Seconds Away (11 page)

CHAPTER 21

I didn’t have homework,
so I went online and did an image search for both Hans Zeidner and the Butcher of Lodz. Plenty of terrifying photographs from the Lodz ghetto popped up. They were all in stark black and white. I would say that they were like something out of a nightmare, but I don’t even think my worst dreams could compete with this. Many of the photos featured frightened and starving children. I thought about Lizzy Sobek. I wondered what her life in that ghetto must have been like.

There was only one photograph that may have been the Butcher of Lodz.

It was, I thought, the most horrible photograph I had ever seen. It had been taken in November 1941 in the Baluty Marketplace in Lodz. Eighteen Jews were executed by hanging in that one day for trying to escape. In this photograph you could see three of them dangling by the neck from what looked like a child’s swing set. In the background, you could see the crowd somberly gathered—even children—forced to watch as a warning. And there, standing right next to the dead bodies, with his back to the camera, was a man in a Waffen-SS uniform.

It was suddenly hard to breathe.

I shut down the computer. That had been it—there had been no photographs of the Butcher’s face.

So how had Bat Lady gotten one?

It always came back to her, didn’t it? Bat Lady had started me down this road the first time I saw her, opening up that door, stepping out with her long gray hair and white gown, pointing that bony finger at me . . .

Mickey? Your father isn’t dead. He is very much alive. . . .

Hold the phone.

I remembered something else now. When I’d seen Ema earlier today, she somehow looked different to me. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but now . . .

I grabbed my cell phone and texted Ema. I just said
R u there?
in case, I don’t know, someone else was home and he checked her texts and got angry if it was someone asking more personal questions.

Ema replied quickly:
what’s up?

Me:
Going to Bat Lady’s house. Wanna come?

Ema:
can’t.

That was odd. Usually Ema could get out at all hours.

I typed:
Everything OK?

Ema:
fine. let’s go after school tomorrow.

I was about to tell her about Rachel getting out of the hospital, but then I remembered how Rachel had insisted:
Don’t tell anyone I texted you. No one.

Could she have meant Ema too? I don’t know, but the words
no one
seemed pretty clear.

To Ema, I typed in:
Can’t.

I was going to ask her about what I noticed, about what struck me as different with her appearance, but I wanted to check it out in person. It could wait.

Still thinking about the rumors Spoon had heard, I added:
R you OK?

Ema:
fine. u?

Me:
Fine.

There was a pause and then Ema wrote:
this is an awesome text exchange.

I laughed out loud.

Ema:
r u going to Bat Lady’s tonight without me?

I thought about it, but not for very long. I couldn’t just sit here. I had to act:
Yes.

There was a pause and then Ema wrote:
b careful. I’ve got a bad feeling.

CHAPTER 22

Nobody knows when
the Bat Lady first moved to town.

I’m sure that there were housing records and someone could probably figure it out, but if you ask anyone in Kasselton, they will tell you that she has always been in that dark, dilapidated house. Even Uncle Myron remembers the creepy old Bat Lady from his childhood. He told me that kids used to hurry past her house, even way back when he was a kid. He told me that one day, when my own father was twelve or thirteen, he had gone into Bat Lady’s house on a dare . . .

. . . and that when my father came out, he was never the same.

I believed that. I had also gone into that house. I had also met Bat Lady. And now I’m not sure that I will ever be the same again.

The rumors that struck fear into the children about Bat Lady were, I knew, completely bogus. Legend had it that she kidnapped children. Some nights, the locals say, if you walked past her house slowly, you could actually hear their cries. Some claimed to see them, dozens of children locked up in her house, ready to be . . . well, what? Killed, abused, eaten . . .

Or maybe, just maybe, they were rescued.

It was pitch-black by the time I made it to Bat Lady’s house. The wind howled. It always seemed to pick up when you crossed her property. I’m sure that was just in my mind (and the minds of pretty much everyone else who walked past here), but the willow tree swayed and even from where I stood on the sidewalk, I could hear the porch creak.

All the lights were out, except for a lone lamp in the upstairs bedroom. That was a good sign. Last time I had stopped by, when no one answered the door, the light had been off.

Bat Lady must be back.

The night was silent, almost too quiet, as I approached the house. I knocked on the door. The sound echoed. I felt a chill. I listened for movement. Nothing. I knocked again and pressed my ear against the door. Silence. And then, suddenly, the silence was broken.

By music.

I jumped back. I remembered now that old record player, the one that played vinyls, in her living room. It was hard to picture a weird old lady listening to the albums I’d found stacked there: the Who’s
My Generation
, the Beach Boys’
Pet Sounds
, the Beatles’
Abbey Road,
and the album that was currently playing, the one she always seemed to play,
Aspect of Juno
by HorsePower.

I knocked again. “Open up!”

Still no answer, just the sound of Gabriel Wire, the lead singer of HorsePower, telling me that “time stands still.”

Like hell it does.

I started pounding on the door. No answer. I wasn’t sure what to do. I couldn’t keep pounding—the last thing I needed was to draw attention to myself—but I wasn’t about to leave either.

I tried to look in the window, but they were boarded up in the front. Still, I could see through a sliver into the living room, to where that record player was. It was dark. I kept my eye there for a second.

Then a shadow walked by.

“Hello! Open up!”

I went back to the door and knocked some more. I was tempted to knock the door down, but then I remembered the garage. When I was last inside the house—when Shaved Head brought me to meet Bat Lady and talk face-to-face—he had parked in the garage and taken me via an underground tunnel.

Maybe I could get in that way.

I started toward the back. Bat Lady’s house is set right up against the woods. I don’t mean that the woods are off her backyard—I mean that the house literally sits against the trees, as if the very structure was a part of the forest. I quickly tried the back door, but the new lock held.

I took the small flashlight out of my pocket. It was extra creepy back there. I practically swam through a thick haze of trees until I reached the garage. I knew that inside there was a trapdoor that led to a tunnel. But the garage door was locked. So now what?

I can’t say exactly why, but I headed to the lush garden behind the garage. Something, I don’t know what, drew me there. Ema and I had found it during our last night visit here. I had no idea how Bat Lady kept her plants looking so lively this time of the year, but that was the least of my concerns. There was a path in the middle of the garden. I knew what was at the end of it.

I lifted my flashlight. It found the tombstone in the back. I read the now-familiar words:

L
ET US LABOR TO MAKE THE HEART GROW LARGER,

A
S WE BECOME OLDER,

A
S SPREADING OAK GIVES MORE
SHELTER.

H
ERE LIES
E.S.

A C
HILDHOOD
L
OST
F
OR
C
HILDREN

A30432

I had figured that E.S. stood for Elizabeth “Lizzy” Sobek, but now I realized that it could just as easily be her brother, Emmanuel, or her mother, Esther, though they had died in Poland more than half a century ago; so really, how could they “lie” here?

But that wasn’t the main point.

No, Mrs. Friedman, Lizzy Sobek hadn’t been killed by the Butcher of Lodz. Lizzy Sobek had survived the war and been, well, a hippie at some point and now everyone in town knew her as the Bat Lady, the creepy old lady who lived in the creepy old house.

I wondered what Mrs. Friedman would do if she learned that Lizzy “Butterfly” Sobek, the legendary resistance fighter who lost her family at Auschwitz, lived less than a quarter of a mile from Kasselton High School.

I moved toward the tombstone. In the background, one HorsePower song faded away and another began. I knew what was on the back of the tombstone—that same Abeona butterfly with its animal eyes on the wings. I had seen it here during my previous visit, but again something had drawn me here, so I had to play it out.

My footsteps echoed in the dark. I got my beam ready, aimed it at the spot, and gasped out loud. The butterfly was there, but someone had crossed it out. Someone had spray-painted a giant X across it.

I spun back to the house, and this time I could hear mocking laughter.

The sound ran down my spine.

Go home, Mickey, I told myself.

There was danger. You could feel it. Danger had a certain quality to it. You could almost reach out and touch it. I knew that I should go. I knew that I should regroup and think this out. But there was no way I was going to, not because I was particularly brave or, in this case, foolhardy, and not because I wanted to be as dumb as those teenagers who go into the serial killer’s house in horror movies.

I just didn’t want whatever was haunting me to escape again. If it got the better of me, okay, I could live (or die) with that. But I needed answers and I wasn’t about to let the person who might be able to answer them slip through my fingers again.

I ran to the back door and knocked. Dumb. Nobody had responded before. What did I think would be different now?

I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered into the kitchen through the back window. Dark. But then I saw a shadow cross in the distance. Someone had streaked by and was heading up the stairs.

Why?

I tried picturing Bat Lady moving as fast as that shadow. I couldn’t imagine it.

Someone else was in that house. Someone else had spray-painted an X onto the tombstone. Someone else had turned on the music and mocked me with a laugh.

I ran around to the front and looked up into Bat Lady’s bedroom window with the light. I tilted my head, trying to get an angle, trying to see something—a shadow maybe, a silhouette, anything—and as I did, someone turned off the light.

Total darkness.

Oh no.

I didn’t know what to do. I debated kicking in the door, but then what? This was probably nothing—a visitor or maybe even Bat Lady herself turning the lights down before heading to sleep. Still, my heart was pounding against my chest. I had to do something.

I was just debating my next move when the light in the window came back on. I moved back onto the grass so I could get a better look. I cupped my hands into a megaphone and called out, “Hello?” I didn’t know what to call her. Her identity was a secret, so calling out to “Miss Sobek” wouldn’t work. I wasn’t sure yelling “Bat Lady” was the way to go either.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

“It’s Mickey. Hello? Can you open the door? Please?”

I saw something in the window move. A hand pushed the thin gauzelike curtain to the side and then a face peered out.

I screamed out loud this time.

There, from that upstairs window, the Butcher of Lodz was staring down at me.

CHAPTER 23

I couldn’t breathe.

There was no question about it this time: It was the same guy in the old photograph—and he hadn’t aged a day.

For a few seconds, my brain just shut down. I didn’t wonder how this could possibly be. I didn’t wonder whether I was dreaming. I didn’t think about running after him or calling out or doing anything. I just stood there, frozen, looking up into those green eyes with the yellow rings, the same eyes I’d seen the day my father died.

When he ducked away from the window, my brain unlocked. For a single second, no longer, I stared up at the window and considered the possibility that my mind was playing tricks on me.

No friggin’ way.

I ran back to the door and this time I didn’t hesitate. I lowered my shoulder and rammed into it. The door didn’t give way so much as shatter, the wood breaking into splinters. I fought through them, pulling myself through the opening. I stood in the front foyer. The living room was on my left. The record player was still on. On the fireplace, I saw that same old picture of the hippies with the butterfly T-shirts.

I heard a noise above me.

He was still upstairs.

Okay, now what?

I could wait right here, couldn’t I? He would have to come down these stairs. I could just stand here and wait and demand answers.

Would that really work?

I didn’t know, but a thought occurred to me. I needed help, and one person immediately came to mind: Uncle Myron.

That surprised me, but then again, who else did I have? Ema and Spoon couldn’t really come to my aid here. If I called Mr. Waters, well, I’d just broken into a house, hadn’t I? I could get arrested.

Another noise from upstairs.

I grabbed my phone and hit Myron’s number. Two rings later, he answered. “Mickey?”

My voice was a whisper. “I’m at Bat Lady’s house.”

“What? Why?”

“Can’t explain. Please get over here. I need help.”

I expected more questions. I didn’t get them. Instead Myron said, “It’ll take me fifteen minutes.”

I hung up.

Now what?

Wait. Stand by the stairs and wait. Either Myron would get here in time and we could go upstairs together or the Butcher would have to come down.

But suppose Bat Lady was up there. Suppose he had attacked her or worse.

What if, right at this very moment, he was strangling her or something. Was I just going to stay down here and let that happen?

I stared at that old staircase. It didn’t even look as though it could hold my weight. I was still debating what to do when a sound made up my mind for me.

From upstairs, I heard a window creak open.

Was the Butcher trying to sneak out?

Uh-uh, no way. No way was I going to let this guy get away when I had him trapped.

I ran up the stairs. Part of my brain told me to slow down, to be careful, to not underestimate my opponent. I was young, yes, but I had been trained all over the world how to fight.

So what was my training telling me now?

It didn’t matter, because when I reached the upstairs hallway, what I saw stopped me as if my feet had suddenly been nailed to the floor.

What the . . . ?

I don’t know what I expected. I guess I figured that the upstairs would be, well, like the downstairs—dark, dingy, maybe some old wallpaper, antique sconce lighting on the walls. But that wasn’t what I saw.

I saw photographs. Hundreds. No. Thousands. Thousands and thousands of photographs.

The hallway was completely blanketed with pictures of children and teenagers. They were everywhere, on every available space, not just encasing both walls from top to bottom but even glued onto the ceiling overhead.

I reached my hand out and touched them. There were photos on top of photos. Layers and layers of photos—I couldn’t say how deep. The photos were all various sizes. Some were black and white, some color, some fading, some vibrant. Some were smiling, some were grim. The children were of every race, creed, nationality, and even era.

Both bedroom doors were open and maybe that explained it, but there seemed to be a wind effect going through that corridor. A few of the portraits started peeling off, falling down around my feet. One was of a little boy, no more than eight or nine, with curly hair and sad eyes. The boy somehow looked familiar to me.

Something in his face . . .

Another photograph gently landed next to it. Then another. I looked down and saw a photograph at my feet that almost made me scream out loud.

It was a school portrait of Ashley—my former girlfriend who we all rescued down at the Plan B Go-Go Lounge.

I stared down at her pretty face, lost for a second, confused.

A sound at the end of the corridor knocked me out of my stupor. No time to worry about a bunch of pictures. Not right now anyway, because down the hall, at the end of this row of photographs, was the door leading to Bat Lady’s bedroom.

He—the Butcher, the Paramedic, whoever—was in that room.

I headed for it now. The portraits were still peeling off the walls and ceiling, almost like they were shedding. Several landed on my face. I raised my hand as a shield, got to the door, debated how to enter, and then just threw open the door.

The room was empty.

There was no more wind because someone had just closed the window. And either that someone had to still be in this room or he had gone out the window.

I hurried over, closing the door behind me. If he had managed to jump out, he couldn’t have gotten far. Not yet. He’d still be in the yard. I looked out the window.

Nothing.

Cold dread spread through me. Nothing. That meant he was still in here, still in this very room. I slowly turned away from the window.

The room had wallpaper that was either yellow or aged, I couldn’t tell which. On the bedside table were two photographs. One was an old sepia-tone picture I had seen before—the Sobek family before the start of World War II. Samuel, Esther, Emmanuel, and little Lizzy. The other photo was in fading color—it was Bat Lady, looking to be in her fifties or sixties maybe, standing by a tree with that same sad-eyed, curly-haired boy whose picture I’d just seen in the corridor.

I kept very still and strained to pick up any sound.

Where was the Butcher hiding?

I stood right next to the bed and for a moment, I wondered whether he was hiding underneath it. I glanced down at my feet, just starting to think that it would be too obvious a hiding spot, when two hands shot out from under the bed, grabbed my ankles, and pulled hard.

I let out a scream and lost my balance. My elbow banged against the night table, knocking down the lamp, plunging the room into total darkness as I landed hard against the wood floor.

The hands kept pulling, dragging me under the bed.

In a frenzied panic, I started to kick, hoping to land something or maybe free my ankles. But he held on. I couldn’t see a thing. I could just feel myself slowly being sucked down.

I was three-quarters of the way under the bed.

What was he trying to do anyway?

I didn’t know and I didn’t care. I wanted to be free. I kicked and bucked and screamed until finally one ankle, and then the other, slipped free. I scuttled across the floor and into the far corner. I huddled there, knees to chest, and waited.

I wasn’t sure about my next move. My eyes had not started to adjust to the darkness from the shattered lamp. I had my hands up in a defensive position. My adversary was still in the room, but I didn’t know where. I had to be prepared. Again I tried to stay still and listen, but my breathing was too loud now.

Then the bedroom door quickly opened and closed.

I got up and ran toward it. I fumbled for the doorknob, turned it . . .

The knob didn’t move.

I twisted it harder, but the knob wouldn’t budge. From behind the door I heard a sound like crinkling. I sniffed and smelled something that made my eyes widen. I reared back and once again used my shoulder. Nothing. I took a step back and rammed the door once again.

It gave way. I stumbled and fell into the middle of that corridor with all those photographs.

And they were on fire.

The fire raged, the flames quickly dancing up the walls and onto the ceiling, the photo paper working like kerosene. The portraits crinkled, peeled, and blackened, filling the corridor with smoke. The flames quickly flanked me, blocking my way back into the bedroom. I used the crook of my elbow to cover my mouth and searched for a way out.

I was surrounded by walls of flame.

I remembered a tip from a fire safety talk when I was in fourth grade: Stay low and crawl. I did that, but I wasn’t sure it was going to do much good. The flames were everywhere, the heat unbearable. The smoke was starting to choke me. My path back to the bedroom had been swallowed up by the flames—the same with the path forward to the staircase.

With the flames creeping closer, I saw an opening on my right.

A doorway.

I rolled into what I guessed was a spare bedroom. I couldn’t see much—I was still keeping low and the smoke was thick—but I could see that unlike the rest of the house, this one was brightly painted in red, yellow, and blue. My eyes started watering from the smoke. I tried to hold my breath and crawled some more. My hand hit something . . . squishy maybe? Rubbery? I heard a squeak and looked down.

It was a rubber duck. The floor was covered with toys.

I had no time to even register confusion. The fire roared into the room as though it were following me. I rolled onto my back and kicked away as the flames hungrily licked at my feet. My back hit a wall.

I was trapped.

In seconds, the flames would swallow me whole. I wish that I could tell you what I thought about at that moment, with death surrounding me. I don’t think my life flashed before my eyes. I don’t even think that I pictured my mother in rehab or my father at the accident or any of that. Fear—pure fear—pushed out all thoughts but one.

I had to find a way out of there.

I managed to open my watery eyes. The flames were moving closer. I looked up, and through the thickening smoke, I saw a window.

I read somewhere that no computer can compete with the human brain for speed of certain calculations. So what happened next took maybe a tenth of a second, probably less. My brain flashed to the front of the Bat Lady’s house—the street view, if you will—and it quickly figured out the placement of the second-floor windows. I realized where I was, how high, and that if I got out that window, I’d be on the porch roof over the front door.

With the flames almost upon me, I jumped to the window and pulled it up.

It didn’t move.

I could see there was no lock on it. The window was stuck.

No time to think or try anything else. I leaned hard with my back into the glass. I could feel the window shatter and give way as I fell outside. The oxygen fed the fire, but I kept myself flat on the roof. The flames shot over me.

The roof was pitched and I started to slide down it. Using my hands to find the edge, I let myself go with gravity. As I started to fall, I twisted my body so that my feet were beneath me. I landed hard on the front yard and tucked into a roll. I stood up and looked back at the house.

It was completely engulfed in flames.

In the distance I heard sirens. I had no idea what to do here. I turned to my left, saw nothing, turned to my right, and there, staring up at the flames, was the Butcher.

For a moment I just stared at him, unable to move. I was okay, physically. There may have been a scrape or minor burn, but I knew that I’d be fine. Maybe I was catching my breath. Maybe I was simply too stunned. But I stood there, no more than fifty feet from the man who had taken my father away and just tried to kill me, and I didn’t move.

The sirens sounded again, and just like that, the Butcher turned and ran away.

That snapped me out of my haze. Again I thought: Uh-uh, no way. No way was he getting away from me. The Butcher may be fast, but I was faster and I had desire on my side. There was no way he was getting away with this.

I thought the Butcher would head for the woods, but instead he headed for the neighbor’s backyard. There was no hesitation on my part. Not anymore. I sprinted with everything I had toward him. We ran through one backyard, then another, then a third.

I was closing the gap.

Behind me I heard voices. Someone yelled, “Stop!” I didn’t. I figured that I’d obey when the Butcher did. He leapt over a hedge. I leapt it too.

Only ten feet separated us when he finally veered into the woods. It wouldn’t do him any good. I was there. I was going to catch up to him and take him down and . . .

I went down hard.

Someone had tackled me. He was straddling me.

“Stop! Police!”

I looked up into the face of Chief Taylor!

“Don’t move!” he shouted.

“Let me go! You gotta go after him!”

But Chief Taylor wouldn’t listen to me. “I said, ‘Don’t move.’ Lie flat on the ground and put your hands on your head.”

“He’s getting away!”

“Now!”

Taylor started to flip me onto my stomach. I let him roll me and just kept going with it, throwing him off me. I jumped back to my feet.

“We can’t let him go!” I shouted, turning back toward the woods.

But by now another officer was there. And another. One went for my legs, the other hit me high. I fell back to the ground. Taylor stood over me, his face red with rage. He reared back his foot as if to kick me, and then I heard another voice shout, “Get away from him, Ed!”

It was Uncle Myron.

Taylor turned to the voice. I tried to get up, tried to keep running after the Butcher, because there was no time to explain, not really, and I figured that they’d follow me and I could explain later. I actually managed to shrug him off, but when I looked back at the woods, there was no one, not a sound. I hesitated, looking for him, giving the cops a fresh chance to grab me.

There was no point in struggling anymore.

The night fell silent. The Bat Lady’s house burned down to the ground. And the Butcher was gone.