She flipped the log up to see a trapdoor, like a miniature storm shelter. Joshua had told her where the key was hidden, in the interior knot of the fake log. She found it, unlocked the wooden door, lifted it up. Damp must drifted out, the scent of the earth mingled with too much time. She played her flashlight into the hole, saw the small set of stairs.
She glanced back over her shoulder at the ice-blue sky, then took the first step.
The birds stopped singing.
Fifty-Four
B aldwin pulled the car over and put his head in his hands.
“Think,” he said aloud to himself.
Where are you, Taylor?
“What’s wrong?” Marcus asked. “What did she say?”
“She said we’d know where she was. She’s not thinking clearly.”
“I’d say she was pretty clearheaded.”
“So you heard?” There would be no secrets after this, among any of them.
“The only obvious thing was the words child and Charlotte. Add to that the tone of fury, and you do the math. I’m a detective, remember? You had a kid with Charlotte?”
Baldwin ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s a long story, but yes. One small detail, I just found out about him last year. I’ve been looking for him ever since.”
“Last year? And you didn’t tell her? No wonder she’s pissed.”
“Yes, thanks. I should have told her right away, I know. I was afraid I would lose her, that she wouldn’t be able to forgive me. Looks like I was right.”
“She’s not prone to histrionics. If you’d been up front with her, I’m sure she could have forgiven you.”
“I fucked up. Trust me, I know. And now she’s off on a suicide mission. Where did she go? Where did Copeland take Sam? It’s someplace meaningful, someplace that Taylor would easily guess. From their past, maybe. Goddamn it, she said I know where she is. Where is she?”
Marcus thought for a minute.
“Where it all began. They’re at the Snow White’s house.”
Fifty-Five
T aylor took four quick steps down into the tunnel, then squatted and pulled the door shut behind her.
Dark. Quiet. The Maglite beam bit into the gloom and showed her the path. She moved quickly now, ignoring the scent of rot. If it had been summer, it would have been worse. Instead, it was simply cold, hard, like frozen flesh.
She counted off thirty paces before she saw the door to the house fifteen yards in front of her. She stopped and turned to her right. The key was on the ledge, a foot from the door, right where Joshua had said it would be. She held it in her palm and took a few deep breaths.
No turning back now.
A bit of light bled from the crack under the door. Taylor eased the key into the lock and turned. The door opened silently, no old squeaking hinges, like it had been oiled down for just that purpose. A trap? Maybe, but a chance she was willing to take. A dark hallway led away and up from the entry. She clicked on the Maglite for just a moment and flashed it up the stairs, just so she could see what was ahead of her, then turned it off, shut the door behind her and stepped into the gloom.
She shut her eyes and let the darkness surround her. Acclimated. It smelled musty and damp, the house had been closed up for almost a year. Old air, recently disturbed.
She opened her eyes and saw the silhouette of the stairs. Back stairs. Servants’ stairs. Narrow and steep and dark, not at all like the open staircase rising out in the front of the house.
Stairs for those less worthy. Perfect for her right now.
She climbed them slowly, silently, controlling her breathing. Waved a cobweb away from her face. Listened with each step. Joshua had said that Copeland would be in the attic. Four flights up. She was on the second when she heard crying.
Sam.
Taylor forced herself not to take off at speed, but stepped up the pace. Third floor now, and she heard him talking. She stopped to listen, gritting her teeth. She needed to ascertain where he was in the room so she didn’t hurt Sam when she came in shooting.
She crept up four more stairs. She’d go with the self-defense plan. She drew her Glock from its holster. She could see the light under the partially open door.
Sam was crying, soft, kittenish mews. She was in pain. Copeland, she assumed it must be Copeland, was talking. About his sister. A running dialog. It sounded like he was pacing, too. Taylor could smell blood, was just happy that Sam was still alive, alive enough to cry. It meant she still cared, that whatever horror Copeland had visited upon her, she still had the presence of mind to find it terrible. Taylor had seen too many women brutalized who were silent, blankly staring out of dull irises.
She crept two more stairs, only two to the door now. She could hear him clearly, talking, incessantly talking.
“You know, Sam, my sister, Ruth, she was a good girl. Personality of a paper cut, but once you got to know her, she was a really sweet, loving, kind girl. She missed her call in, I would assume she’s dead. I kind of thought I’d have a moment to say goodbye, that her ghost would come and talk to me. Do you think the ghost of your baby will talk to you?”
Taylor forced herself to bite her lip. One more stair now. The shadow was crossing the doorframe, back and forth. She just needed to listen to his voice carefully, ascertain when he was facing away from the door. That was when she’d make her move.
The last stair, and he was still talking. “My mother was a sick bitch, too, you know that? She used to cut me. Just to see the blood pool. And then she’d beat me when I bled on the sheets. My hands were always red and chapped from all of the bleach I had to use to get the blood out. Look at the time. Where is Miss Taylor? I thought she would be here by now, her cavalry with her. That sweet, nice Dr. Baldwin, riding at her side. Were you jealous when they met? I imagine it must have been hard to give up your slavishly devoted best friend.”
“Fuck. You,” Sam said.
Atta girl, Taylor thought. She heard the steps move away from the door, the voice grew fainter. Now. Now was her chance.
She kicked the door open and entered the room, gun raised. The room was small and she was quick. He didn’t see her coming, turned with a look of pure shock. She grinned wildly-she’d caught him by surprise. She had him. He moved toward her and she lashed out with the weapon, caught him on the temple. She followed with a roundhouse left, caught him square on the cheek. His head snapped back, she heard a crack. She’d broken something, blood bloomed bright on his cheek. His fragile cheek. She got her first unencumbered glimpse of him as he was going down. It was Iles all right. He didn’t look anything like the man she’d seen in Control. It was hard to believe that was the same man, it was astounding how much work he’d had done. He had smooth, unnaturally tanned skin, the nose straight and narrow, the chin full and square. She threw another punch toward his chin as he went down.
He grabbed at her legs and she kicked him hard, twice, right in the chest, knocking the breath out of him. She glanced at Sam. Her face was screwed up in pain, the cream cashmere sweater she was wearing bloodied around her waist. She was handcuffed to the chair, her arms behind her. Taylor saw the ammonia-he must have been using it to keep Sam alert while he cut her. She saw the extra blood on her, in between her legs, on the floor beneath her.
