House (18 page)

His breathing thickened.

“Take it out.”

He carefully pulled the dart from her muscle. She was only dimly aware of her ability to ignore the pain. She was beyond caring about anything so trivial as pain. He'd tried to make her eat rotten dog food and he'd thrown darts at her—by themselves not as terrible as the things she'd imagined White had planned for them. But she felt violated. Worse.

Shredded. Now she contemplated loosing the cords that held her psyche intact and relinquishing her resolve to him completely.

Why? So that she didn't have to eat the dog food? No. Because she felt a desperate need to cling to someone. To find herself in anything but her own shattered soul.

The truth made no real sense to her, not yet. Nothing in the textbooks remotely mirrored the emotions running through her now, while lying on his bed.

Pete pulled the dart from her thigh.

It occurred to her that she couldn't smell the odor anymore. She'd grown accustomed to it.

“You are so pretty,” he said slowly.

She reached up and ran her fingers over his head, both repulsed and pleased by her strength to do so anyway.

“And you're so strong.” Her head spun.

“The cereal makes me strong,” he said.

“Love makes me strong,” Leslie said.

That stopped him. His eyes searched hers. “Do . . . do you love me?”

“I'm your wife, aren't I?”

Pete lowered his face into her neck. “You are my wife.”

He just sat there bent over her, unmoving, clueless. She was nothing but a favorite toy to him. His cheek was pressed against her cheek, and she could smell the sickly sweet sweat on his neck. What was she doing?

Leslie eased her head away from him and dry-heaved.

Pete straightened, frowned. He rose and went to the little-girl's dresser, opened a drawer, and began rifling around in it.

She began to sob quietly. She was in nothing more or less than the same predicament shared by an endless sea of humans who hid in their own prisons of abuse and alcohol and sex and money and whatever other kind of addiction or vice that both tormented and comforted at once. She was no better or worse than any other person who lived behind whitewashed walls to hide the problems in their basement from the neighbors.

Pete returned, holding a rope.

“More pudding, Leslie?”

Randy did not move, knowing that Stewart was squirming in the shaft now submerged in water. The man's screams had been swallowed by a throat full of rainwater and then silenced.

Father was dead. Dead, dead, had to be dead. And the water was now around Randy's neck. If he didn't get down there and dig out the cork called Stewart, he would drown as well.

He had a spade. Using a spade underwater might take a few minutes, so he really should get started. But the thought of actually going under and digging at Stewart's torso brought with it a strange brew of fear and eagerness that kept him rooted.

The fact was, he wanted to do it. The fact was, he wasn't sure he could. The fact was, the water was now up to his nose, and in a few minutes it would fill the concrete holding tank.

Randy took a deep breath and dived, spade in hand. He opened his eyes, but the water was muddy brown. He'd have to feel for the hole. Feel for the head.

The prospect of lining up a jab with the shovel by touch alone forced Randy back to the surface.

Water poured in.

He gasped, fighting a fresh burst of panic. He had to do this. He had to get down there and hack away Stewart's dead body. He was dead, for goodness' sake!

Randy went down again, felt for the hole, and found nothing but solid wall. Was he on the wrong wall? How—The water began to swirl around him. He jerked up and found the surface again. It took only a moment for him to realize that the tank was draining, and draining fast.

Water dripped off his head, splashed into a rushing river of muddy water that was being pulled toward the wall ahead. Toward the hole.

He stood, immobilized legs spread, spade firmly in his grasp. The large pipe that Stewart had clogged just a few moments ago was uncorked. Stewart's body had been pushed out! The buildup of water had freed him?

Randy wasn't taking any chances—no way, not now. He peered cautiously out of the hole and searched for Stewart. For all he knew, the man hadn't really drowned and was waiting outside.

But then he saw the body, lying in the room where it had evidently been washed by the receding water.

Randy watched the body for a full minute before deciding it was most definitely dead. He retrieved the shotgun from overhead and pushed the weapon out with the spade. He climbed the service steps, then squirmed through the pipe.

He'd killed the man, right?
You like water, Stewart, huh? You think that's funny?

Now what? He had to get out of this place before everything flooded. And what about that other Stewart he'd seen, coming from the other door? His mind was playing tricks, right? Had to be.

Back to square one. Two ways out of the room. He checked the shotgun. One shell left. The fact that no one had appeared to help Stewart from behind or stood waiting for Randy when he spilled through the pipe was a good sign.

Not that he would have minded facing an accomplice right now. He had a gun. Bring a few on.

He stood in the muddy water, thinking things through.

“What are you doing, Randy?” he asked softly. “You're in a lot of hot water down here.”

That right?

“Yeah, that's right. You heard the man. There's no way out of here.”

That right?

“Listen to yourself. You think you're on to something?”

Whatever. The facts were still unchanged. He had to find the others. He had to find Leslie. Assuming they were still alive, which he doubted. More important, he had to find a way past White. Nothing would be the same after today, that was for sure. Nothing ever.

He walked to the door that he'd first come through, poked his head around the corner. Empty. But he wasn't going back there.

He crossed the room to the other door, which meant he had to pass Stewart. He trained the gun on the body, which lay facedown. Maybe he should put a blast into it just to make sure. Of course, he only had one shot. And the noise might alert whoever else was crawling around down here.

Randy crept forward, trigger finger ready, totally ready. The form did not move. He stuck his foot out and nudged it. Dead for sure. He shoved the body over with his right leg.

The light was dim, but there was no mistaking Stewart's big bald head, gruesome scar, and grungy bib-overalls. A thin tendril of smoke drifted from the corner of Stewart's twisted, parted lips. A dark fog. Black smoke.

Randy took a step back and stared at the odd sight. There was something evil in that fog, but his mind was numb and he couldn't attach any reason to it. Maybe White had sneaked in, shot Stewart at close range. That might be gunpowder smoke.

He looked out the door, up the tunnel. No one there.

Randy wasn't sure if that was good or bad. There was no evidence Stewart had even been shot. He was drowned, not shot!

Randy dug into Stewart's pockets and pulled out a plastic box of cartridges. Good, definitely good. Now he had the shotgun and about what, fifteen or so shells. Bring 'em on, baby.

He reloaded, then headed up the tunnel.

Shotgun in hand, he wasn't as scared as he thought he should be. Killing that pig back there had felt—A low whisper cut through the tunnel. “Give me one dead body, Randy.”

He spun and discharged the shotgun with his right hand. It nearly jerked his arm off. Nothing there.

In fact . . . In fact, there was no body at all! Stewart's body was gone! Could his accomplice have come back? Was that possible?

“That one didn't count.” Again, behind him.

He dropped the spade, whirled, and fired again before the garden tool hit the ground. Nothing but black empty space.

“I'm losing my mind,” he whispered.

Interesting. He wasn't so upset about losing his mind. Not even sad.

“God help me, I'm losing my mind.”

18

THE GIRL NAMED SUSAN LED JACK THROUGH a short hall that opened up into the first room that Jack and Randy had entered upon descending into the basement, the one with all the sofas.

He pulled up, confused by their entry point. He didn't remember the door they now came through. The four bright sofas were the same, as were the paintings that covered the walls. The potbellied stove.

Susan hurried through the room toward the main door, gliding with confidence, yet tentative at once.

Jack watched her move, unsure how he should feel about finding such an innocent but knowing girl who on one hand seemed as though she'd been made for this place and on the other hand looked the clear victim.

“Hold on.”

She turned around. Now in the full light he saw that her dress had been scuffed and torn. Brown streaks dirtied her cheeks. “Yes?”

“I don't remember seeing this hall.” He glanced back at the door they'd passed through. “I could swear that was a closet.”

“It's confusing, I know,” she said.

Jack walked past her to the main door. “Haunted.”

“Haunted,” she said.

He pulled the door open and looked at the main hall. The stairs ascended on the left to the main floor.

The girl was saying something, but Jack had his mind on those stairs. He glanced down the hall, saw that the other doors were all closed, then ran up the stairs. The door at the top was closed. He tugged on it, but it was locked. Figured.

“Locked,” the girl said. She was at the base of the stairs. “We can't get caught out here.”

Jack pounded on the door. “Stephanie!”

If she was still in the nearby closet, she didn't hear or respond. Knowing her, she'd fled and was lying dead on the flagstone walk.

“We have to go,” the girl said. “I might know where your friend is.”

He descended the stairs two at a time. “Which door?”

She was already gliding to the last one on the left. Opening it, she ran in, down another hall strung with small bulbs on a wire, like a string of Christmas lights. He followed her around three corners.

Susan passed through a low door and ducked into a crawl space. The low-slung ceiling was strung with pipes. She hurried forward, bent over to keep from hitting her head.

“In there,” she whispered, pointing to a small door. “It goes into the closet.”

Jack stood by the door, catching his breath. “What closet?”

“It's where he hides.”

“Who?”

“The slow one.”

Pete? “Where are we, Susan?”

“In the basement,” she said.

“I know that. I mean this house. There's a killer stalking us, for heaven's sake. We had our tires slashed and just happened to wander into this house conveniently tucked away with inbreds waiting for the next unfortunate soul to walk into their trap. And then there just happens to be you.”

She stared at him with those wide eyes. “Getting out of the basement is a problem.”

Okay, then. So he'd deal with the big picture later. “You mean we're stuck down here? How did he get you down here?”

“I mean you shouldn't have come down.”

“Trust me, it wasn't exactly my first choice.” He looked at the door. “We couldn't just leave Leslie. What's through this door?”

“It goes into a closet.”

“And?”

“There's something wrong with this house, Jack. You see things. If you just walk in there, he'll kill you.”

“Who? Pete? How do you know he's with her?”

Her eyes suggested she knew a thing or two about Pete.

“How did you get down here?” he asked.

She hesitated. “I've been down here for three days. You're not the only one who wandered into their trap.”

“So you got away?”

She stared at him without answering.
Dumb question, Jack. Of course she hadn't gotten away.
Her clear eyes searched his. He detected the weight of her ordeal and now felt as responsible for her rescue as for Leslie's, even though he really had no clue what to do.

Jack looked at the small door that led to the back of Pete's closet.
And a child shall lead them
. He'd heard that lyric before somewhere. Maybe it was in one of Stephanie's songs. In many ways Susan reminded him of a child, grown now, but innocent. Like Melissa . . .

He cut the thought short.

“Okay, I'm going to see what I can see. You're sure I'll be in a closet?”

“It could be open.”

He nodded and reached for the wooden latch that held the door closed.

“Maybe I should go with you,” she said.

“No. Is there really no way out of this basement?”

“One dead body,” she said.

So, she was part of this insane game as well.
Give me one dead body, and I might let rule two slide
.