He needed to get out of the cage while Skeeter still had a few fingers left. A glossy magazine image, picked up in his memory palace, presented an idea for addressing the handcuffs. He needed privacy and time to attempt the escape mechanics. Locating the neural pathways — not traveled since escaping a metal box back in Florida — required absolute concentration.
“Lizzy,” he said in his most reasonable sounding voice. “You’re in pain. I can hear it in your voice. You know what pain does to one’s decision-making ability?”
“Of course I know!”
“Then be smart. Give yourself a break. Take another dose of whatever pain medicine you have upstairs. You won’t extract information when you’re not thinking clearly. Trust me. He may look like a hillbilly, and he is, but he’s a tough old coot. You’re using a sledgehammer approach instead of a scalpel. That’s sloppy work and you know it.”
The scalpel analogy hit first...hard. Then sloppy knocked it out of the park. As an educated medical professional and a high-functioning serial killer, what insult could be worse?
She spun again, a whirling dervish of frustration and agony, tossed the stainless steel implement into the rolling cabinet, then stormed out of the basement.
“We don’t have long,” Fergus said when the door closed.
“What you got in mind?”
“Vacating this cage.”
“Well, get on with it while I still have enough fingers left to wipe my ass.”
He closed his eyes. “’Fore we left to come lookin’ for you and Willa, we went by my daughter’s U-Haul. That young woman is one smart cookie, as you know. She brung all kinda things when she left Knoxville. Most of it we’ve put to good use, but some of it we ain’t.”
“If you don’t mind, Skeeter, I’m trying to concentrate. These handcuffs are more challenging than I’m used to.”
“Yeah, I knew you weren’t no professor. Maybe you’re into that...what do ya call it? M and Ms?”
Fergus sighed, annoyed. “That’s S and M...sadism and masochism. Anyway, I need complete quiet for a few minutes, please.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just use a key? I brung three different types, just in case.”
Fergus leaped off the bench. “Why the hell didn’t you say something sooner?”
“Sorry, little feller. I forgot about ‘em when I first came down here. Been forgettin’ more and more lately. Seeing them schematics you was thinkin’ about just now triggered a memory of me fetchin’ the keys out of the U-Haul. Don’t remember now why I did that.” A corner of the old man’s mouth turned down. “Then I was busy getting my fingers chopped off. Here ya go.” He reached into one of the overall pockets with his non-damaged hand. With perfect dexterity, he tossed the metal objects through the steel bars. All three landed on the concrete floor next to Fergus’s boots. Two of them would fit older model handcuffs. The third should open the two-lock mechanism of the constraints behind his back.
Too bad about Skeeter’s memory issues. Fergus remembered the old man mentioning them when he first arrived. Early onset dementia automatically ruled out an invitation to Cthor-Vangt, not that the old man would have accepted it anyway.
Fergus made quick work of the key. The handcuffs fell to the floor.
“How you gonna open the cage door?”
“That’s the easy part. The Masterlock ProSeries 6121 is not the easiest padlock to pick nor is it the most difficult. Now that my hands are free, I can access the lock-pick in my boot.” He reached down to his Doc Martens, twisted the lug sole twenty degrees, and then withdrew a small tool with a zig-zag tip.
“Them’s some kind of spy boots? What the hell did you really do before Chicksy?” Skeeter asked, beginning to actively wiggle now. The drug must be wearing off.
“I’ve worked at many jobs in my life. Maybe I’ll tell you about a few when we’re out of here.”
“You sure are an interesting little man.”
“Skeeter, you have no idea.”
“Someone’s coming,” he said suddenly.
“Damn it. I almost have it. Three...more...seconds.”
The basement door flew open again, but by then he was out of the cage and reaching into the tool cabinet for something to use on Lizzy.
He pivoted, bone saw in hand, to face the muzzle of a rifle.
But it wasn’t Lizzy wielding the weapon.
“Where is she?” Otis snapped.
“Isn’t she upstairs?” Fergus said, allowing a moment of relief to wash through his body before addressing Skeeter’s shackles.
“No. Upstairs is empty.”
“She went up there less than five minutes ago. Did you have the cabin under surveillance? Who’s with you?”
“Serena Jo and the kids. They’re hidden. I barricaded the back door and then came in through the front. She’s gotta be in here.”
A niggling thought that had been hovering around the perimeter of consciousness surfaced, evoked by memories of Harlan’s astral-plane images. During their telepathic conversation, Harlan had transmitted what he saw as he hovered above the cabin. Several details stood out: the motorcycle and its helmet and the igloo-shaped structure near the foundation. He’d figured out the significance of the helmet. Now he thought he’d identified the purpose of the dog house.
“Damn it,” he said, as the lock-pick found the sweet spot. Skeeter stood, a bit wobbly on his feet, but already making a beeline for the door. “Hold up, old man. Let’s get that hand bandaged before you lose any more blood.”
“We don’t have time for that.”
Otis glanced down at the fingers on the floor, then Skeeter’s hand. Wordlessly, he blocked the door with a nod to Fergus.
“Dang it!” Skeeter said.
Fergus was already rifling through the rolling cabinet, pushing aside implements of torture. He located a tube of Neosporin
