herself. “But of course you’re not interested in Matt, are you? It’s that Adams girl you called about. But I’m afraid I can’t help you any more than I could help her father. I simply haven’t seen her.”
Dan was about to hang up when he realized that Joan hadn’t asked about her mother. In fact, Joan hadn’t called all afternoon to ask whether he’d found any sign of Emily Moore. “Joan, are you all right?” he asked.
“Of course I’m all right,” Cynthia replied, and after a moment added, “I mean, given the circumstances.”
Even after he hung up, Pullman’s eyes remained fixed on the phone. Something wasn’t right. Everything Joan Hapgood had said sounded a bit off, as if there were someone else in the room with her, making her try to act as if nothing was wrong.
But who? Matt?
But Matt was barely sixteen years old, and as far as Pullman knew, neither his mother nor anyone else had ever been the least bit intimidated by him. No one, anyway, except Eric Holmes, and Pullman was no more inclined to believe Eric’s story now than he had been last night. But he was certain that something was wrong at the Hapgood house. Getting out of his chair, he tiredly began putting his uniform back on, meanwhile working on a mental list of things to do before he actually went back out to see Joan Hapgood. Given what her attorney had told him just last night, he knew he’d better have a lot more to go on than just a feeling that something wasn’t right out there. So first he would have a talk with Frank Adams, and Phyllis too, if she was sober enough to be coherent. Then he’d have a look around and see if he could find Becky in the usual places kids went. And finally he would call Trip Wainwright — better to take him along than have Joan call him herself.
It was going to be a long evening.
* * *
HE DIDN’T BELIEVE me, Cynthia thought as she put the phone down. He’s going to come out here and try to take my son away from me. But he won’t… he won’t take Matt away.
CHAPTER 27
FINGERS OF PANIC reached out of the darkness toward Matt, but before they could find a hold on the fringes of his mind, he managed to pull away, to force himself to ignore the suffocating blackness that had not only blinded him, but threatened to drive him into a terror so deep he knew he might never escape. The panic had become a living thing — he could feel its presence circling him in the darkness, relentlessly stalking him as it waited for a moment of weakness in which it would be able to slip through the barriers he’d put up.
He had to find some way to escape, to get to the trapdoor in the ceiling. Kelly Conroe, with one of her arms broken and her body so badly bruised that she couldn’t bear the pain, had retreated back into the sanctuary of unconsciousness. Matt was certain that if he didn’t find a way to get her out, she would die.
Like his grandmother had died.
Twice, he’d made a circuit of the perimeter of the chamber, feeling his way along the wall like a rat sniffing its way through a sewer. Twice, he’d come to his grandmother’s corpse. Twice, he’d felt his fingers sink into her cold flesh. The first time, his belly had contracted in a spasm of retching, and his mouth filled with bile.
“What’s wrong?” Becky had whispered, hearing him coughing and gagging. Though she’d kept her voice so low it was almost inaudible, it seemed to Matt to echo off the walls, resounding so loudly that he was certain his mother would appear at any moment.
“It’s okay,” he whispered back when he trusted himself to speak. “I–I just ran into something, that’s all.”
The second time he touched his grandmother’s rotting flesh, he shuddered silently but managed to control his stomach.
But how much longer could he hold the panic at bay? It grew stronger, loomed larger in the blackness. He could feel it sinking its talons into his mind, but as he shook it off, he lost his orientation. Then every direction seemed the same, and when he once more found a wall, he had no more idea of where he was than he’d had before. “Becky?”
“I’m over here.”
Her voice seemed to be off to the right, but Matt wasn’t certain. “Where?” he asked. “Keep talking. I have to find you.” As Becky continued whispering, he moved toward her voice, reaching out into the darkness. Finally he touched her, and felt her recoil in the blackness. “It’s only me,” he said. “Don’t be scared.”
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
“I have an idea,” Matt said. “I don’t know if it will work, but I can’t think of anything else.”
“What is it?”
“We’ll start from one of the corners. You’ll get on my shoulders, and when we get to the trapdoor, you can lift it up.”
“I’ll fall!” Becky protested.
“No, you won’t,” Matt assured her. “I can hold you up, and you can balance yourself by holding on to the ceiling.”
“But what if — ” Becky began, but Matt didn’t let her finish, afraid that if he didn’t assert himself, he might lose what little confidence the darkness hadn’t yet robbed him of.
“We have to try it,” he said. “Come on.” Holding Becky’s hand, he groped his way through the darkness until he came to one of the walls, then edged along it until he was in a corner. He knelt down, crouching low, facing the wall. “Climb up on my shoulders,” he told her. “Put your right foot up first, and lean against the wall. When I tell you, pull your other foot up. Then straighten up, and once you can balance yourself, I’ll stand up. Okay?”
“I–I guess,” Becky stammered.
Matt crouched down, and a moment later felt one of Becky’s feet touch his back. “Higher,” he said. She lifted it up, and he used his hand to guide it onto his shoulder. “Okay, now lean forward, and pull your other foot up.” He felt Becky’s weight bear down on him, and then, just as he thought he might collapse under the pressure on his right shoulder, she quickly lifted her other foot, found his left shoulder, and balanced her weight. “Good,” Matt grunted. “Now, try to stand up. Just do it slowly, and feel your way along.”
“Okay,” she said a few seconds later. “I’m standing up. Now what?”
“Now I’m going to hold onto your ankles. Try to stand up,” Matt told her. Straightening his back, he flexed his knees. For a second he thought it wouldn’t work, but then he was able to straighten up until he was standing upright. “Can you touch the ceiling?”
“Uh-huh,” Becky grunted.
“Okay. I think I know where the trapdoor is, but you’ll have to tell me when you feel it.” He took a step away from the corner of the room, then another. He concentrated on moving toward the center of the room, but in the absence of light, he couldn’t be sure exactly where he was.
After he’d taken four steps, Becky said, “I feel it!”
“Try to lift it!” Matt replied. He straightened up, locking his knees, and she shoved at the door.
It rose just enough for a faint glimmer of gray light to show through a crack, then fell back into its frame.
“What happened?” he gasped.
“I can’t lift it,” Becky moaned. “It’s too heavy!”
“Try again,” Matt said.
Once again Becky struggled to raise the trapdoor, but again its weight defeated her. This time she lost her balance, but as she dropped down, he managed to break her fall by wrapping his arms around her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice choking as she clung to him. “I just couldn’t do it!”
“It’s okay,” he replied, trying to think of another solution. There was only one he could come up with. “You’re going to have to hold me.”
“I can’t!” Becky protested.
