Another knock. Loud and urgent.
Sara flipped on the bedroom light. Her eyes were automatically drawn to Jack’s empty crib in the corner of the bedroom, a blanket draped over the top because she couldn’t bear to look at it. At the same time couldn’t bear to throw it away. The blanket looked like a shroud.
Then she searched around for the bottle of SoCo, hoping she’d brought it into the bedroom with her. Sara found it, on the floor.
Empty.
Shit. That was the last one.
One more bang on the door. The big bad wolf, trying to blow the house down. Or in this case, the trailer.
Fuck him. There were scarier things than wolves.
Much scarier things.
Sara pawed at the nightstand drawer, pulling it open, digging through magazines for the snub nosed .38 she kept there. A gift from Tyrone. Not registered, but it wasn’t like she could get into any more trouble than she already was in.
But the gun wasn’t there. Sara had a fleeting recollection of being at the kitchen table, crying and drunk, the gun in her mouth.
Shit. I left it in the kitchenette.
Funny, how she routinely contemplated suicide, yet now that her life might actually be threatened she wanted the gun for protection.
Maybe she had some fight in her after all.
Sara gripped the bottle by the neck, holding it like a club, and eased her feet out of bed. She stood up, wobbly, but a pro at walking under the influence. Two steps and she was to the bedroom door. Two more and she was next to the bathroom.
Movement, to her right, and Sara screamed and swung, the bottle connecting with the mirror hanging on the bathroom door.
It spiderwebbed with a tinkling crunch, and Sara saw herself in a dozen different triangles, hair wild, eyes red, wearing a dirty sweatshirt crusted with old shrimp chow mien that she’s apparently eaten while drunk. Once upon a time, she’d been clean and pretty. Looking at herself now, Sara guessed homeless shelters would turn her away for being too gross.
Another knock, so close it felt like a full-body blow. The SoCo bottle had survived the impact with the mirror, and she clutched the neck even tighter as she made her decision.
There is no way in hell I’m answering that door.
Instead she backed away, turning in the other direction, heading for the phone on the wall. Right before she snatched up the receiver, it rang.
Sara stared, the lump in her throat making it impossible to draw a breath. She remembered the fear she’d felt on the island, and the same sick, familiar feeling spread over her.
Terror.
Pure, paralyzing terror.
Hand shaking so badly it looked like a palsy, Sara’s finger hovered over the speakerphone button.
The phone rang again, making her whimper.
Do I press it?
Do I?
She jabbed at it, hitting the wrong key. Then she tried again.
The speakerphone hissed at her, and a deep male voice barked, “Open the door, Sara.”
Sara wet her sweatpants.
Mililani, Hawaii
Josh
Josh VanCamp gasped, drawing air through his mouth because a tiny hand was pinching his nose closed.
He opened his eyes, staring at the capuchin monkey sitting on his chest. Josh brushed the primate’s paw away from his face.
“Mathison, what are—”
The monkey put a finger over Josh’s mouth, telling him to be quiet. A moment later, Woof began to bark.
His warning bark. Strangers were near.
“Someone’s here,” Josh said.
The monkey nodded. Josh glanced at his wife, lying next to him. “Fran?”
“I’m up.”
She was already swinging her legs out of the bed, pressing the intercom button on the wall.
“Duncan,” she said, “panic room. Grab Woof.”
Her son responded instantly. “Meet you there.”
Josh placed Mathison on his shoulder, and the monkey pulled Josh’s hoodie around him. He was frightened.
Josh wasn’t. He had too much to do.
He slipped on the boat shoes he kept next to the bed—thick leather and tough rubber soles—and reached for the closet door.
“Hon?” he asked.
“Ready.”
Josh reached inside, grabbing one of the Browning Maxus autoloader shotguns, tossing it over his shoulder like they’d practiced so many times, not bothering to see if his wife caught it as he reached for its companion.
They walked the hallway in standard two-by-two cover formation, Josh favoring the left, Fran the right. The air conditioning kicked on, normal for nighttime in Hawaii. Other than that the house was quiet. Still.
Josh passed one of the burglar alarm panels, not bothering to punch in and access surveillance, confident the animals’ senses were good reason enough to get into the panic room. Since they’d moved here five years previous, the monkey and dog had had far fewer false alarms than the ten thousand dollar system they’d installed. If this turned out to be another, no harm in it. They were due for a late night drill later in the week anyway.
Depending on your past, one man’s paranoia was another man’s common sense. And after what the trio had lived through in Safe Haven, Wisconsin, Josh couldn’t think of a single thing they’d done to keep themselves safe that qualified as paranoia.
They reached the door, and Josh stared at the fake light switch. In the up position, meaning Duncan was already inside. He swiveled the switch to the right and punched in the numeric code on the revealed keypad. The door latch snicked opened, and Fran went down the stairs first, Josh locking and sealing the door behind him, tight as a bank vault.
Basements were rare on the Big Island. Blasting through the solid rock was difficult, and deemed foolhardy in light of the constant threat of storms. But Josh’s basement had its own industrial sump pump that protected against flooding, run by its own generator that worked separate from the main grid.
Josh followed Fran into the equipment room. Duncan was standing at the ready, a Glock 13 in his hand and pointed downward. He had the same angular features as Fran, same eyes, but he was growing into his masculinity and had been letting the peach fuzz on his upper lip accumulate even though they’d given him a Norelco for Christmas. Like his mother, his expression was hard, but without fear. Even though Josh was only a father by marriage, he beamed with pride at Duncan’s resolve. The kid had gone through hell, and had come out the other side stronger.
Woof, their fat beagle, looked up at them, tongue out, tail wagging. Mathison hopped off of Josh’s shoulder and sprang onto the dog’s back, like a miniature jockey.
Duncan already had the monitors live, and the perimeter sensors had switched on Camera 2. The front porch. They watched as two men in suits knocked on the door. Caucasian, mid-thirties, ties and sport coats too formal for the humidity.
“They’re holding,” Fran said, touching the screen, tapping the weapon bulges in their jackets.
Josh studied their footwear. Combat boots, incongruous to the tailored suits.
“Military?” Duncan asked.
The haircuts certainly were, which wasn’t a good omen.
“Smart guess. Or maybe they’re private. Or…”
Josh almost added, “something else” but he knew there was no need. His family was already thinking it.
He hit the camera’s microphone switch. The equipment room filled with the loud mating call of the coqui tree frog, which sounded a lot like digital beeping. Beneath that cacophony, katydids and crickets, and the far off screech and hoot of a barn owl.
“What next?” Duncan asked.
A fair question. In all their drills, they’d never prepared for someone knocking at the door at 3am.
“Now I press a button,” Josh said, “open up the trap door that sends them into the alligator pit.”
Duncan stared at Josh, his teenaged face confused. He rolled his eyes when he realized his stepfather was kidding. Again, Josh felt a stab of pride. Duncan could have been freaking out, but he understood how safe they were in the panic room. If needed, they could stay down there for a week. They had food and water, bunk beds, a toilet, a TV, and a computer. When they’d first built the room they’d slept down there as a family for several nights, making a party out of it so Duncan got used to the space. Popcorn and staying up late, watching movies and playing videogames. A safe area, not a scary one.