Vicious

again. “Go away!” he yelled. “Mommy…Mommy!”

Susan raced up the hill toward the house and the sound of his voice. The sunroom door was open, just as she’d left it. Inside the house, she stopped suddenly. She couldn’t hear him anymore. The place was deathly quiet.

She rushed toward the front of the house, where the door was closed and locked. “Mattie?” she called, running up the stairs two steps at a time. “Mattie? Sweetie?”

Stopping in his doorway, she froze. His bed was empty.

“Mattie?” she screamed again, panic-stricken. She swiveled around and checked the bathroom—empty. Then she hurried down the hall to the master bedroom. He wasn’t in there either. But she noticed the closet door was ajar. She heard a quiet whimpering.

“Mattie, honey?” she asked, trying to catch her breath. She moved toward the closet. “Sweetie, are you in there?”

“Mommy?”

“Oh, thank God,” she whispered. She opened the door and found him sitting curled up amid Allen’s and her shoes. Knees to his chest, he clutched Woody against the side of his face. She crouched down and reached out for him. “Sweetie, what happened?”

He threw his arms around her neck. “I woke up and you were gone!” he cried. “There’s a monster in my room. I’m hiding from him. He—he—he’s under the bed….”

“It’s okay, Mattie,” she said, hugging him and patting his back. Finally, she lifted him up and carried him out of the bedroom. She headed for the stairs. “Everything’s going to be all right,” she cooed reassuringly. “We’re leaving here now. Okay, sweetie? I’ll make sure this monster doesn’t get anywhere near you….”

Susan meant every word she said.

It didn’t work worth a damn.

Moira gave up trying to manipulate the lock with the flimsy, bent barrette clip. She moved away from the door and blindly felt around the shelves of the metal bookcase for something else she might use to trip the lock. The tall shelving unit had been put together with thin perforated metal pieces and screws. She found a discarded bracket lying in the back corner of the second-to-top shelf. The perforated piece was a bit longer than a nail file and only slightly thicker.

She slipped it in the door hinge by the lock, wiggling and maneuvering it while she twisted the knob. “C’mon, please, God,” she whispered.

Suddenly she heard a click, and the knob turned.

With a grateful little cry, she pushed at the door with her shoulder. But it didn’t budge. She couldn’t understand it. She’d tripped the stupid lock. She kept twisting and turning the knob. What was going on?

Then Moira realized what was going on was the door must have another lock, probably a dead bolt.

“Goddamn it!” Moira cried, her voice raspy. Frustrated, she almost threw the metal piece across the tiny room. But she thought better of it. She might need the metal bracket as a weapon against that man when he came back for her, and he almost certainly would. Of course, she might as well defend herself with a butter knife. But it beat nothing.

Moira told herself that she wouldn’t become one of his victims. That photo of her and her pink bra—they would be the last in his collection. She would survive this. She’d have to crawl or hobble, but she would get out of this cold, stinking little dungeon.

And stink it did. She was probably contributing to the foul smell herself after all her time in that dirty pit and then here in this little closet. Not much fresh air passed through the fan box near the ceiling.

Moira squinted up at it. She saw by the slivers of daylight seeping through those slats. There was no other light source. She wondered if she could fit through that opening. Maybe, she thought if she could pry or unscrew the slat covering.

A while ago, she hadn’t been able to see her hand in front of her face. But Moira’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, because she could now see the thin metal bracket in her grasp. She probably had a snowball’s chance in hell of clearing that opening and making it through to the outside. But she had to try.

And she had to work fast. Any time now, her abductor could come for a second visit. Another concern was that the light through those slats was starting to dim. It was getting dark out.

Pretty soon, she wouldn’t be able to see anything—except blackness.

And then she might as well be dead.

Strapped in his car seat, Mattie kicked and wiggled in protest. His pinched-up face got red as he cried—a cranky, staccato whine that was, erratically, loud and then quieter.

Susan handed him Woody, and he immediately threw the doll on the car floor. The aborted nap definitely hadn’t agreed with him. If Susan only could have put him back to bed, he might have calmed down and slept for another half hour and then been fine. Instead, she’d swept him up in her arms and carried him downstairs, where she grabbed her purse and his jacket. He’d started crying just as she’d headed out the door.

“That’s no way to treat your pal, Woody,” Susan said, having to talk loudly over his wailing. She picked up the doll and set it on the car seat—out of his reach. “I need you to be a good boy, Mattie. Okay?”

But he was cranky, scared, and disoriented. Susan knew exactly how he felt. Obviously, Allen was in some sort of secret communication with the person who had sent that e-mail. The photo of that teenage girl and the pink souvenir were meant for him. Susan wondered if Allen knew the girl. Whatever the case, the e-mails confirmed it: Allen definitely had an ulterior motive for this weekend getaway—but what exactly? And why did he have to drag her and Mattie up here for this trip?

She wondered about that poor girl. Jordan and his friend had said she’d gone for a walk in the woods. Were they lying? Were they the ones who sent that e-mail to Allen?

Susan hurried around the car to the driver’s side and climbed behind the wheel. She was about to shut the door when she heard the sound of gravel under tires. She hesitated, unsure who it could be—maybe Allen, finally pulling into the driveway, or maybe the man who had sent him that horrible e-mail.

Susan shut her door and locked it. She started up the engine, but waited. That other car, when it arrived, would block the driveway. Susan reached into her purse for the flare gun and set it beside her. One hand, white- knuckled, on the steering wheel, she warily gazed in the rearview mirror, waiting for the other car to come into view. Please be Tom, she thought. It was crazy, but the most comforting sight right now for her would be that red MINI Cooper coming up the driveway.

Mattie’s irritable cries competed with the sound of the approaching vehicle, but Susan could still hear it, coming up the driveway. “Mattie, sweetie, enough is enough,” she growled. She nervously twisted the loose indicator handle. She kept fiddling with it until she’d completely unscrewed it from the steering column. “Shit,” she muttered under her breath, screwing it back into place. Mattie didn’t hear her swear. He was still crying.

In her rearview mirror, Susan watched a police car come around the tree-lined curve in the driveway. “Oh, great,” she grumbled, switching off the ignition. It was the sheriff, that panty-bandit. But maybe he’d come with some news; maybe they’d located Allen.

Biting her lip, she glanced over her shoulder as the patrol car parked behind her Toyota.

“I don’t wanna ride in the car!” Mattie was complaining.

“Sweetie, please,” she said, shushing him. She watched and waited while the cop remained in the front seat of his prowler for a few moments. When he finally stepped out of the patrol car, Susan saw it was the deputy. A notebook in his hand, he started toward the house.

Susan opened her door. “Deputy?” she called.

The solidly built blond cop turned. “Oh, Ms. Blanchette, there you are….”

“Did you find Allen?” she asked apprehensively.

“I’m afraid not,” he said—talking a bit loudly to be heard over Mattie’s cries. He waved at him, but it didn’t do any good. Mattie kept screaming. “Somebody’s not too happy….”

“He got shortchanged in the nap department this afternoon,” Susan explained, rubbing her forehead. From this part of the driveway, she had a view of the backyard—and the boat by their dock. U know better than 2 involve police, the e-mail had said. Then again, maybe the police were already involved. Maybe they were looking for that poor girl.

“Ah, if you didn’t come about Allen, what—what can I do for you, deputy?” she asked.

“Oh, please, call me Corey,” he replied with a cordial smile. “Nancy gave me your message….”