chance.”
She hung up, already regretting the call. Stepping out of the car again, she looked up at the house. Dusk had thickened to night. I’ll cancel the dispatch and save myself the embarrassment, she thought. She went back into the house.
Standing at the foot of the stairs, she gazed up toward the second floor landing, but heard no sound from above. She grasped the banister. It was oak, solid and reassuring. She began to climb, driven upward by pride, by grim determination not to be the butt of the latest town joke.
On the second floor, she turned on the light switch and confronted a narrow hallway, the walls dingy from little hands trailing smudges. She poked her head into the first room on the right.
It was Kitty’s bedroom. Ballerinas danced across the curtains. Scattered on the bed were girl things: plastic barrettes, a red sweater embroidered with snowflakes, a child’s backpack in pink and purple. On the floor was Kitty’s beloved Barbie doll collection. But these were not pampered recipients of a young girl’s love. These dolls had been viciously abused, their clothes ripped to shreds, their limbs splayed out as though in horror. A single doll’s head, torn from its body, stared up at her with bright blue eyes.
The chill was back in her spine.
She backed into the hail, and her gaze suddenly shifted to another doorway, to the unlit room beyond. Something shimmered in the darkness, a strange luminescence, like the green glow of a watch face. She stepped into the room and turned on the light. The green glow vanished. She was in a boy’s room, untidy, with books and dirty socks scattered on the bed and floor. A rubbish can overflowed with crumpled papers and Coke cans. It was the typical disarray left by a thirteen-year-old. She turned off the light.
And saw it again-the green glow. It came from the bed.
She stared down at the pillow, splashed with a bright luminescence, and touched the linen; it was cool, but not damp. Now she noticed the faint streaks of luminescence on the wall as well, just above the bed, and one brilliant emerald splash on the sheet.
Thump, thump, thump. Her gaze shot upward, and she heard a whimper, a child’s soft cry The attic. The children were in the attic.
She left the boy’s room, stumbling over a tennis shoe as she reemerged in the hallway. The attic stairs were steep and narrow; she had to grasp the flimsy handrail as she climbed. When she reached the top, she was standing in impenetrable darkness.
She took a step forward, and brushed past a hanging light chain. One tug, and the bare lightbulb came on, its dim glow illuminating only a small circle of the attic. In the shadowy periphery she could make out a jumble of old furniture and cardboard boxes. A coat rack, its prongs wide as elk’s antlers, cast a threatening shadow across the floor.
Next to one of the boxes, something moved.
Quickly she shoved aside the box. Behind it, curled up on a bundle of old coats, was seven-year-old Kitty The girl’s skin felt icy, but she was still alive, her throat issuing soft little moans with every breath. Claire reached down to pick her up, and realized the girl’s clothes were saturated. In horror she lifted her glistening hand to the light.
Blood.
The only warning she had was the creak of the floorboard. Someone is standing behind me.
Claire turned just as the shadow exploded toward her. The impact slammed hard against her chest and she flew backwards, pinned under the weight of her attacker. Claws grappled at her throat. She tried to tear them away, frantically thrashing left, then right, a dozen shadowy images swirling before her eyes. The coat rack slammed to the floor. Under the swaying light, she caught sight of her attacker’s face.
The boy He tightened his grip around her throat, and as her vision began to blacken, she saw his lips curl back, his eyes narrow to angry slits.
She clawed at his eye. Shrieking, the boy released her, stumbling away. She scrambled to her feet just as the boy lunged at her again. She dodged sideways and he flew past her and landed among the cardboard boxes, scattering books and tools across the floor.
They both spotted the screwdriver at the same time.
Simultaneously they sprang toward it, but he was closer. He snatched it up and brought it high over his head. As it came stabbing down, she raised both hands to catch the boy’s wrist. His strength shocked her. She was forced down to her knees. The blade of the screwdriver wavered closer, even as she fought to keep it at bay.
Then, through the roar of her own pulse, she heard a voice calling her name. She screamed out: “Help me!”
Footsteps thudded up the stairs. Suddenly the weapon was no longer stabbing toward her. The boy pivoted, his weapon redirected as Lincoln flew toward him.
She saw the boy fall backwards, sprawling to the floor. Saw the boy and Lincoln rolling over and over in a blur of thrashing limbs, furniture and boxes scattering around them. The screwdriver skittered off into the shadows. Lincoln pinned the boy facedown on the floorboards and Claire heard the metallic click of handcuffs snapping shut. Even then, the boy continued to struggle, kicking out blindly. Lincoln dragged him over to an attic support post and tightly lashed him there with his belt.
When at last he turned to Claire, he was breathing hard, and a bruise was swelling up on one cheek. For the first time he noticed the girl, lying among the boxes.
“She’s bleeding!” said Claire. “Help me get her downstairs, where there’s light!”
He scooped the girl into his arms.
By the time he lay her on the kitchen table, she had stopped breathing. Claire gave her three quick breaths, then felt for a carotid pulse, but could not detect one. “Get an ambulance here now!” she said to Lincoln. Positioning her hands over the girl’s sternum, Claire began chest compressions. The blouse was soaked, and her hands kept slipping as she pumped. Fresh blood seeped through the fabric. She is only seven years old. How much blood can a child lose? How much longer can I keep her brain cells alive?
“Ambulance is on the way!” said Lincoln.
“Okay, I need you to cut off her blouse. We have to see where she’s bleeding.”
Claire paused to give the girl three more breaths. She heard fabric ripping and saw that Lincoln had already bared the girl’s chest.
“Jesus,” he murmured.
Blood dribbled from half a dozen stab wounds.
She placed her hands back on the sternum and resumed cardiac compressions, but with every pump, more blood spilled out of the girl’s body.
A siren wailed closer, and through the kitchen window they saw strobelike flashes of light as the ambulance pulled into the front yard. Two EMTs swept into the house, took one look at the child on the table, and threw open their emergency kit. Claire continued pumping on the chest as the EMTs intubated, inserted an IV, slapped on EKG leads.
“Have we got a rhythm?” Claire asked, holding compressions.
“Rapid sinus tach.”
She heard the whiff, whiff of the blood pressure cuff, then the answer: “Barely palpable at fifty. Ringer’s lacate going wide open in this IV Having trouble getting this second line started.
Another siren screamed into the yard, and more footsteps banged into the house.
Officers Mark Dolan and Pete Sparks crowded into the kitchen. Dolan met Claire’s gaze, and he quickly looked away, sensing her reproach. I told you something was wrong!
“There’s a boy upstairs in the attic,” said Lincoln. “I’ve already got him cuffed. Now we have to find the mother.”
“I’ll check the barn,” said Dolan.
Claire protested, “Faye’s in a wheelchair! She couldn’t get out to the barn.
She’s got to be somewhere in this house.”
Ignoring her, Dolan turned and headed straight out the door.
She focused her attention back on the girl. Now that they were getting a pulse, she could stop pumping on the chest, and she was acutely aware that her hands were sticky with blood. She heard Lincoln and Pete running from
