House at the End of the Street (13 page)

From where Ryan was hiding he could see Weaver draw his gun. Weaver broke the pane with the butt of it, then reached inside, unlocking the dead bolt. “Ryan?” he said again, stepping back into the dark kitchen. Ryan slunk deeper into the house, hiding near the pantry.

Weaver carefully moved around the kitchen, holding his gun in front of him. Ryan watched him, his eyes moving from the officer, back to the open basement door. He wouldn’t let anyone take Elissa from him. She was his now, and she would be here because Carrie Anne couldn’t be. She would stay with him here and he would take care of her, make everything right. Weaver would have to understand that.

Ryan pressed himself against the pantry as Weaver moved closer to the basement door. Anger pulsed through Ryan’s veins. As soon as Weaver was within striking distance, Ryan kicked him hard in the back, sending him tumbling down the basement stairs.

Ryan ran after him, watching as Weaver landed with a crack on the cold concrete floor. The man twisted in pain. The memories returned, and Ryan had to blink back tears. He kicked the gun away from them and pressed his knee down into the center of Weaver’s chest. “You could have stopped all this a long time ago. But you didn’t. You let them do what they did. You knew. You were there.”

His hands were shaking. He rocked back and forth,
pressing his knee into Weaver’s chest, and the man winced in pain. Ryan couldn’t stop thinking of that day—the day Carrie Anne had died. His parents had been in their room, the smoke from the drugs drifting out of the window. Their eyes were half closed when they came outside. Weaver had been there—he had watched it all happen. Back then he spent afternoons at their house getting high when he was supposed to be on patrol.
You were there
, Ryan thought, pressing his knee into Weaver’s chest even harder than before.
You saw it all.

After Carrie Anne had died, Weaver had helped Mr. Jacobsen take the body into the woods. They wrapped her tiny body in a sheet and secured it with duct tape. Then they buried her—his five-year-old sister—in a pit. Ryan still knew the spot. It was just beyond an old elm tree that twisted to the left. There was a dense patch of wildflowers that grew there.

Ryan remembered how badly he’d shaken with fear and grief. His whole body had been trembling, and he’d been crying. But his mother had been too high to comfort him. She’d seemed catatonic as she sat next to him on the back steps. When his father and Weaver had come back, they’d put the shovel back in the garage, as if it hadn’t happened at all.
I don’t think you have much of a choice but to go along with this Bill
, his father had said.
No one can know what happened. No one can know he killed Carrie Anne.

Ryan pulled the switchblade from his back pocket. He’d always kept it hidden in the kitchen and had secured it when he’d first entered the house and had heard Elissa inside. He flicked his wrist and the blade came out.

He buried it in Weaver’s chest, between two of his top ribs. He felt only rage as he drove the blade in. “I protected you,” Weaver said, struggling against it. He reached for his gun, but it was several feet away.

Ryan’s eyes were full of tears. He couldn’t contain the anger he felt for this man—the man who’d helped bury his sister, who watched for years as his parents abused him. They had wanted to punish him for what happened. No, they’d never admitted it was their fault. They’d never admitted they’d been locked away in their room getting high. It hadn’t been
their
fault—they’d reminded him of that every day. It was his. “No, you protected yourself. You protected them. Even though you knew what they did to me.”

He watched as Weaver strained against the blade, then went limp. Blood covered his hands. Ryan hated him—he hated him for letting them do it. He had only been seven years old. They had punished him for what had happened, and they would’ve kept punishing him if he hadn’t stopped it himself.

When Weaver was completely still, Ryan let go of the blade, falling back on the floor. The smell of blood was
in the air. He hated it—he hated them. He took a breath, trying to calm himself as he sat there. It was over—Weaver was dead. They were all dead. He had stopped them.

When he finally caught his breath, he wiped his hands on his pants, smearing them with blood. The wave of anger subsided for a moment. Then he pulled open the trapdoor, disappearing again below it.

R
yan had been gone for several minutes. Elissa watched the officer appear and then disappear on the monitor, and now she could hear a scuffle somewhere above. She strained against the rope. She couldn’t move her hands at all, only her ankles. She kicked them away from the chair’s sturdy wooden legs, trying to loosen the bonds.

A metal lamp was only a few inches away. It was three feet tall, the bulb exposed. She heaved and twisted her entire body, moving the chair just a little bit forward, toward the lamp. She pushed her ankle out, reaching with her toe until she kicked the lamp forward. It wobbled a bit. She kicked it again and again, until it fell toward her.

The searing hot bulb landed on her forearm. The pain was excruciating. She winced against it, trying hard not
to scream. She leaned forward, nudging the bulb a little farther down her arm until it landed on her wrist. The thin rope started to melt. The air filled with the smell of smoking plastic. She moved her wrist up and down, trying not to scream as the rope melted on her skin.

The cell door had fallen closed. She heard the trapdoor creaking open and the heavy sound of footsteps on the ladder. She moved quickly, freeing her hand, then working at the other wrist, trying to untie the other rope. It took her a minute before she was able to unknot all three restraints. The skin on her arm still burned. It was red and swollen from where the bulb had touched it.

The footsteps came closer. Elissa darted behind the door, pressing herself against the wall so he wouldn’t see her when he came in. She tried to stay perfectly still, even as the rough concrete dug into her back.

Slowly, the door opened. She inched toward it, hiding against its cold metal back. Ryan stepped inside the small cell. Every muscle in her body tensed at the sight of him. There was blood all over his hands and on his jeans. He was hunched forward, his fingers gripping a knife. He took in the corners of the room—the twin bed, the chair where Elissa had been, the burnt rope. Before he could turn she darted around the door, pulling it shut behind her. She turned the lock quickly.

Ryan pounded his fists violently against it. He threw his whole weight into it, shaking the wall. She climbed the
ladder as fast as she could and let the trapdoor fall flat. She took in the dank basement. It was then that she saw the officer’s body. Blood pooled around his right side. His eyes were still open. Her fingers tensed in a fist.

She looked around the room, trying to find something to seal the trapdoor shut. Ryan was screaming in the cell below. Her head still ached. Now that she was standing, dizziness threatened to overtake her. She grabbed the edges of the washing machine, trying to steady herself. She took a deep breath and with a few hard pulls she managed to get it a few feet from the wall. Then she went behind it, toppling it over the trapdoor to weigh it down.

She darted up the basement stairs, feeling for the knob. She twisted it, but it didn’t give. She tried it again and again but it still wouldn’t open. Her heart was racing, her entire body shaking with the realization: She was completely trapped.

She went back down the stairs, feeling at the officer’s waist. His gun was gone. He had handcuffs, a few bullets in a leather case, and a flashlight. She tried his pockets, but there wasn’t anything useful. She took the thick metal flashlight, hoping she could use it as a weapon if she needed to.

Think
, Elissa said to herself.
Think think think.
Far below, she heard the cell door bang open. Ryan was screaming as he climbed the ladder. “You better get back here,” he yelled, his voice filled with fury.

The washing machine was halfway over the door, but he strained against it, the wood slats creaking as though they might break. She scanned the room, using the flashlight to figure out what was there. Besides the washer and dryer, there was a water heater and a wall of metal pipes with some old cleaning supplies and concrete blocks. In the corner she found another door. She slammed her shoulder into it, bursting into the garage.

She spun around to try and secure the door, but there was no way to bolt it shut. She darted toward the garage door, yanking up on the handle. It wouldn’t budge. In the dark she could only see flashes of the room. She looked at the edges of the wall, trying to find a button for a garage opener, but there was none in sight.

She climbed into the car, and sat in the driver’s seat, groping with her fingers, feeling the ignition. No keys. Nothing. The inside of the sedan, looked so different now. This was the car he’d kidnapped Rebecca in. He’d brought her here, possibly giving her a ride the same way he’d given Elissa a ride two weeks before. She tried not to think about it as she rifled through the glove compartment, looking for anything she could use as a weapon. There were only maps and a few old cassette tapes.

There was a noise behind her, and she spun around, checking the garage door. It was still closed. She noticed then there was a small glass window in it, but there were no signs of Ryan. She pulled the yellow lunchbox from the
floor and opened it. Her hands started to shake. Inside was a bottle of chloroform and two thick rags. There was a bunch of the same plastic twine he’d use to tie her hands. This was what he’d used to take the girl. When was he planning on taking her? How long was he going to wait before he killed them both?

She looked up, catching a glimpse of something in the side mirror. Before she could react, Ryan sprung up, grabbing her by the throat with both his hands through the open window. She tried to scream but nothing came out. Her body writhed against him, but he fought her, his top half pushing into the front seat of the car. As she kept struggling, her nails digging into his skin, she heard the doorbell sound. It kept ringing, the person pushing it over and over again. Even as she fought him, the strength slowly leaving her body, she somehow could sense who it was.

Her mom had found her. She wasn’t alone.