I couldn’t let that happen.
“Can we stop him?” Abby asked, doubt drawing her frown into a grimace.“The council can. But if we hurry, I think I know how they can catch him, too. Are you okay with waiting?”
She stared at me, looking for some kind of reassurance, but I had nothing left to offer her. She sighed. “Yeah. But hurry.”
“I’ll try.” Bending, I plucked my lock from the floor and stuffed it into my pocket, next to the key and the cell phone. “Hey, Abby, I need you to do one more thing,” I said, backing toward the bathroom beneath the stairs.
“What?”
“Scream.”
“Scream?” Her mouth turned up in a hesitant smile.
“Yeah. Scream as loud as you can. When Ryan comes in and asks you what’s wrong, point at Eric. I’ll take care of the rest. Okay?”
She nodded. “Say when.”
I stepped into the bathroom and pulled the door most of the way closed, leaving a crack just wide enough for me to see through with one eye. “Now.”
Abby screamed. Boy, did she scream. It was every cliché in the book: bloodcurdling, glass-shattering, and eardrum-bursting. It was a high-pitched wave of sound that resonated in my bladder and probably startled dogs all over the neighborhood. It was perfect. She’d found the ideal outlet for her pent-up fright and pain.
Footsteps pounded on the floor overhead before she’d even closed her mouth. Ryan threw the door open and rushed down the steps, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to investigate. “Abby, what the hell?” he demanded, just out of my sight.
She pointed at my cage with her trembling right hand. The other was pressed to her mouth in very real horror.
Ryan came into view slowly, taking in my open cage and the body on the mattress. “Oh, fuck.”
Go look, I thought, mentally urging him forward.
“Oh, shit.” He turned to Abby, his face scared and pale. “Where’s Faythe?”
No, I thought. Go look at Eric. Go. But he didn’t go.
“Abby, where the hell is Faythe?” he asked again, approaching her cage with heavy, threatening steps. I was almost impressed.
She backed up and shook her head, her hand falling to hang limp at her side. She wasn’t enjoying her performance at all, probably because art was imitating her real life. Her initial glee had fled at the first sign of my brother’s temper, which worried me on behalf of her recovery.
“Answer me!” Ryan shouted, slamming his fists on the bars. “They’ll go after my mom, now tell me where the hell she is!”
Abby jumped when he yelled. “Gone,” she whispered, real tears standing in her eyes. “She left me here.”
“No,” Ryan whispered, his denial simple and desperate.
“I think he’s still breathing.” She pointed at the body on the mattress.
Good girl, I thought, pleased that she still had the presence of mind to redirect Ryan’s focus.
He glanced back at Eric, and my hand tightened around the lock. “Oh, great. What am I supposed to do, call a doctor?” He threw his hands in the air, as if a mortally injured accomplice was a huge inconvenience to his busy schedule of television watching. Ryan stomped toward the open cage, dragging his feet in dread. The moment he crossed the threshold, I ran for it.
He knelt beside the body, his back to me. His hands hovered over Eric’s shredded neck, trying to decide where best to check for a pulse. My bare feet were silent on the concrete. He didn’t know I was there until I slammed the door shut.
Ryan leapt to his feet, whirling around. Furious, he lunged for the door. I slammed the latch closed. He hit the bars with his shoulder. He shoved, the muscles in his neck bulging under the strain. The door opened half an inch, then an inch more. He had the advantage in both size and strength. I couldn’t hold him in for long.
I readied the lock in my right hand. Ryan pushed again. I let the door open a few more inches. Grunting, I braced my right foot against his chest and shoved with every spark of energy left in my body.
Ryan stumbled backward. He tripped over Eric to land on the soiled mattress. Scrambling back, he stared in horror at the corpse in front of him. I swung the lock up and through the metal loop on the door. It snapped closed with a decisive-sounding click.
Ryan scurried around Eric and lunged at the bars, but I backed out of his reach. “You little bitch,” he spat. “You did this on purpose.”
“You bet your ass.”
“Think you’re so smart…” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, holding it up for me to see.
Squinting at the display, I was dismayed to see that unlike Eric’s Nokia, Ryan’s Sony Ericsson got a decent signal in the basement. Three bars. Great. I couldn’t let him keep the phone.
“You’re bluffing,” I said, still squinting as if I couldn’t focus on the tiny screen. “You can’t get a signal down here.”
Doubt flickered across his face, and he glanced at the phone. “Three bars,” he said, grinning smugly.
“The only bars I see are made of metal.”
“Get your eyes checked.” He thrust his hand from the cage, holding the phone out for my inspection. I sprang forward, plucking it from his fist before he had a chance to react.
My brother swore under his breath, and I smirked. “That is why you couldn’t make it on your own, Ryan. You either ignore your instinct, or you have none. That’s why Daddy couldn’t make you an enforcer, and why he’s going to put you out of your misery.” I paused to give him a moment to think over his predicament. “However, if you say the magic words, I might be willing to speak to him on your behalf. For a price.”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”
“Cooperation. Help. A chance to redeem yourself, as you should have done earlier.”
He hesitated, clearly weighing his options. I knew from the resignation on his face that he’d come to the same conclusion I had. “Can you guarantee my life?”
“I can try,” I said. He nodded, and I beamed in triumph. “Excuse me for a moment, please, Ryan. I have to make a call.” After a moment of indecision, I pulled Eric’s phone from my pocket and replaced it with Ryan’s. Bubbling over with smug satisfaction, I hugged Abby one more time, then skipped toward the stairs.
My brother’s scream of rage and defeat followed me all the way into the kitchen.
Twenty-SixI dialed my father’s personal line on my way up the stairs, and punched the SEND button from the kitchen. As the phone rang, I rummaged through the fridge. My mouth was full of someone’s leftover burrito when Michael answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Michael, it’s me,” I said around a mouthful of cold beef and beans. “Let me talk to Daddy.” Why the hell was he answering our father’s phone, anyway? I took another bite and popped open a can of soda, deciding I didn’t care who I talked to, so long as someone came to pick me up. Soon.
“Faythe? Where the hell are you?” His voice dimmed, and I knew he was talking to someone else. “Go get Dad. Now.” I heard a door close, and Michael was back. “Are you okay? What happened? Did they let you go?”
“One question at a time.” I took a long swig of soda and felt my body welcome the caffeine like a soldier home from war. “First of all, we’re fine. A little banged up and pretty hungry, but basically okay. One of our captors turned out to be brain dead, and I took advantage.”
“Where are you?” Michael asked, relief obvious in his voice. A pen scratched paper as he began taking notes.
“Somewhere in Mississippi. Hang on a minute, and I’ll get you the address.” I shoved the last of the burrito into my mouth and chewed all the way through the empty dining room and out the front door. From the porch, I glanced up and down the block for a street sign while Michael relayed what I’d said to someone else on his end of the connection.
“Who’s we?” he asked me.
“Me and Abby. She’s locked up downstairs, but I’m about to break her out.”
“Is she…okay?”
“I think she will be. She couldn’t fight them off, but that may have saved her life. Dr. Carver will probably say she needs therapy, but if you ask me, she could use a good punching bag.”
There was silence over the line for a moment, as if Michael didn’t quite know how to respond. Then, finally, “What about you? Did they—” He stopped and started over. “Are you…?”
“I’m fine. Really.”
Michael exhaled in relief and a second later I heard him shuffling papers over the line. “Good. You got that address yet?”
“Working on it.” The house was on the middle of the block, and though I could see a street sign on each corner, I couldn’t quite make out what either of them said. I didn’t want to leave Abby alone to go look, nor did I want to waste time jogging down to the corner.
The house number was nailed to the front-porch support, in shiny brass numbers, 104. I was at 104 something-or-other street, somewhere in Mississippi. I’d almost decided to go ask a neighbor, but was still working out an explanation for my injuries and the fact that I didn’t know where I was, when I noticed the mailbox. It was one of those old wrought-iron things, attached to the wall of the house right next to the door. And it was full. Miguel must not have checked the mail all week.