All the Way Home

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Then she bolts out the back door into the pouring rain.

  “We have to name her, Lou,” Michelle says suddenly, turning her head away from the window beside her bed. The rain is coming down in sheets, driven by strong gusts of wind, and all she’s been able to think is that her precious Ozzie is out there someplace, terrified, wanting his mommy.

  And she’s helpless to do anything about it.

  If she thinks any more about that she’ll go crazy, so she’s trying to focus on the baby, her tiny daughter, who is curled up, asleep, in the see-­through Isolette at the foot of the bed.

  “I know we have to name her,” Lou replies from the chair by the window. He, too, has been staring desolately out at the storm.

  “We should really do it soon.”

  “I know. The nurse asked about it earlier, and I told her we just couldn’t deal with it right now. But . . . we should.”

  Michelle sighs heavily, wincing as her stomach muscles painfully strain her incision.

  Ozzie is frightened and alone. Ozzie needs her. Where is he?

  Or is he even alive?

  A sob escapes her throat.

  “Do you have any ideas?” Lou asks, looking at her, telling her with his eyes that she can’t lose it now. She has to hang in there. For the baby’s sake.

  “Ideas?” she echoes morosely, struggling to focus. “For names?”

  “For names.” He nods, obviously as distracted as she is.

  “No. No, I don’t have any ideas.” Numb, she remembers how they had laughed over the process of naming Ozzie.

  “How about Rainbow, Michelle?”

  “Nah. Sounds too . . .”

  “Feminine?”

  “Yeah, and . . .”

  “Flower-­childish?”

  “Exactly.”

  How long ago those giddy days of her first pregnancy seem.

  “Why don’t you just name her, Lou,” Michelle says, turning her head on the pillow so he won’t see the tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Actually, I have a name picked out. I think you’ll like it.”

  “What is it?” she asks hollowly, staring at the empty bed next to her, not caring.

  “Joy,” he says.

  “Joy?”

  Her mother’s name.

  Touched, despite her grief over Ozzie, she turns toward her husband. “It’s perfect, Lou.”

  He nods.

  “Joy,” she says tentatively, looking toward her sleeping newborn daughter.

  Joy . . .

  Something Michelle is convinced she’ll never experience again.

  Russell Anghardt’s steel-­toed boots make a clumping sound on the steep old wooden steps leading down two flights to the secret basement room that had once been used to conceal slaves.

  Very clever, the way the bookcase swings open to reveal the hidden panel hiding the entrance.

  Very convenient, the way the room is outfitted with shackles, a common fixture in rooms used for the underground railroad. If anyone ever approached the secret room, the fugitive slaves would hurriedly slip into the shackles, and the ­people hiding them would escape hanging by claiming to have captured the runaway slaves and imprisoning them with the intent of returning them to their southern owners.

  The girl illuminated in the flashlight’s beam is poking along the second flight of stairs, taking much too long.

  “Get down there.”

  She flinches at the harsh order. “I’m going. There’s no railing, and I don’t want to fall,” she whimpers, clinging to the stone wall as she takes another step down.

  “Oh, please. Do you know how many times I’ve had to lug things up and down these stairs? Heavy things. Like you. And I’ve never fallen. Get movin’. That sister of yours is gonna be here any second.”

  Might as well poke her in the back with your gun for effect, even though you have no intention of shooting her. That wouldn’t be any fun. Too neat, and over too fast.

  But the girl doesn’t know that. All you had to do was point that gun at her, and she’d been willing to do anything you asked. Even call her sister from the upstairs phone and repeat everything you told her to say, word for word.

  “Please, I’m going. Please don’t shoot me.”

  Finally, they’ve reached the heavy, rough-­hewn wooden door leading to the long, narrow dungeonlike room that runs along one side of the old house’s foundation.

  “Get inside.”

  “What are you going to do to Rory?”

  “Shut up. Get your hands back into those shackles, Carleen.”

  “But I’m not—­”

  “Shut your mouth! Hurry up.”

  “Please don’t hurt Rory.”

  “Shut up!”

  The girl’s jaw clamps closed and she allows herself to be securely locked into the wrist and ankle cuffs once again. But that damn bratty little kid has woken up again and is crying for his mother.

  No time to silence him now.

  No, I have to hurry back upstairs for our little reunion. Rory will be here any second . . . and will she ever be surprised to see me!

  Rory turns the knob on the back door of the Randall house and finds it unlocked.

  Strange.

  Her heart is pounding as she steps into the kitchen and, after pausing only briefly, pulls the door closed behind her. Instantly, the roar of the summer storm is muffled.

  The house is silent.

  Rory is about to call her sister’s name when she realizes that wouldn’t be wise. Whoever is holding Molly prisoner might be here.

  But she managed to call me.

  If she could do that, get to a phone and call, why couldn’t she just escape and run home?

  It doesn’t make sense.

  But Rory can’t stop to dwell on that. All she knows is that her sister had sounded petrified, and that she’d begged Rory to come.

  She clutches the handle of the butcher knife in the folds of her untucked button-­down shirt, moving tentatively across the kitchen floor.

  Molly had said she was being held in a secret room behind Ozzie’s bookcase.

  That means it’s in Emily’s old room.

  Rory opts again for the back stairs located just off the kitchen, moving up them as quietly as possible. Every time a floorboard creaks, she freezes, listening.

  There’s never any sound.

  Whoever is holding Molly prisoner must have left the house, she tries to reassure herself. And there must be a good reason Molly could make a phone call, but not escape. Maybe she’s tied up.

  Then how did she dial?

  Maybe just her legs are bound.

  Then how did she get to a phone?

  It doesn’t make sense.

  None of this makes sense.

  But Rory can’t stop to ponder the situation.

  Molly needs me.

  She arrives at the top of the stairs. The shadowy hallway looks empty.

  She makes her way along it toward the open door to the room at the head of the stairs, knowing even as she does that this is crazy. She should have told someone where she was going. She should have told the police.

  But Molly said not to bring the police. She must be worried that they’d show up with sirens wailing and storm the house. That means her captor must be nearby.

  Panic builds inside her as she steps across the threshold of the little boy’s bedroom. It’s dimly lit by the Barney night-­light and the shaft of dismal gray light falling through the rain-­splattered window.

  Poised, she looks around, seeing seemingly sinister expressions on the faces of the nursery rhyme characters on the wall, finding an eeriness in the night-­light’s violet glow, sensing foreboding in the bookcase with its rows of benign children’s classics.

  She moves toward the book
case, noticing that it’s slightly askew. Yes, one end is bumped out on an angle from the wall. With trembling hands, Rory reaches toward it and gives a tug. There’s a faint scraping noise as it swings toward her to reveal a flat panel fitted into the wall.

  She hesitates, staring at it, wondering why the bookcase wasn’t left closed, making it impossible for someone to know about the hidden panel. It’s as though someone deliberately left it ajar, wanting the secret room to be easily accessed.

  Who had done it?

  It must have been Molly. She would have had to come out to use the telephone, wouldn’t she? Surely there’s no extension in whatever room is concealed beyond the bookcase, Rory tells herself, finding the notion ridiculous.

  And yet, this whole scenario is bizarre.

  Why, if Molly had been able to come out to use the phone, would she have gone back into the room? Why wouldn’t she have made a run for home?

  Befuddled, Rory has no idea what to expect as she reaches out and tugs on a slightly raised edge of the panel. It comes loose, and she is able to pull the rectangular piece right out of the wall, revealing a narrow opening.

  “My God,” she breathes softly, staring into the blackness on the other side.

  A musty smell has spilled into the room. Musty, and damp.

  I should have stopped to grab a flashlight, she thinks, clutching the handle of her knife as she bends forward to stick her head into the hole.

  It takes a moment for her eyes to focus. The dim light from the room behind her spills in so that she can just make out a steep, narrow staircase leading downward, shrouded in dust and cobwebs. Someplace overhead the rain beats a relentless staccato, and the wind gusts outside, rustling the trees.

  I’m out of my mind, Rory realizes as she stoops and steps into the opening, then stares at the steps leading downward, disappearing into the shadows.

  I can’t do this. I should go back, get to a phone, call the police.

  But Molly told me not to bring the police.

  Molly begged me to hurry.

  Her life is in danger.

  She needs me, and I can’t let her down.

  Her breath catching in her throat, Rory begins the long, slow journey down into blackness.

  “Barrett?”

  He looks up from the hard cot with its stained mattress, where he’s been sitting, brooding, since his lawyer left hours ago.

  Now Jack is back, still looking unrumpled and crisp in his Armani suit, in marked contrast to the guard in his sweat-­wilted uniform.

  “Jack!” Barrett leaps up from the cot to hurry over to the bars. “Can you bail me out now?”

  “Not just yet, Barrett,” the lawyer says, and his spirits sink. “You’re still being denied bail.”

  “This is ridiculous! Can’t they check out my alibi? I didn’t kill the guy!”

  “They’re looking into your alibi,” Jack says in a calming tone. “But try to be patient, Barrett. This is going to be a long process. Right now, you’re their prime suspect.”

  “Just because I asked a few questions about the guy?”

  “This is a small southern town, Barrett. You’re an outsider. A well-­dressed Yankee comes snooping around, asking nosy questions about one of the locals, and ­people are going to be suspicious . . . especially when the person in question turns up brutally murdered.”

  “I know all that,” Barrett says impatiently. “But I swear I didn’t kill the guy. Besides, you said they weren’t even sure it was him.”

  “I just came from the medical examiner’s office. They’ve made a positive ID. That body definitely belongs to Russell Anghardt. And there’s something else I found out . . .”

  John Kline sighs in relief as he makes a right-­hand turn off Broadway into the hotel’s congested parking lot.

  It’s taken him over six hours to make what should have been a three-­ or four-­hour drive to New York City from Lake Charlotte.

  It’s the weather, responsible for a number of accidents along the thruway, and hopelessly snarling traffic as he drew closer and closer to the city.

  He’s missed the morning session of the conference, he thinks, glancing at the clock on the dashboard as he reaches down to eject the cassette tape from the stereo console. But at least he finished that Michael Crichton book on tape that Nancy had bought him last Christmas. He’s been trying to get through it for months, but hasn’t had the opportunity to make a long drive. Normally he prefers to listen to news radio on a car trip, but Nancy had convinced him to try this instead.

  “You never read anymore, John,” she’d said when she handed him the box of cassette tapes on his way out the door at dawn. “Here, take this. It’ll relax you.”

  Sure, he thinks wryly, I’m as relaxed as a person can he after a six-­hour drive on jammed, rain-­slicked roads.

  He steps out of the car, grateful for the awning overhead that keeps him from getting soaked.

  “Is this rain ever going to let up?” he asks the valet, handing over the keys.

  “Doesn’t look like it, sir.”

  John goes around to the trunk to grab his trench coat, briefcase, and overnight bag. If he hurries, he’ll have time before the next session to check into his room and make a quick call home to tell Nancy he made it in one piece.

  Molly hears the footsteps slowly approaching, one creaky step at a time.

  It’s Rory. She knows it’s Rory.

  She’s walking right into the trap.

  Oh, Rory, why did you have to listen to me? Couldn’t you tell I was being forced to say those things? You had to know it was dangerous to come over here alone. Why would you risk your own life to do what I asked?

  Molly turns her head, glances at Rebecca chained to the wall beside her, her face clearly visible in the ghostly glow of a flickering lantern. That’s not all that’s visible. But Molly’s trying not to look at the macabre spectacle on the floor, only inches from her feet. Or at the other two occupants of the cell.

  Rebecca’s eyes are wide behind her glasses, filled with terror. She and Molly exchange a glance.

  Don’t do it, Rebecca warns.

  Believe me, I won’t, Molly’s assures.

  They both know what will happen if Molly cries out to warn her sister.

  Sick with fear, she shifts her gaze to their wild-­eyed captor, and the gun being held to a whimpering Ozzie’s white-­blond curls.

  “She’s hungry,” Patty, the nurse, says, carefully lifting the sobbing baby from her isolette. She turns to Michelle. “Do you want to try nursing her?”

  Michelle hesitates.

  “It’s all right,” the nurse says. “We can take her down to the nursery and they’ll give her another bottle. Sometimes it’s hard for a C-­section patient to breast-­feed.”

  What she doesn’t say is that it isn’t just last night’s surgery that’s crippling Joy’s mother, making her unable to do more than lie here staring into space.

  It isn’t fair to her, Michelle realizes, her baby’s cries causing something to twist in her gut. Poor little thing. She’s so new, and so tiny, and she needs her mommy.

  She glances at Lou, still sitting in the chair by the window.

  He nods at her, silently telling her that it’s okay, she doesn’t have to feel guilty if she allows the nurse to take the fussy baby away.

  She remembers how she’d kept Ozzie with her every possible moment after he was born, gladly waking to put him to her breast every time he made the slightest whimper.

  She looks at the baby again, her little face bright red with fury.

  “I’ll nurse her,” she tells the nurse, holding out her achingly empty arms.

  Rory has reached the bottom of the stairs, two treacherous, endless flights down into the depths of the house, only to reach a dead end.

  There’s nothing but a wall in front
of her, she realizes as she runs her hands over the rough, clammy wood. Then her fingers catch on something—­a cold metal ring. It isn’t a wall, she realizes, pulling on the ring. It’s a door.

  She steps back, pulling it slowly open, her heart seeming to thunder in her ears so that she can’t hear her own ragged breathing.

  A spooky, flickering light spills through the opening.

  It’s a candle, or a lantern or something, and this is a room.

  Rory peers warily inside, standing her ground, petrified of what will happen if she steps over the threshold. But she can see nothing from here, nothing but a stone wall a few feet away.

  Molly.

  1 have to get to Molly.

  It’s the only thing that spurs her forward; the certain, chilling knowledge that her sister is in trouble.

  She takes a step forward, and then another.

  She turns her head.

  “Molly?”

  She gapes in horror at the sight before her.

  Her sister, arms and legs shackled, chained to the stone wall in a grotesque contortion.

  And beside her, Rebecca Wasner, in an identical pose . . .

  She starts toward them, sobbing, “My God, who—­”

  “Hello, Rory. So glad you could join us.”

  She stops short, paralyzed at the sound of that voice.

  It slams into her and instantly erases the ten years since she last heard it.

  “Surprised, Rory?”

  She turns then, slowly, to look into the demented eyes of Emily Anghardt.

  Michelle strokes her baby’s soft black fuzz, marveling at how small her head is, how perfect her features are, how hungrily she suckles at her mother’s breast. There’s a strange feeling of contentment stealing over her despite her anxiety over Ozzie; an age-­old bond being established between mother and newborn.

  She looks up to see Lou in his chair, watching her, tears in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Michelle,” he says unexpectedly. “I’m so sorry for the way I’ve treated you lately.”

  “Oh, Lou . . .”

  “I’ve been stressed about work, and the house, and the baby coming, and I took it out on you, and I’m sorry.” The words come in a rush.