by John Searles
Now, as he lies on the cold cement floor in the Erwins’ basement, Philip watches as the bird outside continues pecking at the ground. He looks around at the rows of makeshift support columns and at the shadowy lump of Gail’s body rising and falling with her every breath. He wants to do something to get them out of here, but what? Even if he could free himself, which he has been trying unsuccessfully to do for hours, he is far too afraid to face that monster at the top of the stairs.
He thinks of his mother again and remembers when they used to go to those daredevil shows at the old town airport where they later buried Ronnie. Watching those men walk out on the wings while the planes flew so high overhead used to frighten Philip, so she would take him to the car where they would wait until it was over. He can still recall how happy it made him to rest his head on her lap, especially when she wore one of her outfits that he liked best—a knee-length skirt covered with miniature daisies. To Philip, it was like lying in a field of flowers as he gazed up at her and she stroked his hair.
“Don’t be afraid,” she used to tell him on those occasions. “Everything will be okay.”
The memory makes Philip think of all the fears he has let hold him back in life. There was the panic he felt when faced with the bullying from Jedd and his friends so long ago. There was the dread about submitting any of his poems after that first round of rejection letters. There was the trepidation about going over and introducing himself to that man and woman with the baby who he used to see at Aggie’s Diner. (Philip always told himself he might work up the nerve to do it next time, but then, a little over a year ago, he showed up at the place to find that it was closed for good. He would never see those people again.) Finally, there was the anxiety that consumed him when faced with the prospect of seeking out a relationship. The reason, Philip supposes, is that he doesn’t want to be proven unworthy of someone’s love the way he had been by his parents.
And now there is the terror of trying to escape.
Don’t be afraid, his young mother says in his memory.
It’s a smart idea for you to face your fears, Donnelly tells him through the cab window on that very first day in New York.
Philip looks around the basement and decides to attempt something—anything—to get them both out of here. Even if there is only a slim chance that he will make it, he is going to try. Since he heard the rattle of chains on the storm doors last night as Bill Erwin locked it, Philip knows that is not an option. He sees his only choices as the window or the stairs that lead up into the house. When he considers exiting through the window, though, Philip realizes that it is too small and high off the floor for him to get up there and slide through. He settles on the idea that his only hope is to make it up the stairs and past Bill Erwin. The prospect brings a strangled feeling to his throat, but he only allows himself to focus on the first step of this plan: finding a way to free his hands and legs.
Across the room, not far from where Gail lies on the floor, there is the tool bench that Philip had seen from outside the window last night. If he can get over there, he might find something sharp to cut through the fishing wire. Slowly, Philip draws his body over to a wooden support column several feet away. With every push and pull, he is more aware of the battering Bill Erwin has done to his body. His shoulders ache. His arms are stiff. The wound on the back of his neck burns. It takes him a long while, but eventually he manages to stand, using the support post for leverage. A stray nail sticking out of the wood pricks his back, but the pain is slight compared to the agony he feels at the moment. Once he is standing, he shuffles, inch by inch, across the floor, listening to Bill Erwin’s footsteps pace back and forth above him. The sound brings the brief memory of Philip’s mother again. She is stomping her feet on the red and gold carpet in the library and raising her voice to imitate the monster, “Boom! Boom! Boom!”
Inch by inch, Philip shuffles across the floor, the bottom of his cast scraping against the cement, until he reaches the tool bench at last. It is so dark in this corner of the basement that he has to lean his face as close as possible to the jumbled pile of tools in order to see. He makes out some sort of a handled tray filled with screwdrivers, nails, and wrenches of all sizes. Beside it, there is a toolbox with the lid flipped open. Inside he sees a spool of wire, a spool of twine, a chisel, more screwdrivers, a greasy adjustable wrench, what looks to be a number of shiny fishing lures, and a pair of garden shears.
His eyes lock on the garden shears.
For a long moment, he stares at them, trying to devise a plan as to how he will maneuver the handle in order to cut the fishing wire around his wrists. He is at a loss, so he gives up and continues searching until he spots a small saw. This time Philip reaches out and runs the tangled clump of wire that binds his hands against the serrated edge. It’s no use, though. The saw is pushed away every time he applies pressure. He decides to pick it up with his elbows, figuring he might be able to secure it somewhere, then cut the wire. But just as he lifts it from the bench, the saw slips from his grasp. Philip moves to try to catch it, knocking two screwdrivers, those fishing lures, and some nails to the floor in a loud clatter.
Bill Erwin’s pacing comes to a sudden stop upstairs.
Only the sound of Gail’s ragged breaths fills the basement.
Philip looks up at the wooden slats of the floor above, his heart slamming in his chest as he waits. And then, to his relief, the pacing continues. He swallows, the synthetic taste of that wool sock scratching his dry mouth and throat. More than anything, he wants to free his mouth so that he doesn’t have to taste that sock anymore. With that thought, he remembers the nail jutting out from the wooden support beam, the one that pricked his back while he was trying to stand. He doubts it’s substantial enough to slice through all the fishing wire, but he wonders if he can at least cut through the duct tape over his mouth.
As quietly as he can, Philip moves back to that post. When he feels around for the nail, he realizes that there are actually several sticking out of the wood. He bends down and pushes the duct tape into one of the points, forming the tiniest opening. He drags the duct tape across the point, back and forth, until the opening begins to tear. Soon, he creates a tear large enough so that he can open his mouth—only slightly at first, but wider as the tape comes apart in the center.
Philip spits out the sock and gasps for breath.
His first instinct is to scream for help, but he holds back, since he doesn’t know who will hear him other than Bill Erwin. Instead Philip stands there, taking the chilly air into his lungs until he catches his breath. When he is ready, he returns to the tool bench and looks down at its surface once again. There are those garden shears, but he still has no idea how he can manipulate them, even now that he has the use of his mouth. He is about to try anyway when he spots that saw. This time Philip uses his teeth to pick it up. Clenching it in his mouth, he manages to sit down among those screwdrivers and nails and lures he dropped on the floor. Carefully, he positions the saw between his legs. Once it is secure, Philip runs the fishing wire back and forth against the edge until he feels it loosening.
The instant his hands are free, he reaches up and grabs those garden shears at last. A single snip slices through all the wire around the bottom of his legs. He goes to Gail Erwin and looks down at her blank white face. Her eyes are open, though when Philip speaks to her in the softest of voices, all she does is let out a faint groan. He presses his hand to her forehead and feels the heat of her skin, then glances at her swollen legs. There is no way she will be able to stand and walk out of here. And since Philip cannot carry her, he decides to try to get out first, then find help. He tells her his plan, then walks to the staircase and looks up at the door. From here, he can see the shadow of Bill Erwin’s footsteps in the small crack of light beneath when he passes. Just the sight causes Philip’s heart to race harder. His body feels older than its years, too broken to fight Erwin.
Don’t be afraid…
It’s a smart idea for you to f
ace your fears…
Philip stands there a long while, feeling the ache of his muscles and the sting of his skin where that wire had bound him. Finally he forces himself to return to the bench in search of a weapon. He locates a hammer and picks it up. He grabs a screwdriver, tucking it into his cast just in case. Even though he is still not certain he believes in God, Philip finds himself saying a prayer for the first time in ages. He prays for his safety. And he prays that if his brother Ronnie is indeed watching from some heaven after all, that he look upon Philip now. Donnelly too.
Once he is finished, Philip moves, one careful and awkward step at a time, up the staircase and toward the closed door. Halfway to the top, he pauses to be certain Bill Erwin hasn’t heard him. Philip tries to count the seconds it takes for the man to pace the room. There doesn’t seem to be any clear pattern, though, and Philip keeps going. At the top, he listens to the frantic, scattered mumbling on the other side.
“… Put them with the others… Don’t think of her as your wife… Think of her as the others… It will be easier… Put them with the others … Put them with the others…”
Philip knows that there is no more waiting. He also knows that the only thing he has on his side is the element of surprise. He must catch the man off guard then take him quickly, otherwise there is no hope of taking him at all. So the next time the shadow of boots come closer, Philip shoves open the door. The sudden explosion of noise and motion causes Erwin to stumble, and Philip whacks him in the chest with the hammer. The man staggers backward but does not fall. Philip steps into the living room, raises the hammer once more, and swings. But Erwin blocks it with his arm. Again Philip swings, bringing it down in a solid thud on his shoulder this time. A loud moan escapes Erwin’s mouth before he lunges forward. He locks his thick arms around Philip’s legs, and they both go tumbling across the room. The sheer weight of the man’s body causes Philip to collapse on the floor beside the blazing mouth of the fireplace. As he feels the heat of the burning logs near his skin, Philip realizes that he has dropped the hammer. In the seconds before Erwin stands and comes toward him again, Philip glances across the room and sees a faded John Deere cap on the wagon-wheel coffee table. Tucked inside is his cell phone. It is too far away for him to reach, however, and Erwin is standing above him now, holding the fireplace poker in his hands.
“You little prick,” he says and raises it above his head.
He’s about to bring it down when Philip reaches back and grabs a handful of ashes from the fireplace, throwing them in the man’s face. Erwin screams and presses his hands to his eyes, releasing the poker. It falls to the ground with a loud clank and Philip takes hold of it. There is no time for him to stand, so he swings with as much force as he can muster from his position on the floor. The hard iron of the poker cracks against the man’s boots, right at the ankles, knocking him off his feet and sending him crashing facedown onto the coffee table. The hat and the phone go flying as the legs of the table buckle. Erwin lands among the pieces of broken wood.
Quickly, Philip stands. He brings the poker down upon the solid mass of the man’s back, swinging once, twice, three times against his hulking frame. Each time Erwin releases another loud moan, but soon the moaning stops.
The room grows quiet.
In the sudden stillness, Philip finds it hard to breathe. His hands shake as he steps away from the broken table and Bill Erwin’s body on the floor. He limps to the basement door and calls down to Gail. “If you can hear me, I’ll be back for you. You’re going to be okay. I promise.”
Philip grabs his cell phone among the rubble, dropping the poker. He walks unsteadily to the front door and steps out into the glaring light of this winter morning. His eyes have been in darkness for so long that he has to hold one hand to his forehead in order to see. He is not sure what to do next, so he staggers over to Melissa’s house. The door is locked, so he bangs on it, still gasping for breath. As Philip waits for her to open up, he reaches down and presses the On button of his cell. His thumb is shaking, but he doesn’t miss a single button when he presses 9–1–1.
“Melissa!” he calls, pounding his fist against the door as he waits for the call to go through.
Behind him, a voice says, “There’s nobody home.”
Slowly, Philip turns and sees him: Bill Erwin standing outside the front door of his house, his shoulders slumped, his gray hair falling down in front of his haggard face, blood streaked across his chin and hands, down near the cuffs of his pants.
“This is the emergency operator, how can I help you?”
Philip’s eyes go to the phone. He knows the police won’t get here in time to save him, so he makes the impulsive decision to run as fast as he possibly can to the only place he thinks might be safe for a while. Philip goes toward the vacant house at the edge of the woods. When Bill sees where he is headed, he doesn’t follow right away. Instead, he waits as Philip steps into the shadowy darkness of that abandoned cabin, slamming the door behind him.
“This is the emergency operator, how can I help you?”
Philip’s hands quiver uncontrollably now. It is all he can do not to drop the phone as he lifts it to his ear. His voice is hoarse, his words come out clumped and broken, as he whispers, “I. Am at Thirty-two. Monk’s Hill. Road. In Radnor Pennsylvania. Someone is trying to kill me.”
The operator says she is notifying the local police department, but she needs him to stay on the line and give her more information. Philip repeats the address. He tells her that someone has already been badly injured. A woman. Gail Erwin. It’s her husband who is after Philip now. The operator continues to question him, urging Philip to stay on the line, but he presses the Off button. Philip stands by the door, listening for Erwin’s footsteps outside. The only sound to be heard comes from those snapping sheets of plastic. He looks around him and sees that the layout of this house is almost identical to Melissa’s. But here the peeling walls are covered with graffiti. The ceiling sags so much that it looks as though it might give way any minute. And there, in the center of the room, he sees an enormous hole in the floor where it must have collapsed.
Philip takes a step closer to the edge of that gaping hole, peering down into the absolute darkness of the crawlspace below. Something about the black void down there sends a violent shudder through his body. Slowly, he steps away. With his back to the window, he waits. Staring at the door. Not knowing what he will do when Erwin steps through it. But just then the wide metal end of a shovel slams through the plastic behind him. In an instant, the room goes from darkness to light. Philip whirls around and sees Bill Erwin on the other side. The man reaches in and swings the shovel like a baseball bat, slicing the air in front of Philip’s face. When he swings again, Philip takes a step backward. As he does, the boards by the edge of that crater in the floor give way and he drops three feet into the crawlspace below.
Now that the cabin is filled with light, Philip can see the dirt and rocks around him. And that’s when he spots them: two empty holes, the perfect size for human bodies, to each side of where he landed on his back against the cold hard earth.
Put them with the others…
Above him, he hears the door creak open. Philip remembers that screwdriver tucked in his cast just in case. He reaches down and grips the ridged plastic handle, staring up at the tattered sheets of plastic hanging by the window, as the footsteps get closer and closer. The instant Erwin’s shadow eclipses the hole in the floor Philip hears their voices.
“Philip!”
It is his mother outside.
“Philip!”
Though it cannot be, he thinks he hears his father too.
“I’m down here!” he screams.
And then comes the faintest of sirens. The sounds cause Bill Erwin to drop the shovel. He turns and his footsteps slam through the doorway. As the high-pitched wail grows louder in the distance, so do the voices of Philip’s parents. Again Philip calls, “I’m down here!” Instead of waiting for them to find him, he st
ruggles to a standing position, leveraging his aching body against the rotted floorboards and lifting himself out of that hole. A moment later, he limps outside to see his mother and father coming around the back of Melissa’s house. “I’m here,” he calls out, though his mother has already spotted him. She rushes across the yard and wraps both her arms around Philip with so much force and love that she just about knocks him down again. His father does the same.
“You’re alive,” Charlene says in a breathless voice into his ear, stroking his hair the way she used to do those long-ago days at the airfield. “I’m so happy you’re alive.”
As she repeats those words again and again, Philip squeezes both his parents tight. He gazes over their shoulders at a faint but certain trail of blood leading off into the woods. The sirens grow louder still, and Philip turns his eyes upward toward the spindly treetops. The branches are empty. Those birds—those strange dark birds—have all flown away.
Acknowledgments
Before Boy Still Missing was published, another novelist told me that he always found it best to begin a new book before the current one came out. I took that advice and started writing immediately. Two years later, the story was nearly done, but it hadn’t come together as I had hoped. Then, on a rainy April night, I was riding the subway home from work when the idea for Strange but True came to me. The moment I got to my apartment, I began writing in longhand, and in three weeks I produced a very rough draft on twenty-three pads of paper. I spent the rest of the spring, summer, and fall transcribing, rewriting, and revising, telling almost no one what I was up to.
The morning the book was due, I arrived at my editor’s office with the manuscript in hand and the feeling that it might have been slightly more professional to let her know sooner that I had put aside the novel I was under contract to write. So at the top of my list of thank-yous is my editor, Carolyn Marino—first for not throwing me out of her office that day; second for responding passionately to this story and caring so deeply for these characters that I sprang on her without warning. Her careful editing of this story helped more than I can ever say. I am also grateful to the rest of the gang at William Morrow/HarperCollins, especially Michael Morrison, Lisa Gallagher, Sharyn Rosenblum, Debbie Stier, Jennifer Civiletto, Jane Friedman, Cathy Hemming, Julia Bannon, Sam Hagerbaumer, and Michele Corallo, who all treat me with such kindness and make the publishing process fun.
