gusted, then drove the elbow quick and sharp into the center of the taped square. The glass broke all right, making the kind of sound that seemed loud when all your senses were ratcheted up but that wouldn’t carry far. He punched at the taped shards until he had a hole, peeled them away to widen it. A few pieces of glass fell inside, but most clung to the gummy tape. Another few seconds and he was able to reach inside. He found the window latch, wiggled it free. The frame resisted at first, finally broke loose and slid all the way up; the sounds it made likewise wouldn’t carry.
Runyon swept the sill with his palm, cutting himself on a sliver, barely taking notice. Then he got both hands on the wood and levered himself up and squeezed his body through the opening, turning it until his buttocks were on the sill, keeping his head pulled down and his face averted from the hanging section of tape and broken glass. Once the upper part of his body was inside, he was able to maneuver one leg through, then the other. Sink below, toilet next to it. He lowered himself past the sink, onto the toilet seat and then down to the floor.
When he leaned back to the window, Bill was on his feet and extending the flashlight. Runyon took it, said, “Back door. I’ll let you in there.” Bill nodded and drifted away.
Runyon switched the flash on, keeping the beam shielded with his hand and letting just enough light leak through to guide the way. The bathroom opened into an empty bedroom, then into a hallway. He found the kitchen, went through it onto a utility porch. Three locks on the back door-dead bolt, push button, chain. When he had the door open, Bill came in walking a little bent and stiff: Runyon’s weight all those minutes must’ve put a strain on his back.
He said, “Anything?”
“Not so far.”
Runyon flicked the light around the porch. Empty. They went into the kitchen. The shielded beam revealed dirty dishes, food left out on a dinette table. And a door with a lock on it next to the refrigerator.
“Basement,” he said.
“Let’s see if that door’s locked.”
It wasn’t. Bill swept a hand along the wall inside, located a light switch. “Should be safe enough to put on the lights with the door shut. I’ll look down there. You check the street, then the other rooms up here.”
“Right.”
Bill stepped through onto the basement stairs, pulled the door shut behind him. Runyon followed the low-held beam into the front part of the house. Nothing in the living room. He made his way to one of the windows, eased an edge of the curtain aside to look out at Willard Street. Same stop-motion night scene: no cars, no people, all the lights stationary within the range of his vision.
He went back into the hallway, opened the first door he came to. Another bedroom. He stepped in there long enough to shine the flash under the bed, inside the closet. The second bedroom was the one he’d been in before- Lemoyne’s bedroom, from the look of it. Unmade bed with a scattering of dust bunnies underneath, clothing tossed around, walk-in closet that contained nothing that didn’t belong there.
One more room at the rear, smaller than the others. Kid’s room, little girl’s room: single bed with a frilly spread, frilly curtains, stuffed animals, dolls on shelves. Smelled musty in there, as if it hadn’t been aired out in a long time. Dust made a pale gleam on the dresser when the light touched it. Hadn’t been cleaned in a long time.
He was back in the kitchen when he heard Bill on the basement stairs. Not being quiet now, moving fast. He had the door opened before Bill reached the landing. In the weak light from a string of overhead bulbs, Bill’s face wore a shadowed, masklike grimace.
“Down here, Jake. Christ.”
Runyon followed him down the stairs, across the basement, into a room that might’ve been a granny unit except for the padlock-and-hasp on the door. Daybed with rumpled sheets and blanket, toys on the floor, the remains of a partly eaten meal on a small table. Tiny bathroom at the far end. Closet in the side wall, another padlock on its door.
Bill stopped in the middle of the room, snapped a hand at the closet. “Take a look in there.”
The closet appeared empty from a distance. Was empty-nothing on the floor, shelf, clothes pole. It wasn’t until Runyon stepped all the way inside that he saw what Bill wanted him to see. On the end wall, big block letters written with a red crayon.
LEMOYNE TAKING KIDNAPPED CHILD AND ME TO TRAILER IN THE WOODS. DON’T KNOW WHERE! HELP! TAMARA CORBIN
23
TAMARA
It was almost six o’clock before Lemoyne decided he’d had enough of sitting under that tree.
By then she had a plan. Wasn’t much of a plan, but anything was better than just pacing around that sticky trailer; she couldn’t even sit down for more than a minute or two before her nerves popped her up again. There were cheap chintz curtains on the two front windows, and she pulled those tight closed and tucked the ends in under the mesh screens. None of the bedroom or bathroom windows had curtains; she used towels and dish towels to cover those, fastening them around the screens. Hid the work she’d done on the screen in the small bedroom with an extra towel, to make sure Lemoyne wouldn’t be able to tell from outside that it’d been pried partway loose. Now if he wanted to come looking he wouldn’t be able to see in, tell where she was or what she was doing. Wouldn’t answer next time he called her. Wouldn’t go outside again no matter what he said or did. He wanted at her and Lauren, he’d have to come in and get them. And the minute he set foot across the threshold he’d get a face full of frying pan.
That was the idea anyway. Problem was, he seemed to’ve lost interest in them completely. Just kept sitting out there under that tree. She peeked around the kitchen curtain every few minutes, didn’t once catch him looking this way. The only times she saw him move at all was when he lit another cigarette or took another swig out of a water bottle. As if he’d taken root there. Must have a bladder the size of Milpitas.
And when he finally did quit sitting and brooding or vegetating or whatever it was, he still paid no attention to the trailer. That last time, when she looked out, he was on his feet and stretching out some of the kinks, looking off toward the barn. Then he headed off that way, walking slow. Didn’t even glance in this direction. Just walked straight to the barn and disappeared inside.
Dude was totally unpredictable. For all she knew, he was in there getting a can of gas or kerosene-dump it on the trailer and set a match to it. Lord, would he actually do something like that? Roast them in here like a couple of chickens in an oven?
She went to check on Lauren again. The girl had slept all afternoon except when dehydration woke her up and she cried out for water. Asleep now, moaning and thrashing around under the blanket. Flush on her face was almost scarlet; her skin felt fire-hot, clammy. Bad fever-her temp must be a degree or two over a hundred. And there was nothing to do about it except keep her warm, keep feeding her liquids. Wasn’t any aspirin, no medication of any kind in the trailer. She needed a doctor, maybe an IV Outside, something made a sudden shrill whining, humming noise.
Tamara hurried to the kitchen window. Empty yard was all she saw; Lemoyne was still in the barn, the door closed. That was where the noise was coming from, inside the barn.
Power tool. Saw, sander, something like that.
She waited there for a time, breathless, flapping her ears. Wouldn’t have surprised her to see him walk out carrying a chain saw and wearing a hockey mask like Freddy Krueger. Nothing he did would’ve surprised her. But it didn’t happen. Nothing happened except that the noise went on, stopped for a few seconds, started up again. Grinding and buzzing now… sound a saw blade made cutting through wood.
Building something out there. What?
Coffins?
Wasting time, Tamara. As long as he keeps on doing it, you don’t have to worry about making noise in here.
First thing she did was pick Lauren up and carry her into the larger bedroom, where it’d be quieter and cooler
