Mike watched Libby and the tools from the corner of his eye and through the rearview. He was driving too fast, almost dangerously, and needed to keep his face pointed forward, his eyes on the road. It felt strange driving the Honda, not only because he hadn’t been behind its wheel for almost a year, but because the car was technically Libby’s now and not his. He shouldn’t have felt awkward or guilty—it wasn’t as if he’d forced his way into the driver’s seat without her permission. They’d agreed he should drive. Trevor had given him the directions, after all—if Libby had gotten behind the wheel, he’d only have spent the whole time navigating.
“You know,” Libby said, facing forward again, “maybe the cops or the deputies or whoever they are, maybe they’re already there. Maybe they’ve got the guy in cuffs or a body bag.”
“Yeah,” said Mike, though he didn’t believe it. “If we’re lucky.”
“What do we do if we get there and he’s got a gun or a crossbow or something?”
“A crossbow?”
Libby shrugged. “I don’t know. Weirdo like this guy, he could have a cannon for all we know.”
“He doesn’t have a cannon,” Mike said, shaking his head.
She said, “That’s not the point. All this stuff we brought, it could barely get us through hand-to-hand combat. If he’s got a gun, we’re screwed.”
Mike took his eyes away from the road just long enough to scoff at her. “Hand-to-hand combat? You’ve been watching too many Rambo movies.”
“But what would we do?”
“We’d do whatever it takes,” he said, knowing it was vague, not really an answer at all, but also knowing it was what she wanted to hear. “We’re going to get him back. I promise.”
Libby looked at him for a long time. He sensed her eyes on him but didn’t return the look. He eased the car around another tight curve, and Libby finally looked away. She stared quietly through the window, chewing at her lip and twisting her fingers.
They found the place just like Trevor had said, right down to the dilapidated fence at the front edge of the property. Of course, Trevor hadn’t used the word dilapidated—falling apart, he’d said. Not that he would have needed to know about the fence anyway. Something was wrong with this place, something heinous in the air around it, something Mike could physically feel, like nervousness in the stomach only higher up, butterflies fluttering around his heart.
“Do you feel that?” Libby asked.
Mike nodded. He turned the car into the driveway and shut off the lights. This wasn’t exactly a stealth mission—they would have to go in strong—but he wouldn’t give the guy any extra warning if he could avoid it. The Honda bounced over the rough ground, tall weeds and grasses scraped against the undercarriage, and for a second Mike had the vague impression that some thing lay underneath, trying to claw its way in.
Stop it, he thought. He couldn’t let himself get too freaked out. It wouldn’t do Trevor any good.
As they approached the dark house, Libby reached into the back seat, took the four tools-turned-weapons into her lap, and waited.
Mike followed the driveway past the front of the house and stopped. He started to shut off the Honda but didn’t. They might need to get out of here in a hurry. The last thing he wanted was to die because of a stubborn ignition or a flooded engine. He looked at Libby. She handed him the drill and the chisel, kept the Dremel and the hammer for herself.
“Ready?”
She unbuckled her seatbelt and nodded. Mike let himself out of his own harness and said, “We need to split up. You go in the back, I’ll take the front. If one of us runs into the asshole, at least the other will be able to get to Trevor.”
“And the other boy,” she said.
Mike nodded. “And him.”
They got out of the car, stood on either side of the rumbling engine. Mike motioned for her to follow the driveway to the back of the house and started for the front.
“Mike,” she said.
He turned to her.
“Good luck.”
He smiled. “You, too.”
They turned from each other then, clutching their poor excuses for weaponry, and went their separate ways.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The second trip across the ceiling was better than the first had been. Trevor knew which joists to avoid, which were extra bowed or twisted, and although he encountered just as much of the spider-webby yellow stuff, it seemed less itchy. Maybe he’d gotten used to it the way he got used to his bathwater when it was too hot, or maybe he was moving too fast for the stuff to catch him. He’d practically crept along the crawlspace his first time through. Now, he hustled.
The other side of the house seemed to come up awfully fast. Could the place have shrunk since the last time he’d been here? In the dark, it took him a minute to find the hole he’d kicked for himself earlier, but it was still there. Of course it was still there. Ceilings didn’t grow back like cut skin, silly.
Trevor lowered himself through the hole, hung from the same joist he had the last time and kicked out for the top of the fridge. His feet found the slick surface, and he dropped.
And dropped.
He landed not on the top of the fridge, but on the pile of ceiling on the floor six feet below, and not on his feet, but on his butt. Trevor’s bottom and back throbbed. He saw blurry red light and wondered if his brain was bleeding. The broken pieces of ceiling had softened his fall a little, but not enough to save him from the terrible pain sneaking up into his shoulders and neck. He felt like he’d just been spanked with a bulldozer.
He heard a squeak and a groan from somewhere close, maybe in the living room. The bad man, he was sure, but he wouldn’t wait to see. Trevor hopped to his feet and ran to the back door as fast as his aching heinie would allow. If he’d been the bad man, he’d have locked the back door just in case he, Trevor, got loose again, but the man must not have been worrying about that, because the door opened wide.
Trevor escaped the house for the second time that night. He was about to head for the trees again, a different section of woods than he’d gone into last time, when he ran into the woman hurrying around the corner of the house.
And not just any woman.
His mommy.
Hank woke to the sound of something exploding. Or so he thought. Maybe he’d been dreaming about war or mail bombs or the Fourth of July. There was no smell of smoke and no fire as far as he could tell, but the sound had come from nearby.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes. They adjusted to the low light in their usual way, as if they’d been designed for nothing else.
The back door slammed, and he knew at once what had happened. The boy. Davy. He didn’t understand how the kid kept getting out of the room. It was goddamn locked. He was sure of it.
He stood up to go after the boy but then heard another sound, something softer and continuous, something coming from outside the house and sounding a little like a purring kitten.
Must not have used enough sunscreen, he thought and grinned.
Except it wasn’t a cat outside, it was something else: an engine.
He heard a creak on the front porch and stood very still, listening.
Another creak.
The boy could wait. Hank hurried out of the living room and down the hall. The thing he needed now was still in the bedroom, leaning against the bloody wall.
Mike crept to the front door and tried the knob.