with the window cracked open. Then she attacked the screen in the other one again. Imagined that loose bottom screw was Lemoyne’s head and she was gonna yank it right out of his neck. Whenever the yowling power tool quit, she did the same until it started up again.
Hard, tiring work. Her arms began to feel as heavy as the pan, little shoots of pain running up them into her armpits. Sweat poured off her; she could smell herself, sour and gamy, and the smell turned her stomach and made it ache. Once she had to stop and rest for a minute because she felt woozy. Too much strain, not enough food, the sticky heat in there.
Then, seemed like all at once, she heard the squeal of ripping metal, felt the screw start to pull out of the wall. Fresh strength flowed into her; she gave half a dozen violent yanks and twists…
Got it!
The screw popped free, leaving a jagged hole in the wall, and the corner gap widened by several inches on both sides. She dropped the pan on the bed, hooked all her fingers in the mesh, and managed to bend the frame part of the way up toward the top corner. Rip that top screw loose and she’d be able to warp the screen away from the window. Stand on one of the chairs, wedge her body up there… she’d get through that opening if she had to break the glass to do it.
The power tool stopped whining, and this time it didn’t start up again. She stood panting, dripping sweat, straining to hear. Other, fainter sounds came to her-rhythmic thuds, hammer blows. Building something out there, all right. And it didn’t matter what, as long as he kept on doing it long enough for her to get that second screw out.
Only he didn’t.
Sudden silence.
Tamara played statue. The stillness stayed heavy and unbroken except for bird sounds in the trees. She’d been making a lot of noise
… had he heard her? On his way over here to check?
Her strength ebbed again; she was aware of throbbing pain in her arms and upper back when she lowered the frying pan. On her way to the kitchen, the wooziness came back. She had to lean against the wall to steady herself before she was able to draw an edge of the curtain aside.
He wasn’t out there. The barn door was shut. Still inside?
She waited, watching and listening.
Emptiness. Quiet as dust.
She stayed there a long time-what seemed like a long time anyway. Nothing changed outside. She told herself to go back to work on that screen. But she didn’t know where he was and sounds carried in this kind of heavy late-afternoon hush and she was afraid to risk it.
Come on, asshole, make some more noise out there!
The hush went on unbroken.
She stood at the window for a time, frustration like acid in her mouth and throat. Went to check on the kid again, then made herself sit down and rest, then looked out the window some more. Daylight began to fade out of the sky, shadows built and lengthened among the trees and across the weedy front yard. The barn door stayed shut.
What the hell was he doing in there now?
Nightfall.
Thick-dark and moonless, the kind of country night where you couldn’t distinguish one shape from another more than a few feet away. There were stars, millions of them, no light pollution up here, but they seemed dull and remote, didn’t give off much light. Crickets set up a racket in the tall grass, thrumming like a pulse. Up in the tree above the trailer, something that sounded like an owl let loose with a deep-throated cry-a mournful sound that raised up gooseflesh on her arms.
But at least Lemoyne didn’t come crawling out with the rest of the night creatures. Whatever he was up to in the barn, he wasn’t doing it in the dark. Tamara could see streaks and spots of light around the edges of the door, through chinks in the front wall.
She kept the lights on in the trailer. Good thing he’d turned the electricity on earlier; be twice as bad waiting here in the dark. She heated the rest of the soup, made herself eat some, woke Lauren up, and fed her a few spoonfuls. Girl could barely swallow. Didn’t cry or complain, just lay there with her big eyes staring dully-half comatose from the fever. The day’s trapped heat was easing now; a faint breeze blowing in through the open bedroom window had some chill in it. Tamara slid the one half all the way shut. Risk of the kid getting pneumonia was high enough as it was.
An idea came to her. She’d used up all the towels, but the bed in the small bedroom had two cased pillows; she took off the cases, slipped the frying pan inside one and doubled it into the other. Then she shut off the bedside lamp, and in the faint light from the living room, went to work on the screen again. The pillowcases muffled the noise a little, but not much-not enough when she started animaling the pan under the frame. The sounds then seemed as loud as hammer blows in her ears.
She went quickly to check outside. Empty darkness except for the scraps of light from inside the barn.
Back to the screen. Slow, now, slow. Steady rocking pressure, hold the noise down to a minimum. That’s it. That’s it.
Time telescoped, expanded, telescoped again. Pain, stiffness, fatigue forced her to stop and rest at four- and five-minute intervals. And every time she heard a noise outside, any noise, her heart skipped a beat and she stopped again, to listen for Lemoyne.
But he didn’t come.
As if he’d completely lost interest in them, forgotten they were in here. Not that she believed that for a second. No hope in that notion. He’d come for them sooner or later. And when he did they better not be here.
Slow-rocking that pan back and forth, back and forth.
And still no Lemoyne.
And still that screw wouldn’t come out, that fucking stubborn little hunk of metal standing between them and freedom would not come out…
24
We searched the house top to bottom, a fast, professional toss. And we did it with the lights on. The only person they were liable to attract at this late hour was Robert Lemoyne, and I wanted him to walk in on us. Real bad, I wanted it.
KIDNAPPED CHILD
Had to be a young child, a little girl judging from the scatter of toys in that basement room. How young? Five, six, seven? Not as old as Emily, but it could’ve been Emily-any kid was vulnerable these days. Thinking that made me all the more furious.
All right. Three possibilities in this case. Lemoyne had a daughter and the second of his ex-wives had custody; it could be one of those things. But the basement room, the padlocks on the door and the closet door, argued against a family snatch. If the victim was the child of somebody he knew, it was likely a onetime thing. If the victim was unknown to him, it was likely a worst-case scenario. Serial pedophile. Maybe a serial killer. One of those subhuman monsters who preyed on children for their own sick gratification and then broke them and threw them away.
In any case, Tamara had stumbled into it. Saw something that made her suspicious enough to run the background check, and then last night made some kind of blunder that landed her in his hands. Her and the kid, locked up in the basement room, and the only thing she could do was leave a desperate message on the closet wall. And today TAKING US TO TRAILER IN THE WOODS
Where? Could be anyplace. Northern California, southern California, Oregon, Nevada… any damn place in the country. There were no unpaid bills to give us a clue, and no receipts; either Lemoyne got rid of them or stored them somewhere-not in the garage because Runyon found a key and went out there to check. No other clues around, either. And no sign of Tamara’s credit cards or driver’s license; he’d probably tossed them into a trash bin