Squinting at the bronze doorplate, Mal saw an old-time keyhole.
Could there be a key around here?
He looked behind him, back at the shelves. If there was a key, that seemed like the place for it. Mal crept over, scanning row by row with the flashlight. On the third shelf, next to a disintegrating box of Borax soap chips, was a tarnished skeleton key.
Mal reached for it—
—and heard another moan.
He spun, again taking in the room.
But no one was there.
Basins, washboards, sink, washing machine, clothes. There wasn’t anything else.
Then the pile of clothing blinked.
Mal was so shocked he jumped backward, into the shelves, old detergent snowing on him as the pile of clothing stood up—not a pile at all, but a figure in a dirty lab coat, what Mal assumed were glinting buttons had actually been its staring eyes.
Colton Butler.
Colton moaned again. He was clutching a leather medical bag in one hand, a curved surgical saw in the other, and he advanced toward Mal.
The fear was so absolute, it paralyzed Mal, pinning him to the spot. Colton raised the saw up.
“Time… to… operate…”
His voice was all messed up, like Jebediah’s in the library, and so shocking it snapped Mal out of his catatonia and he lurched toward the locked door. Key and flashlight in the same hand, he was trembling too madly to fit it into the keyhole.
“Maaaaaaal…”
The voice was so close Mal didn’t want to turn around, fearing that Colton was right behind him. He focused on opening the door, trying to block out everything else, putting 100% of his concentration into fitting the damn key into—
Colton hit Mal in the side of the neck with something, so hard Mal saw motes of light. Then there was a ripping sound, and a spike of pain like lemon juice on a paper cut, right across Mal’s right shoulder blade.
The saw.
Mal pushed himself backward, knocking Colton away, reaching up and feeling the jagged cut in his neck.
He tried to saw my head off.
His hand now slick with blood, Mal jammed the keychain light in his teeth and went back to playing bullseye with the key.
“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaal…”
By some miracle, Mal got it in the keyhole. He twisted it, first one way, then the other, and when the bolt snicked free Mal yanked open the door and saw…
Stairs. Leading up.
He took them two at a time, breathing through his teeth as they clamped down on the flashlight, going up sixteen steps and then reaching…
A dead end.
There was no door. No room. No hallway. Just a wooden barricade.
“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaal…”
Below him, Mal heard feet begin to clomp up the steps.
Why have a stairway leading nowhere? What was the point? It made no sense.
He put his shoulder into it, pressing hard. Felt a slight bit of give.
Could this be some secret passage?
Mal held the keylight, looking for seams along the wall. On the right side, he found some old, rusty hinges.
Mal pushed again. No go.
“Maaaaaaaaaal…..”
Colton was closer, already halfway up the stairs.
Mal ran his hands along the seam, looking for a switch, a release, a button. Anything that would open this sucker up.
“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaal…”
Colton was practically on top of him. Mal’s heart was hammering so hard he could hear the lub-dub in his eardrum. A wooden splinter jammed under his fingernail, and he dropped the flashlight. Mal opened his mouth to scream in pain and frustration when his fingers brushed against a latch.
“MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAL!”
Colton’s saw touched Mal’s leg just as the passageway swung outward. Mal fell forward, pulling away, then kicking the secret door closed. He looked around, pulling the glow stick from his pants, and realized he’d gotten to the guest room hallway. But it looked different in the dark, and he wasn’t sure which room was his.
The secret passage began to shake, and Mal got to his feet and ducked into the nearest bedroom. He quietly closed the door behind him, then took a minute to catch his breath. His neck throbbed, and he found a mirror on the wall and took a look.
In the green glow light, his blood appeared black. Mal probed the wound, wincing. It hurt, but wasn’t deep. Stitches probably weren’t required, but if he lived through this it would no doubt leave a jagged scar.
Squinting at his finger, he used his teeth to yank out a three inch splinter under his nail. He spat it out, and began to search the room.
The suitcase next to the bed wasn’t his, and he didn’t see any purses lying around. He checked the bureau drawers, and then the desk.
Nothing.
Mal crept to the door and put his ear to it. Then he opened it a crack, peering out. The coast seemed clear, and he quickly exited the room and entered the adjacent one.
Not his suitcase, but there was a purse on the desk. And inside…
Moni’s syringe. He pulled the purse strap over his head and shoulder.
Okay, that’s half the mission. Now to get my gun.
He remembered his room was next to Moni’s, so all he had to do was sneak into it and—
The doorknob began to turn before Mal could touch it. He quickly stuck the light stick back in his jeans and looked around for a place to hide.
The bed.
Quickly dropping to all fours, Mal scooted under it just as the door opened.
“Maaaaaaaaal… I… want… your… other… hand…”
Sara
Sara took off her sweater and tied a knot in the sleeves, trying to make a sling for Frank’s arm. He’d been groaning since Mal left, biting his wallet, his eyes welling with tears. Fishing around in her purse, Sara found a pack of tissue. She gently wiped his eyes, and then mopped some of the sweat off of his forehead.
Frank let the wallet fall from his lips, and stared hard at her.
“I’ve… been hope hope hoping…” he said, the pain straining his voice.
“Hoping for what, Frank?”
“To see see see…”
“To see?”
“You… with your… shirt off.”
He grinned, and Sara laughed. She didn’t even remember what bra she had on until she looked. It was frilly, pink, Fredrick’s of Hollywood. Somehow she’d had the foresight to wear her only good bra. If he’d seen some of her others, he probably wouldn’t have been as impressed.
“When we get out of here,” she whispered. “Maybe I’ll even let you see me without the bra.”
“I’d like that. Sara?”
“Yes, Frank?”
“I think think think my arm is broken.”
“It’s just a bad sprain,” Sara said. “Mal is going to get you something for the pain. He’ll be back soon.”
“I’m scared, Sara.”
“So am I, Frank.”
She kissed his damp forehead, then opened her purse and stared at her last two tiny bottles of Southern Comfort.
Sara needed a drink. Badly. In fact, Sara may have never needed a drink more than she did right then. Her hopes for getting her son back had been torn from her. Seeing the first decent man she’d met in—well—forever—suffer like this was heartbreaking. And the very real possibility that she was going to die soon, and die horribly, made her adrenaline spike so hard her head hurt.
She pulled out the first bottle, twisting off the cap with practiced precision, and tilted it—
—into Frank’s mouth.
He drank, then coughed. “Thanks.”
“Got one more coming.”
She opened the second, and he gulped it down.
“Got any any any orange juice?”
“Other purse.”
She moved her thigh under his head as a pillow, and blotted away more sweat.
She didn’t regret giving Frank the last of her booze.