NOW
THE TUNNEL ETHAN had chosen for himself and Cynthia had made a wide arc and subtly descended. It was that arc that had brought Cynthia around to where Martin was waiting.
Had he not fallen through the floor, he never would have known the tunnels overlapped.
“Martin, is that you?” Cynthia shouted as she approached.
Martin stood up. With Cynthia’s headlamp shining toward him, he was once again able to see the hole he had fallen through. “Yeah! It’s me!”
She hurried forward as fast as she could, being careful not to trip, and hugged him. “What are you doing here? Is this a loop we found?” Then her words came faster. She was panicking. “When we found that fork, did it just take us into one big loop?”
“No,” Martin said, and pointed upward. “I fell through that hole.” Cynthia looked up and then back at him. She was wide-eyed and scared. “What’s wrong? Where’s Ethan?”
“He tried to rape me. He started talking crazy, saying all of us weren’t going to get out of here alive, and then he tried to rape me. Martin, what’s the matter with him?”
Then Martin was aware of a second flicker of light, this one behind Cynthia. Ethan’s flashlight. He jerked his head around to examine their only means of escape. The tunnel that connected to the other side of this narrow cavern looked passable.
“There’s no time to talk about this right now,” he said, scooping up the backpack. “Ethan’s coming.” Then he grabbed Cynthia’s arm, and they ran.
THEN
WEEKS PASSED, AND Ethan and Martin soon found Gunshot Pop’s—the bar they would come to know as their escape, a place of solace where Ethan could share his philosophies about justice and revenge and Martin could muse about the “one that got away.”
“Well, of course we’re still friends,” he said. “But it could have been so much better.” The self-deception he had indulged in to disguise his flawed relationship with Diane had started to crumble, and now with Ethan—though no one else—he spoke honestly about his feelings.
“If she loved you,” Ethan said.
“If she loved me,” Martin echoed.
Ethan sipped his beer, much slower than he did the first night they went out. “That’s a lot of baggage.”
“You think?”
“Hell, yes. Between your father and Cynthia, you got a lot banging around in your brain. I think you should extinguish some of it.”
“What do you mean?” Martin said, now on his second beer and not thinking as clearly as he did sober.
“Sometimes you got to deal with people in whatever way it takes to solve your problems—that’s what I mean. Only not in no temporary way where they can come back again. You got to solve them permanently.”
Martin looked around, leaned in, lowered his voice. “Are you talking about murder? Jesus, is that how you took care of things with your mom? Did you kill her?”
“No!” Not yet. “But what I mean is that it’s like stepping on a bug. Sometimes, when it’s big enough, you’ll hear the slimy, sticky crunch under your shoe, but it’s still gotta be done because, if you don’t, the bug’s just going to end up layin’ eggs in your sugar bowl.”
NOW
MARTIN BELIEVED IT was important they work together to find an exit. At least, he and Cynthia needed to work together, and Ethan could not be allowed to interfere with that plan.
Once that decision was made, the next several were easy.
Martin stopped running and shouted for Cynthia to do the same.
“What are you talking about? I have no idea what he’ll do when he catches up to me! And what about you?”
“We can’t keep running. The tunnel is going to eventually narrow, and then what? Besides, it’s too dangerous. Another fall for either of us could mean death. As long as we’re running, we can’t make intelligent decisions about how to get out of here.”
Cynthia, taking deep breaths, said nothing, but Martin could tell by her expression that she knew he was right.
“We’ve got to stop him,” he continued.
“How?”
“I’ll show you,” Martin said, and turned around, heading back the way they’d come.
“Wait! What are you thinking about doing?”
He jerked off the backpack, dropped it on the ground. “Just keep up.”
Cynthia was unable to match Martin’s pace, and the light from her headlamp—the light which made everything before him visible—grew dim. Martin rounded a bend and saw Ethan, less than a hundred feet away.
“Martin!” Ethan said, surprised, as he came to a stop. “What are you doing here?”
Martin, picking up speed, didn’t answer. Later he could explain what he was doing—when they were out of the tunnel, when they had rescued Gina and her boyfriend—but that would be later.
“Don’t lose sight of why we’re here!” Ethan shouted.
All that matters is finding a way out, Martin thought. Then he jumped on top of Ethan, and they both grunted when they hit the ground. Each struggled to pin the other down.
“Help me, Cynthia!” Martin shouted after Ethan got his knees onto Martin’s shoulders.
Cynthia kicked Ethan in the lower back. It was the opportunity Martin needed. He rolled his friend over, pushed his hands to the ground.
“You’ve got to be kidding me! After all I’ve done for you, this is how you thank me?”
“Hit him!” Martin said.
“This was for the both of us,” Ethan continued. “After all, we have to eat something.”
“What were you thinking? That we would eat her?”
Ethan struggled to get free. “I know that’s not the way we talked about doing it—”
“We never talked about anything like that, at all.” Martin glanced over his shoulder at Cynthia, who was still just standing there. “Cynthia, get a goddamn rock and hit him in the head now!”
THEN
ETHAN RENTED A car and parked a block away from his parents’ home in Triton, Alabama. He had spoken with his father half a dozen times by now, and each time had assured him everything was going well. The apartment was perfect, the job was fulfilling, he’d even made a few friends.
“I’m glad to hear you’re happy,” Byron had said. Ethan could almost hear his father smile on the other end of the phone.
Everything Ethan had said was a lie, though. In truth, the apartment never got warm enough, the job was tedious, and Martin was his only friend.
But he knew the lies would set his father’s mind at ease and help allay suspicions when Norma was killed. And to further ensure that he would not be a suspect, he asked about his mother’s well-being with as much sincerity as he could summon.
Byron said she was getting along well. “She’s still working at the frame shop. It’s still making her happy. Not too much changes around here.”
“That sounds about right,” Ethan said, jokingly. But they both knew it was true. Progress came slowly in Triton, regardless of the changes Byron had mentioned in his letters.
When Ethan arrived several hours after dark, this truth was reaffirmed when he glanced at the sign to the old Rutts’ Furniture Store—still hanging, crooked, from a single rusty hook.
He got out of the car and checked his coat pocket for the knife he had brought. It was small, even for a paring knife, but it was big enough to cut a throat. Then he cautiously walked toward the house, hoping that none of the neighbors would see him.
From the street, he could see that most of his parents’ two-story house was lit up. A glance at the driveway and the only car parked there told him Norma was home alone.
That Byron wasn’t there didn’t surprise him; he had counted on it. Wednesday was poker night at Stuart Blake’s house, and Byron had been a casual gambler for as long as Ethan could remember.
He crept toward the side of the house, and then along the brick wall to a window. So far, no one had spotted him. With a row of tall hedges blocking the neighbor’s view, he was confident nobody w
ould—at least not until he was back on the street.
But he had to act fast. The drive had taken longer than expected, and Byron could get home at any time.
He peered through one of the many windows at an empty kitchen. Then he tried to push the frame up in hopes of finding it open. He was certain all the doors would be locked—Norma was careful about checking the deadbolts—but he knew from experience there was almost always an open window somewhere.
The kitchen window wouldn’t budge. He moved to the next and tried it. Then he tried another. Each time he peeked inside first to make sure she wasn’t within sight. For his plan to work, he needed to take her by surprise.
It wouldn’t do to have her scream.
Finally, at the fourth window—one of several that would open onto the sitting room—he found his way in. The frame slid open easily, and with the knife clamped between his teeth, Ethan awkwardly dragged himself inside.
The sitting room was one of the few rooms without its lights on. But thanks to the moon’s pale glow, he was easily, silently able to maneuver his way around the two chairs and the piano to the closed sliding doors.
A thin light shined through the cracks underneath them, between them—promising, as many of the lighted rooms might, that Norma was on the other side. Maybe only feet away.
He turned the knife in his hand to get a tighter grip and wrapped his fingers around one of the door’s handles. He took several deep breaths. He rehearsed the murder in his mind: his hand over her mouth, blood pouring from underneath her chin.
He cracked the door just enough to peek through. The living room was empty. He tiptoed to the kitchen and pressed himself to the wall beside the doorway that led to it.
He listened, heard nothing. After a minute or so, he peeked around the corner.
Norma wasn’t there, either. After he’d cautiously looped his way around the first floor, he started up the stairs.
This is taking too long. Too damn long.
A stair squeaked, and he froze. Waited. More deep breaths. Then, once he was satisfied she hadn’t heard the noise, he finished climbing the stairs.
There were fewer rooms on the second floor, making it easier to search. He also knew where to begin—his parents’ bedroom.
He crept down the hall to their door—half-closed, but wide enough to get his head through—and peered inside. Norma was sitting on the bed with her back to him, stitching a sweater.
This would be easier than he had hoped. Three quick steps and he’d be directly behind her. He’d be able to slit her throat before she could scream.
Then he heard a door open from downstairs. It slammed shut. Pop was home.
Shit!
He jumped away from the door just as Norma’s head whipped around. “Honey?”
“Just me,” Byron hollered back.
“How was the game?”
“Same as always.”
Ethan looked around, seeking a place to hide.
The closet.
It was just on the other side of the bedroom door. If he could get there unseen . . . But was Norma looking? Was she up and walking toward the hall? How could he know? Then, he heard the stairs creak, and he knew he had to act.
He darted across the hall without looking into the bedroom and then slipped into the closet, tucking himself between the coats and watching through the crack in the door.
Norma didn’t scream or call his name. She hadn’t seen him.
He sighed with relief and then clenched the fist that held the knife tight enough to turn his fingers white. He was furious. His opportunity had been spoiled. He’d come too late, moved too slowly. Then he saw something that would forever change his plan.
Norma appeared from the bedroom and met Byron in the hall. She took his hands, kissed him on the cheek. “I’m glad you’re home. I missed you.”
“Me, too.”
Ethan’s eye twitched with confusion. This was not the same woman who had tortured him throughout his childhood. The Norma he knew was neither tender nor kind. Never would she have ignored her stitching (which she never would have been doing to begin with) to kiss her husband. She was also thinner now than he could remember, and, with her hair pinned carefully back, looked almost elegant in her long, silk robe.
Why had she changed?
She’s still working at the frame shop. It’s still making her happy.
Could that have been all she needed? A job? A sense of purpose? And could she really be getting that sense of purpose from working at a frame shop?
His parents kissed on the lips, and Byron smiled. They made small talk in the hallway about the poker game, and, even through his anger, Ethan could hear the love in Norma’s voice. Then she turned and guided Byron into the bedroom.
Ethan stayed in the closet for several hours. He watched Byron come and go—to turn off the lights, to get a glass of water.
Once the house had fallen silent, he slipped out of the closet and tiptoed into his parents’ bedroom. They were asleep with Norma spooned up against Byron, like young lovers.
He could kill her right then, but he’d probably have to kill Byron, too, which caused him to hesitate.
In that moment of hesitation, he remembered the kiss he saw from the closet, and he made a decision that surprised even him: He wouldn’t kill her. Not as long as she made Byron happy.
He would hate her for the rest of his life, and himself for letting her live. But maybe there was another way to manage his pain.
He crawled back out of the same window he came in and made it to the car unseen. Once out of Triton and back on the interstate, he found his other way in the question: Isn’t Martin suffering, too?
NOW
MARTIN ALREADY KNEW they had nothing inside the backpack they could use to tie Ethan up. But he couldn’t leave him like he was, either. Eventually, he’d wake up. He’d catch up to them or go left where they went right and maybe never find his way out.
Then Martin had an idea. He pulled the laces out of Ethan’s shoes and bound his hands to his feet. When Ethan woke up, he’d be pissed and unable to do more than bounce around on his ass. But at least Martin would know where to find him after he got help.
He left Ethan’s flashlight on the ground and facing him so at least he wouldn’t wake up in darkness.
THEN
ETHAN SPED HOME from Triton and went straight to bed, stopping only long enough to throw the knife into the kitchen sink. He was exhausted and could think about nothing but meeting Martin tomorrow night for a beer.
Six-thirty at Gunshot Pop’s. The routine had become so usual that neither bothered to confirm anymore. The only days they didn’t meet were when Martin was out of town, or Diane was putting up a fuss because her fiancée wasn’t around as much as she wanted him to be.
He climbed into bed and knotted the blankets around himself to keep warm. Then, after an all-too-short nap, he awoke and walked to the bank.
His eyes were bloodshot; he worked slowly all day. At some point late in the afternoon, a teller to his right asked, “What’s the matter with you?”
“None of your fucking business.”
The customer at his window raised an eyebrow and, on her way out, stopped in Mr. McDonald’s office.
“Mr. Lancaster!”
Ethan looked around his new customer—a man with too many freckles and a bad toupee—to see the woman he’d just served walking out the front door.
In the doorway to his office stood Ronald McDonald. His hands were planted on his hips, his face contorted with anger. “Get in here, now!”
Ethan nodded but said nothing. He quickly finished with his customer and met the fat fucking clown in his office. “What?”
McDonald’s fingers were drumming quickly on the marble desk. “Did you swear in front of one of our customers?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Well, try.” Ethan said nothing, and once McDonald had grown sick of the silence, he stood and pointed a finger at Ethan. “Don’t ever do i
t again. Don’t ever swear at another customer again. Because if you do, you’ll be fired immediately, you hear me? I don’t care whose damn son you are, our customers don’t come in here expecting to hear that sort of language.”
“But it’s okay for you to curse?”
“You’re damn right it’s okay for me to swear. I’m in charge of this branch, and there’s not a customer in the room, which means I can swear all I feel like.” Then he seemed to notice the dark circles around Ethan’s bloodshot eyes. “What’s the matter with you, anyway?”
I was up late last night, attempting to whack my ma. You want me to take you down, too?
“Answer me.”
“I just didn’t sleep so good, all right?”
McDonald shook his head. “I swear it’s hard to believe you’re Mr. Lancaster’s son. . . . Now get back to your post before I say something I’ll regret.”
Ethan returned to his window without a word. But before he left for the day, Mr. McDonald handed him a sealed letter and said, “One of two.”
Ethan read the official complaint on his way out of the door. He knew why McDonald had typed it up—he was creating a paper trail, one that gave him the leeway to fire Ethan at his discretion.
He balled up the document and tossed it in a wastebasket outside the bank doors. As if bagging groceries wouldn’t be just as interesting, he thought, and then turned toward the bar. Besides, he had more important things on his mind than McDonald’s petty threat.
He wanted to know more about Martin’s father. Anything he could find out. It was clear the first step to helping Martin overcome his pain (and, in turn, his own) was to find the fucker who ran out on him. To do that, though, he would need all the information he could get.
A Reagan Keeter Box Set: Three page-turning thrillers that will leave you wondering who you can trust Page 52
