Of course.
Rather than go at the final pin with only the spike, she’d use one of the loose pins as a tool, turning the spike into a hammer and the pin into leverage. She yanked out the top pin, the loosest, and jammed it below the final pin’s ball. She hammered once, testing it. The clanging echoed. Metal on metal was so loud. She considered timing it so the clang matched the heaviest treads overhead, but then those steps paused.
A door creaked open, a haunting sound, the one that had preceded his appearance the first couple times, maybe every time.
He was coming.
She blew out the kerosene lamp and stepped to the wall to the right of the door, light-headed from hunger and the quick movement. His singular footsteps clicked down what she’d come to envision as root cellar stairs, and then there was a new sound, at least new in this order—the creaking door closing after him. Why was he closing it this time? For the first time, she thought of it as a trapdoor in the ceiling overhead.
And then, the soft tremors on her level as he made his way to the dungeon door. She wondered if she would always hear his quiet footsteps.
Like Pavlov’s dog and the bell, if that sound would forever wind her tight.
She hoped so. It’d mean she’d survived.
CHAPTER 51
The cabin by Quarry Eleven was lit up, two cars out front, neither of them Ed’s blue Chevelle, but he wouldn’t be driving that anymore, would he? I’d tried to formulate a plan on the feverish bike ride over, but I couldn’t focus past the images of Junie in Ed’s grip, or worse, Junie’s corpse being dragged out of the quarry, staring at me with empty, puddly eyes.
A sob escaped my mouth.
I braked, dropped my bike, and stumbled through the cabin’s front door.
The main room was almost exactly as it had been when Ant brought me here, except the couch had been pushed against the far wall, and the large, oily rug in the center of the room was piled to the side, revealing a trapdoor.
Ant was perched on a chair near the bedroom where he’d gotten me to take off my shirt.
Ricky was leaning against the refrigerator in the kitchen section, toothpick in his mouth.
And next to Ricky?
Next to Ricky stood my beautiful, clever little sister, whole, healthy, and so relieved to see me that tears flooded her eyes. I wouldn’t have believed the scene if I wasn’t looking at it. Ricky and Ant, part of this horror show. Pantown boys, preying on their own, led by Ed Godo.
What was it Ant had said about Ed? With Ed, I don’t have to think at all. Same general thing Dad said about Jerome Nillson in high school. Except where was Ed?
“Hey, Heather,” Ricky said, like he’d been expecting me.
“Junie, get over here.” My voice was a croak.
A dozen feet separated her and Ricky from me. She took a shaky step forward, her movements wooden.
Ricky flexed, standing straighter. His hair was greased, styled like Ed’s, and the mustache he’d been growing was gone. His bowling-ball-hole eyes were sunken deeper than usual, like he hadn’t been sleeping. He wore his Pantown Panthers baseball shirt, cutoff shorts.
He looked like Ricky, but he wasn’t Ricky.
The boy who’d proudly shown me his train set, who’d brought Mrs. Brownie over every day for weeks when I was too scared of life to leave the house, who called me Head so we didn’t have to carry around the weight of pretending I was whole?
He was long gone.
“Junie Cash,” Ricky growled, “you’ll ignore your sister if you know what’s good for you.”
She stopped and grinned at him, Mom’s favorite coral lipstick speckling her teeth. Beneath the terror in her stretched lips, I recognized the bones of the smile we’d been practicing all summer.
“I was just telling Ricky that if they wanted to have a party out here at the cabin,” Junie said to me, her eyes locked on Ricky, her voice disconnected from her body, “I could cook for them. I’ve watched you cooking for the family, I told them, and so it would not be that much different for their friends. I told them I just needed to go to the store, to get some TV dinners.”
She turned that horror smile on me. “Do you want to go to the store with me, Heather? To get some TV dinners for them?”
Her raw fear, and even more so how desperately she was working to hide it, made me want to weep. She’d probably sneaked out here on her bike, thinking it’d be fun, like make-believe only better, dodging not only her nagging sister but also the secret agent in our living room. Creeping out past both of us to meet her crush at a cabin in the woods. Her grown-up crush who liked her red hair because it reminded him of his first girlfriend, and who’d abducted redheaded Beth McCain, and who’d killed the waitress in Saint Paul who I was willing to bet was also a redhead.