God, but it was just the shadow of a memory. Nothing really. Only …
The man in the boots thanked Sal and turned from the register, heading for the door. As he passed by me, I smelled the overpowering scent of cigarette smoke—most likely the cause of that awful, loose cough.
Without letting myself consider it too much, I turned and followed him out, lagging behind so he didn’t notice. He got in a nondescript black pickup, and I followed as he turned out of the parking lot.
I stayed a few cars back, and continued driving as he pulled into the driveway of a home about ten blocks from the house where I’d spent six miserable years of my life.
Pulling to the curb a few streets over, I considered what to do. Should I call the police? Were a laugh and the sound of some shoes, a few remembered words, enough to get the authorities to check it out? I thought back to the way the two detectives had questioned me, and felt even more uncertain. If this turned out to be nothing, as it likely would, I’d appear even crazier.
But I’d dismissed my instinct before in favor of my own pride, and because of it, Ellie had ended up bloody and beaten behind a Dumpster. I let out a loud whoosh of breath, turning my truck around and heading back toward the house where the man presumably lived. This time, there was no truck in the driveway. I thought maybe he’d pulled it into the garage, but I’d seen him exiting his truck as I’d driven by. Had he returned home momentarily and left, or was it not his house? “Jesus,” I muttered. “Help me out here if you have some spare time.”
I drove past the house and parked a block up the street, walking back and trying to look as normal as possible. There was a woman in a track suit power walking on the other side of the street. I slowed down so she passed me, and I turned into the driveway of the house the man had gone into. Removing my baseball cap and tucking it into my back pocket, I peeked into the window of the garage. The garage was dark and the window tinted, but I couldn’t see a vehicle parked inside. I let out a relieved breath.
There was a row of junipers between that house and the one next door, and I circled around, concealed completely by the closely spaced trees. The last thing I needed was the police showing up while I cased the house. If I wasn’t considered a person of interest in the Wyatt Geller case now, I’d most likely be one after something like that.
There were small, tinted basement windows below the line of the yard with curved, tin window wells. Bars covered them. My heart started beating more harshly. I supposed it wasn’t unheard of to have bars over basement windows, but at the sight of them, in conjunction with the tint on the glass, my blood ran cold.
I looked down into the small gravel area and eyeballed whether I’d fit or not. I just needed to get a peek into the basement. If I didn’t see anything, I’d leave and determine whether I should call the police. I’d prefer to do it with a little more information than a long-ago memory and a gut feeling. I didn’t know if the police were overly responsive to such things.
Looking around to make sure I was completely out of view from the street and from neighbors, I maneuvered myself into one of the wells and squatted down to look into the window, shielding my eyes against the light. It was so dark inside, I had to press my forehead directly against the bars.
There was movement on the other side of the window. I pressed my face harder against the unforgiving metal. The tinted glass looked like the same type of glass that had been on Gary Lee’s windows—soundproof, unbreakable. Oh, Jesus. Jesus. A shadow moved behind the glass, small and childlike.
I heard a sound behind me and jerked just as something hard came crashing down on my head. Everything went dark.
* * *
The world swam around me, colors and light breaking through the fog in tiny pinpricks of pain. I moaned and tried to grip my head, but my hands were bound. I fought for consciousness, a burst of adrenaline bringing me from the depths of the blackout I’d been in.
I cracked my eyes open and looked around, immediately spotting a scared boy sitting at the end of the couch I was on. He was gaunt and terrified. I widened my eyes. “Wyatt Geller?” My voice croaked.
His eyes were wide, too, as he nodded his head.
Up above I heard a voice. “Goddammit, get over here and help me figure this shit out. There’s enough on my computer to have the police at your door in fifteen minutes.” He paused as if he was listening to someone on the other end of the phone. “I know what you told me. I’ll get rid of it, just help me out here.” He was quiet again, and then he mumbled some sort of goodbye and hung up. For a moment all was silent, and then I heard him pacing, recognized the click-clack of what I now knew to be cowboy boots.
I pulled at the bindings on my hands, feeling more alert. My head was pounding with pain. My feet were tied, too, and I’d been shoved on the sofa in a strange position that made my back ache. I straightened myself as much as possible and started frantically working my bindings. “I need help,” I told Wyatt.
“He said he’d only be upstairs for a second. He’ll kill me if I help you. He’ll kill my parents, too.”
I glanced at the stairs, fear licking at my spine. I’d been here before. Oh God, I’d been here before. I worked to control my racing heart, the frantic need to free myself. I knew from experience that the longer we were here, the less chance we had to escape.
The man upstairs had been taken off guard by my presence, and I had to use that advantage if we were going to get free. If not, he’d come up with a plan, he’d calm his own nerves, his reinforcements would arrive—maybe all of those things—and we’d stand no chance. I knew. I knew better than anyone. It was now or six years from now. More likely never.
I turned my eyes back to Wyatt. “He’ll kill both of us if you don’t. Help me out of these and I’ll help you get out of here.”
He was shaking so hard, his lips were quivering. “I just want to go home.”
“I know, Wyatt. God, believe me, I know. Your parents are waiting for you—Brent and Robin, they want you home so badly. Help me, please.”
Hearing the names of his parents caused his lip to start trembling and his eyes to fill with tears. “They want you back,” I repeated. “Help me so I can bring you home. It’s now or never, Wyatt. This is our best chance. Please.”
He paused another moment as I held my breath, and then he slid toward me, glancing back once at the stairwell. I let out a burst of relieved, pent-up air and turned and held my hands in his direction so he could work at the knots. “I … I was a Boy Scout. I kn-know how to work on knots.”
“That’s good, Wyatt. That’s perfect. Just do it quickly, please.”
He’d only been working at the bindings for about thirty seconds when the footsteps suddenly started getting louder and the door at the top of the stairs banged open. Wyatt jumped away from me, back to where he’d been cowering, and I turned quickly, laying my head back and moaning as if I was just regaining consciousness.
The man in the cowboy boots appeared in front of us. He’d removed his hat. “You’re awake,” he noted. His face was flushed, and there were dark rings of perspiration staining the armpits of his light blue shirt.
“Who are you?”
“Won’t matter to you.” He paused. “I’m gonna have to put you in the ground. Damn sorry about that. You shouldn’t have come nosing around. Goddamn it to hell.” He turned, running his hand through his thin, blondish-gray hair, pacing for a few minutes. I worked frantically to remove the loosened rope around my hands. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he murmured. I glanced at Wyatt, and his face was white with fear as he pressed himself into the couch as if trying to disappear inside the cushions. His eyes moved back and forth between the man and me.