Through the dining area. Into the side hallway.
At the far end-Cain and Charles Kent, their backs to her. Trish ducked back into the dining area, hugging the wall.
After a mental count of ten she dared another look. The two men were gone. Must have entered the room at the end of the hall. Through the doorway Trish saw a vanity and a mirror. Master suite, presumably.
Ally’s room was closer. First door on the left, if her visualization of the house’s layout was correct. She crept toward it.
Movement in the master suite.
She froze. Was it Cain
No, only her reflection in the vanity’s mirror.
But if she could see herself in the silvered glass, anyone in the master suite could see her too. Either Charles or Cain might notice at any moment. Hurry.
She reached Ally’s door. Locked Please don’t let it be locked.
The knob turned freely.
Before opening the door, she lifted the Glock in her right hand.
Ally had appeared to be alone, but not every corner of the room was visible through the windows. There might be a guard.
Go in fast.
Her left hand swung the door ajar, and she pivoted through the doorway, her gaze sweeping the bedroom.
Canopy bed. Computer work station. Crowded bookcases. TV and VCR. Navajo rug tacked on the wall. Ally bound to a chair.
Nobody else.
The girl’s mouth formed a round shape of surprise. Trish silenced the half-voiced cry with a wordless shake of her head.
Softly she eased the door shut and locked it.
Ally stared through a skein of disheveled hair. Her lips barely moved as she whispered, “You’re dead.”
Trish managed a smile, her first in a long time. “Not yet.”
30
“My God.” Barbara stared at Charles as he stumbled into the closet, shoved by the tall ski-masked man with gray eyes. “What did they do to you”
Charles didn’t answer, didn’t seem to even understand. He blinked vapidly.
The doors swung shut, darkness slamming down.
“Charles” Philip laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You all right”
“Did they … hurt you” Barbara whispered.
No reply.
Outside, a chain rasped, a padlock clicked, footsteps retreated.
When Barbara was sure the man had left, she switched on the flashlight she’d hidden behind her back. Charles blinked in the wavering beam.
“Philip found it on the shelf while you were gone,” she said. “We put a box of earthquake supplies in here, remember”
Still Charles was silent. She studied his face, chalky in the pale circle of light. She saw no bruises, no sign of injury, yet an awful change had come over him. His smug assurance was gone. He was a broken man, a concentration camp survivor, all hollow eyes and bloodless lips.
Then an explanation occurred to her, terrible in its plausibility.
“Is it Ally Is she …” She couldn’t finish the question, wasn’t certain what horror she imagined: rape or torture or murder, or all three.
Finally Charles roused himself, a man climbing out of a deep sleep.
“No,” he said in a dusty voice. “Not Ally. Ally’s fine.” He nodded. “She’s fine. I saw her. She’s fine.”
“Where is she”
“Her bedroom.” Still nodding, nodding. “She’s comfortable. She’s fine.”
“Then … what happened”
“I opened the safe. That’s all.”
“But why do you look so … so …”
“I’m okay,” Charles said. “Really.”
Barbara exchanged a baffled glance with Judy, whose hand was absently stroking the spot between her collar bones where the crucifix had hung.
Like a patient father leading a small child, Philip ushered Charles to the wicker hamper. “Why don’t you rest your feet”
The hamper had creaked when Barbara sat on it earlier. But it registered Charles’s weight not at all, as if he weren’t really there, as if only his image inhabited the closet.
“That better” Philip asked.
“Much,” Charles said without visible reaction. “Much better.”
The flashlight was trembling. Barbara bit her lip. “Oh, Charles.”
Distantly she was surprised to hear herself speak her husband’s name with a tenderness she hadn’t felt in years.
31
Ally stared at Trish Robinson as she crossed the bedroom. Her attention was held by Trish’s eyes, electric blue, gleaming with an intensity that was almost scary.
They were the eyes of a jungle animal, grimly determined, hypervigilant, focused exclusively on the immediate moment. Eyes that could stare death in the face.
Maybe they already had.
Then her focus shifted to Trish’s hair-a wet mop-and her uniform-soaked through.
“The lake …” Ally whispered.
“What”
“That’s where Cain said he put you.”
“Temporarily.”
“You got away” The question was hushed, almost awed.
Shrug. “I’m here, aren’t I”
Trish holstered her gun and leaned over the chair, tugging at the knotted sheets. Her hands were shaking, her fingers clumsy, and Ally saw for the first time how scared she was-weak with fear but doing her best not to show it.
The fear made her more human, more real, not an apparition in a dream.
“You know martial arts” Ally asked. “Is that how you did it”
“They call me the dragon lady.”
“No, seriously.”
“Seriously-I just got lucky, okay”
Lucky. No way. She’d been fighting. Maybe not with kung fu and tae kwan do, but it had been a battle, all right. Ally noted the abrasions on her wrists and knuckles, the cuts and bruises on her bare forearms.
But how could she have fought anybody She was still handcuffed, her arm movements severely restricted.
Handcuffed …
“Hey, didn’t they cuff your hands behind your back”
“I moonlight as a contortionist.” She gave up trying to loosen the stubborn knots and unsheathed a knife.
