn’t any morning traffic yet, and he saw no sign of the girl.
“I don’t know which way she went from here,” Scratch said.
But there was no reply. Grandpa never spoke anywhere but in the house and in the fallout shelter.
Scratch was fighting down wave upon wave of panic.
He ran back toward his house to get his car. Grandpa was right. He had to find the girl who had escaped.
And when he did, he would kill her right away.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Riley took a sip of tea, then looked at her watch. It was 9:30 a.m.
I ought to be on my way back to Delaware by now, she thought anxiously.
Instead, she was sitting in Mike Nevins’s office in Washington, DC. Mike was a forensic psychiatrist who frequently consulted the FBI. Riley had known him for more than a decade.
Mike had been a great help to her over the years, and not just on murder cases. He’d helped get her through her PTSD after her ordeal in Peterson’s cage.
Riley reminded herself that Bill didn’t actually expect her back this morning. She’d called him for an update last night, and he’d assured her that there had been no new developments on the case. They both agreed that there would probably be a hiatus between killings.
Meanwhile, Riley had plenty of worries of a more personal nature. So last night she had gotten in touch with Mike, who said it would be okay for her to come by this morning. April had seemed all right when Riley had dropped her off at school this morning, and Gabriela knew that Riley was planning to drive on down to Delaware from here.
“I’m sorry to bother you about all this,” she told him. “I mean, family counseling is a little outside your area of expertise.”
“It’s okay,” Mike said, sitting back in his chair and chuckling a little. “It gives me a chance to stretch my skills.”
Mike was a dapper, charming little man who always wore an expensive shirt with a vest. Riley liked him a lot and considered him to be one of her closest friends.
“I shouldn’t be here,” she said. “I’ve got a killer to catch in Delaware. But I’m scared to leave right now. I feel like April’s really on the brink of some crisis.”
“I understand,” Mike said. “I remember what happened last time.”
Riley knew that Mike was referring to April’s last breakdown. April had been on a week-long school field trip in Washington, DC. when she’d suffered a terrible attack of PTSD. Her ex-husband refused to be bothered, and Riley had been in Arizona working on a case. She’d almost gotten fired for rushing back to help her daughter. Was all that going to happen all over again?
“Hasn’t Dr. Sloat been helpful?” Mike asked.
Mike had referred April to Dr. Lesley Sloat, a stout, good-hearted therapist that both Riley and April liked.
“I thought she was helping,” Riley said. “But April blew off her appointment yesterday—right after cutting her afternoon classes at school.”
Mike scratc
hed his chin thoughtfully.
“Fifteen is a tough age,” he said. “Normally the worst would be behind her. But her situation has hardly been normal. Not many girls her age have been locked in a cage and tormented by a psychopath. Add to that some less unusual stressors, like her parents’ divorce, and she’s bound to still be having problems.”
Riley sighed worriedly.
“I can get inside the minds of psychotic killers, but my own daughter’s a mystery.”
Mike chuckled again.
“Well, a teenager’s mind is as much of a mystery as any psychopath’s,” he said. “They’re going through so much developmental change that they don’t even understand themselves. They’re physically mature with an immature brain.”
“That’s not very encouraging,” Riley said.
“I wish I had better news.”
Riley and Mike fell silent for a moment.
“What else are you worried about?” Mike asked.
“Her judgment, for one thing. She’s got a new boyfriend, but I don’t know anything about him, and so far she won’t bring him around so I can meet him.”
Mike leaned forward in his chair and looked at her with concern.
“I’m afraid you’re talking circles around the real problem,” he said.
“And what’s that?” Riley said.
“I think you know.”
Riley’s throat tightened up. She did know. And it was hard for her to say it out loud. But if she didn’t get it out, this would be a wasted visit. Both she and Mike knew that.
“I feel helpless, Mike,” she said. “Helpless and inadequate. I feel like everything I do is wrong. I just can’t do it. I can’t be a mother and an FBI agent. They’re both too consuming. There’s not enough time for both. There’s not enough of me.”
Mike nodded.
“There,” he said. “Now we’re getting down to business. Well, clearly you think you’re doing something wrong. That means you could be doing something better, something different. What might that be?”
Riley didn’t reply. The question completely stumped her.
