Heavy metal music blared through the hallway. Deafening. He clutched his ears, a breath away from ripping twin slices of flesh and cartilage off his head.
“Stop it.” He screamed. “Stop it! Stop it!”
That’s when the light flashed outside the bathroom window. A pinprick of illumination between the sill and the drawn shade. It was so subtle, it might have been a firefly.
Yet Alec Samson knew better. The break in the pattern. A fly caught in the spider’s web.
He shuffled toward the window and stared out toward the garage.
“Here, piggy piggy.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Sunday, August 15th
9:35 p.m.
Thomas grabbed his firearm when the screaming started. Though it was difficult to discern over the thundering music, there was no mistaking the woman’s cries.
He checked his phone for Aguilar’s message. She hadn’t gotten the judge to sign the warrant yet. He radioed his position to dispatch and called for backup, knowing no one was coming. Aguilar was on the opposite side of Wolf Lake, and Lambert was home. It would take a half-hour for either of his deputies to reach County Line Road, and just as long before the state police arrived.
Then he was running at the leering fun house. The overgrown, dewy grass wicking his pant legs. Night hurtling past his face as deafening booms exploded upstairs, as if someone pounded holes in the walls.
He sensed, though he didn’t see, the double bolted locks on the back door. He kicked the door open. It whipped into the kitchen and bashed the wall as he shone the flashlight over the dark interior.
“Nightshade County Sheriff’s Department!”
The music mocked his pronouncement. Shook the walls and forced Thomas to place a hand over one ear. Loud noises had always disturbed him, a symptom of autism. The affect had worsened after the Los Angeles shooting.
Oblong light from upstairs fell over the lower landing. He aimed his gun up the staircase.
“Justine Adkins. Can you hear me?”
The hammering continued. Between the blasting music and the explosions reverberating through the walls, he couldn’t tell where the sounds came from. Intent on climbing the stairs, he swung around when a woman cried out. From beneath his feet.
He peered down at the floorboards. The basement.
Gun raised with the barrel aimed up the staircase, he retreated from the speed metal and returned to the kitchen. Sweeping the flashlight across the kitchen, he spotted a door in the corner leading down to the basement. Two locks secured the door. They required keys.
“Justine Adkins, this is Sheriff Shepherd with the Nightshade County Sheriff’s Department. You’re safe.”
“Get me out of here. He’ll kill me!”
Thomas glanced around the room, hoping against hope the keys hung in the kitchen. No luck. He tugged the handle and found the reinforced door impossible to budge. Darkness crept inside the kitchen and slithered up to him, embracing his body with cold, dead hands. He swung his gaze over his shoulder. Knew Alec Samson was somewhere in the house and aware of Thomas’s presence. Options flew through his head. He dare not shoot the locks without knowing the layout of the basement or where Alec Samson held Justine Adkins.
“Tell me where you are.”
“I’m in the dark! He chained me to the wall. Open the door!”
“I need the keys, Justine. Stay calm. I’ll be back for you as soon as I can unlock the door.”
“Don’t leave me down here. Please, please, please! Sheriff!”
Thomas hated to abandon her in that private hell a second longer. But he had no way to break into the basement, and a murderer was somewhere in the house.
The disorientating music and pounding pummeled his ears. Another scream. He thought it was Justine again. But this cry came from elsewhere. Another prisoner inside the house.
He hurried across the kitchen toward the threshold. Recognized the blind spot beyond the door. Always the most dangerous place. Breaths flew in and out of his chest as he pressed his back against the wall. Turned the corner and aimed the gun up the staircase. Then swung the weapon toward the darkened living room. The upstairs seemed too bright, almost as if the upper floor was ablaze.
As he stepped toward the stairs, the lights went out. Suffocating black. Interrupted only by the flash beam as he swept the light from the chipped plaster to the wobbling banister. Alec Samson had snuffed the power somehow, though the infernal music continued. Battery operated radio. Somehow, the music and explosions sounded louder in the dark.
He considered withdrawing to the kitchen. Shooting the locks out on the basement door, despite the risks. Then what? Shoot the chains off Justine’s wrists and leave the second prisoner upstairs until help arrived?
A soiled shirt draped over the steps. He brushed it aside and waited for his eyes to adjust.
The cacophony masked his approach. A door stood open straight ahead. His brain resolved the familiar shapes—a sink and faucet with a toilet in the corner. Two closed doors to either side of the hallway. The one on his left buckled each time the prisoner threw her body against it.
“Who’s out there?” The second prisoner’s voice. “Please, I know someone is there. If you can hear me, my name is Skye Feron.”
Thomas spun his head toward the door. Skye Feron. Impossible. Had Alec held the girl prisoner all these years?
He moved to the top of the staircase. One thin wall between him and whatever hid in the dark. The flashlight still shone. He considered turning it off so Samson wouldn’t see his approach. But he couldn’t bear that much black and place himself at the killer’s mercy. Two danger areas. The bathroom and the open bedroom. If Samson wasn’t inside either room, he’d fled to the attic crawlspace. Thomas’s eyes widened until his head hurt.
He set his back against the wall. Reached out and tested the knob on the closed door. It wouldn’t open. Like everything else in this murder house, it opened with a key. The jiggling handle got Skye screaming again. She knew he was on the other side of the door,
