The Dells (38 page)

Hope bloomed in Rachel, only to be as quickly dashed.

“Well, I don't,” Tim Dutton said. “I need the money from this and the other crops or I'll lose everything I've worked for. My business, my house, my standing in the community, everything.”

You miserable little shit!
Rachel wanted to scream.
Everything your old man handed you on a bloody silver platter, you mean.

“I'll make it worth your while,” Dutton added.

“Yeah? With what? I thought you were broke?”

“My wife's grandparents left her some money. I could get my hands on fifty grand, maybe a bit more.”

“All right, fine,” Hallam said. “Anything to stop your goddamned whining. Here, take these. Use 'em
to tie 'em up. Just Rae and the teacher. I'll take care of Ruthie. You think you can handle that?”

“What about you? What are you going to do?”

“There's something I gotta check downstairs,” Hallam replied. “Then I'll go bring my truck up to the garage. We can throw 'em in the back without anyone seeing.”

Rachel heard footsteps approaching. Heart hammering in her chest, she backed away from the door, pulling Claudia with her. “Someone's coming.” She opened Claudia's little Swiss Army knife. The tiny blade was razor sharp, but narrow and barely an inch and a half long. It was so ridiculously pathetic a weapon, she almost felt like laughing. Almost.

Tim Dutton did laugh when he opened the door and saw the little knife in Rachel's hand, but it was a hollow, nervous laugh. He was almost as frightened as she was, Rachel realized. He had a handful of narrow black plastic strips, about a foot long. Rachel recognized them. Cable ties. Not as sturdy as the disposable handcuffs she'd seen the police on television use, but just as effective. He tossed them onto the floor at her feet.

“Use these to tie her wrists behind her back,” he said, gesturing toward Claudia.

“Go fuck yourself, Tim,” Rachel said, holding the little knife out. She took a step toward him. He backed away a step.

“C'mon, Rae. I don't like this any more than you do. Don't make it any harder than it has to be.”

“Jesus, you're an asshole, Tim,” Rachel said. “I'll make it as hard as I fucking well can.” She took step toward him, feinting with the tiny knife. He flinched, but stood his ground. She almost admired him for it. “Let us go, Tim. You don't want to do this.”

“I can't let you go,” Dutton said. “Don't you see? It's either this or lose everything I have. I'm sorry, Rae.”

He kicked at the bundle of cable ties on the floor and to Claudia. “Tie her hands behind her, Rae. Then lie down on the floor so I can do you.”

“Screw you, Tim. You're going to have to do it the hard way.”

“What's taking so long?” Dougie Hallam said from the doorway behind Dutton.

“She has a knife,” Dutton said.

Hallam snorted with disgust. “Christ, Dutton, you're such a fucking pussy.”

He stepped past Dutton and, ignoring the knife, grabbed Rachel by the throat, choking off the air to her lungs, the blood to her brain. He wrapped his other hand around her wrist and squeezed. The knife dropped from her paralyzed fingers. He released her. She backed away from him, dizzy and gasping, wrist throbbing.

“I heard you talking,” she wheezed. “You've got money, Dougie. Why don't you just take it and retire to someplace that doesn't have an extradition treaty with Canada. We'll even give you a couple of hours, more if you want, before we call the police.”

“I'll write you a cheque for ten thousand dollars if you let us go,” Claudia Hahn said as she opened her purse and took out a chequebook.

“I'll double that,” Rachel said.

“Don't listen to them,” Dutton said desperately. “They're lying. They'll go straight to the police.”

“Do I look stupid to you?” Hallam said, but Rachel thought he looked as though he might be considering the offer.

A clock began to strike somewhere in the house. Rachel glanced at her wristwatch. It was almost ninethirty. She prayed that Doc would begin worrying soon and come looking for them.

“Time to get this show on the road,” Hallam said. He grabbed Rachel and thrust her into Dutton's arms.
“Hang on to her,” he said, as he reached for Claudia. “You first. Turn around. Hands behind your back.”

“No,” Claudia said. She began to shout for help at the top of her lungs.

Hallam punched her in the face, chopping off the sound. He pushed her down onto her back on the bed. Claudia writhed and kicked and screamed. Rachel struggled in Dutton's grasp, but he held her fast.

“Hold still, goddamnit,” Hallam growled, his words punctuated by the sound of his fist against flesh, and a grunt of pain from Claudia.

He flipped Claudia onto her face on the bed and twisted her arms behind her back. There was blood in her mouth and on her cheek. Suddenly, she was a wildcat, thrashing, twisting free. Her teeth clamped on the fleshy edge of Hallam's hand. He clubbed her. She kicked and snapped and made sounds in her throat that didn't seem possible for a human to make. Then, as suddenly as her struggle had begun, it was over. Hallam picked her up by the throat and threw her across the bedroom as if she were a child's doll. She slammed against the wall, fell, and lay still. Dreadfully, bonelessly, breathlessly still.

Rachel began to scream. Hallam spun, his fist glancing off the side of her head. Stunned, she staggered as Dutton released her. She fell against the bed, and rolled face down onto the floor. A massive weight pressed against her spine. Hallam's knee. He grabbed her left wrist and twisted her arm behind her back. Through a haze of tears, Rachel saw the glint of metal on the floor by her face. The blade of Claudia's little Swiss Army knife.

She felt her left shoulder begin to dislocate as Hallam grasped her right wrist and twisted her arms together behind her back. Using every ounce of strength, she writhed beneath him, wrenching her right arm free. She grabbed the knife, rolled out from under Hallam's knee,
and stabbed up toward his face. She felt the blade strike bone and break. Hallam howled and lurched to his feet, hand over his left eye, blood oozing between his fingers. Rachel scrabbled on all fours toward the door.

“Stop her!” Hallam shouted at Dutton. “Cunt almost put my eye out!”

Rachel made it to her feet and ran through the kitchen to the side door. Too late, she remembered that Hallam had removed the key from the deadlock. She twisted the handle. Miraculously, the door opened; Dutton had forgotten to lock it. She ran into the dark breezeway, but something snagged her legs and she fell, tangled in the rotting wicker lawn furniture by the door. One of her shoes came off. Desperately struggling to her feet, she kicked the other shoe off and ran down the rutted driveway toward the road, Tim Dutton close on her heels. If she made it to the road, she knew she could outrun Dutton without a problem.

Dougie Hallam burst from the front door and charged across the cluttered lawn, cutting her off from the road. She angled left and ran hard toward the entrance of the footpath to the woods. Hallam was twenty feet behind her. She was gaining ground, but slowly; Hallam was surprisingly fast for a man his size. She ran harder, ignoring the jabbing pain of pebbles and twigs on the soles of her feet, down the dark path next to Ruth's backyard, wondering where Dutton was.

She heard a sound to her left, from the direction of the path that led toward her parents' house. Dutton had flanked her by climbing the stone wall at the end of Ruth's yard. Turning, Rachel stayed on the main path and ran deeper into the dark woods.

Although the Braithwaite house was less than two hundred metres away through the woods, it was almost a kilometre by road. For Hal's sake, Shoe opted to drive. The house did not show any lights, inside or out, and the small turnaround at the end of the cul-de-sac was dark. A vehicle was parked half in the trees on the edge of the woods. Hallam's black Hummer.

As Shoe swung the car through the turnaround, the headlights swept the front of the old house, illuminating the religious statuary on the overgrown lawn. A ghostly figure darted between the tilted figures, a woman with white hair and wearing what appeared to be a flowing nightgown. She ran into the house as Shoe turned the car into the rutted driveway. He turned off the engine and the headlights, plunging the yard into gloom, illuminated only by the distant street lights at the corner of Cabot Street. He got out of the car and picked his way across the shadowy, unkempt lawn, through the statuary,
toward the front door. Janey, Hal, and Harvey Wiseman followed.

“I should've brought a flashlight,” Wiseman said. Shoe remembered his father always kept a flashlight in the glove box.

“Jesus Christ,” Hal swore, banging his shin on one of the cement figurines.

“I'm no expert,” Wiseman said, “but that's the Madonna, I think.”

“Ha ha,” Hal said sourly.

There was no porch, just an apron of cracked and frost-heaved concrete in front of the door, the doorsill level with the ground. The door stood partly open.

“Looks like I won't get to see you in action after all,” Hal said.

“Shut up, Hal,” Janey said.

As Shoe's eyes adjusted to the dark, he could just make out a faint light from the interior of the house. He knocked on the half-open door and waited. After a moment, he knocked again, harder, leaned in and called out, “Hello. Miss Braithwaite. Rachel. Claudia.”

“What was that?” Wiseman said.

“It sounded like a cat,” Hal said.

“Be quiet,” Shoe said. He listened. It came again. It did indeed sound like a cat.

“I told you,” Hal said. “It's a cat.”

Shoe leaned into the vestibule. He heard it again. It was not a cat. It was a faint cry for help. He pushed the door open and stepped into the musty, unlit vestibule. Straight ahead, steps led up to the dimly lit front hall.

“Help,” a woman cried from somewhere upstairs.

“That sounds like Claudia,” Wiseman said.

Shoe bounded up the stairs into front hall. The air was hazy with smoke. He smelled burning paper.

“Rachel,” he called. “Claudia. Where are you?”

A reply came from down a dark hallway. Although
her voice was weak and rasping, Shoe recognized it as Claudia Hahn's.

The smoke was growing thicker.

“Hal,” Shoe said. “See if you can find where the smoke's coming from.”

With Wiseman and Janey on his heels, Shoe started down the hall. The smoke thinned somewhat. He ran his hand along the wall, finally locating a bank of light switches. He flipped one. The ceiling light in the vestibule went on. The second turned on a dim overhead light halfway down the hall. Nothing obvious happened when he flipped the third and fourth.

Shoe, Janey, and Wiseman moved down the hall, checking the bedrooms, turning on lights as they went. The first bedroom was simply furnished, clean and neatly kept, but unoccupied. The one across the hall was similarly furnished, but everything was covered in a thick patina of dust. When Shoe turned on the lights in the third room they were momentarily dazzled by the brightness. It appeared to be some kind of studio, with video cameras and powerful lights surrounding a big bed. The white-haired woman lay on the bed, curled into a tight fetal ball.

“From Rachel's description,” Wiseman said, “that must be Ruth Braithwaite.”

Shoe bent over the bed. “Ruth?” he said. She whimpered and curled into a tighter ball. “Ruth, where are the women who came to speak to you?”

“Hello,” a muffled voice called through the door of the room across the hall. “Is someone there? Help.”

Wiseman rushed across the hall and rattled the door before noticing that it was secured with a heavy sliding bolt. He slid the bolt and opened the door.

“Oh, Doc. Thank god,” Claudia Hahn said, throwing her arms around his neck.

“You're hurt!” Wiseman said, alarmed.

Claudia stepped back. Her mouth was bloody, one eye was swollen shut, and her throat was beginning to bruise. She tried to smile, and winced. “I'm all right.”

“Where's Rachel?” Shoe asked.

“I don't know. They took her.”

“Who took her?”

“Dougie Hallam. And Tim Dutton.” She became aware that her blouse was open, revealing a blood-stained camisole, and tried to refasten it, but most of the buttons were missing. “They've been making pornography with Ruth and growing marijuana in the cellar.”

“Do you know where they took her?” Shoe asked.

“We overheard them talking about killing us,” she said. “And disposing of our bodies in the Dells.”

“How long ago did they leave?”

“I don't know. I was unconscious for a time, I think. It couldn't have been very long ago, though. Where's Ruth?”

“She's in the other room,” Shoe said. “Where are her sisters?”

“Dead,” Claudia said. “Interred in the cellar.” She held her hand to her mouth; it obviously hurt her to talk.

“Let's get you out of here,” Shoe said. “Go with Harv. I'll bring Ruth.”

Shoe went into the makeshift studio. Ruth was still on the bed. She whimpered and fretted as he picked her up, but she put her arms around his neck. As he carried her down the hall to the living room, she whispered against his chest.

“She ran away.”

“Who ran away, Ruth?”

“That girl. The boy's sister. Joe's sister. She ran way and he chased her. Him and the other one. Into the woods. He'll hurt her. He'll hurt her too.”

He lowered Ruth onto the sofa. She clung to him. He
had to gently pry her arms from around his neck.

“We need to call the police,” Wiseman said, casting about for a telephone.

Janey went into the kitchen. “There's a phone in here.”

Shoe went into the kitchen as Hal puffed up the stairs from the basement, followed by the harsh stink of wet burnt paper.