40.
***
Scott had only seen a handful of murders that made him angry in his time as a homicide cop. He had seen plenty that were upsetting, sure, and all of them were sad in one way or another, but only the handful that he had seen involving children made him actively angry. Children were too young to be involved in such evil, he thought, too innocent to be a part of the hatred that made people turn against one another in anger. So the sight of the child on the bed, bound and gagged and clearly frightened, made Scott see red for a moment.
He didn't have his gun. And chances were that the person inside who was responsible for this heinous crime was at least armed with a kitchen knife, if not with something even more lethal. Still, Scott would have gone in at that point no matter what, because of the child.
The question was, what was the best way to go in? Through the front door? The side? Try a window? Scott knew that he had to get to a phone to call the police, but also worried more than a little bit about taking that avenue of action. After all, surely the destroyed car had been discovered by now, and an all points bulletin put out for its owner. If this had been Los Angeles, the discovery of a wrecked car might have been relegated to a back burner in favor of the more pressing crimes that were a part of everyday life there. But in Meridian the car would be hot news. And Scott had no intention of ending up in a holding cell - not until he had figured out how to stop Mr. Gray, at any rate. He had the suspicion that if he allowed himself to be admitted into a prison before doing that, Mr. Gray would appear in the cell with him - or with Kevin or Lynette - and cut them to ribbons before anyone could be summoned to aid them.
After a moment, he decided that going through the front door would be the best way to proceed. It was direct and obvious, but at least afforded him instant access to the child, and for all he knew the kidnapper - or kidnappers, he reminded himself; it could be several people behind this crime - was waiting at the back door for someone to come snooping around. The front door was as good as any.
First he looked in the side window once more, trying again to see anyone who might be inside the front room. Again, he saw nothing and no one; only the child, bound and gagged on the couch.
He tried the front door. Unlocked. Normally he would have counted this as a good sign. Now, however, it merely seemed as though he were a fly entering the spider's lair. The spider often invited its prey in; it was getting out that presented problems.
With a click and a whisper of wood on wood that seemed far too loud in his ears, he slowly eased the door open, his every muscle as tightly coiled as a clockspring, ready to jump into action at the slightest provocation.
Nothing. Not a soul moved, not even the child.
At this realization, Scott felt his heart plummet. What if the child was dead? He didn't know if he could handle something like that. Not after so many years as the parent of another murdered child. He worried that he would go insane instantly, the proverbial straw having finally landed on his back after so many years of carrying the heavy loads of guilt and despair that had accompanied him since the loss of his family.
The night pressed in on him like a vise, a palpable force that pushed against him, trying to keep him out of this house. Locking him in place. Scott had to will his feet to move, one at a time, one bare step at a time, until he was able to finally step over the threshold of the house.
Upon passing the invisible line of demarcation that stood between all that was outside the house and all that was within, he shuddered. Just as the night had become a physical presence, so too was the sense that this home - so attractive and well-kept on the outside - had become a den of evil, a lair of corruption. Every muscle in his body ached to retreat; to go back to the car with Lynette and Kevin and resume their mad run from Mr. Gray.
But he knew that he could not live with himself if he were to make such a decision. That would drive him insane, to know that he had stood at the brink of helping a child, and had backed down without doing so. Even dying would be preferable to that.
So he stepped across the threshold, moved into the house. He realized that he would have to close the door behind him. The fact that he had not been shouted at or attacked showed that whoever was behind this cruelty was in another part of the house, but if he or she or they should return to see the open door, suspicion would make the perpetrator ten times more likely to be on guard.
He turned and closed the door, making sure that it remained unlocked behind him. As he did so, he suffered a terrible thought: what if the kidnapper was not home? What if the person or people behind this night returned and found Lynette and Kevin in the car outside, helpless and waiting to be attacked?
But he dismissed the thought in the instant that it came to him. There was something about empty houses, or houses where the sole occupants were asleep or insensible. A feel of quiet solitude that was not present here. No, the kidnapper was in the house, he was sure of it.
He moved quickly across the front room, keenly aware of the moonlight streaming in through the windows of the front room and his shadow that slashed through the room like a razor blade. The best he could do was move quickly and hope that no one saw the movement.
No one came running at him. He crossed the front room in three large strides, moving to the side of the child on the couch.
It was a girl. Not more than ten or eleven years old. She had been beaten before being tied up, her eyes both visibly blackened even in the darkness, and dried blood crusted at the corners of her mouth and under her nose. Scott felt his guts clench even further at the vision of the atrocity. He was reminded of the scripture that said anyone who harmed a child would be better off having a millstone tied around his neck and being drowned. Though Scott and God had not seen eye to eye for years, this was one thing he could agree on.
The next decision he had to make was readily apparent: to untie the girl, or leave her there. Surely it would be more humane to untie her, certainly it would be better for her in the short run. But there were other considerations. What if she awoke with a scream as soon as he unbound and ungagged her? Such a noise would be sure to summon her captors like moths to a bright light. What if she mistook Scott for one of the people who had done this to her and tried to fight him? Again, disaster lay at the end of that path.
On the other hand, what if she vomited while gagged? What if she died of her injuries while he was busy sweeping through the house for the people behind this? Scott knew he could not bear that on his conscience. Again, as was so often the case, it seemed he had been presented with two choices, and neither of them was right or even to be considered.
Finally, he decided to unbind her. At least to remove her gag and let her breathe more freely. That would ease his conscience and allow him to think more clearly than he was presently capable of doing.
He knelt down beside her, heedful of the slightest movement, of the tiniest noise in the darkness. Other than the creaking of his knees as he moved, there was nothing. He touched the girl's shoulder, gingerly at first, then more rigorously when she did not respond. After a moment, her eyes fluttered open, then grew wide and terrified at the sight of Scott looming over her.
He put a finger to his lips and whispered the words that came naturally to his mouth: "Shh. I'm the police. Are you okay?" The girl didn't nod, but nor did she scream, which he took as a good sign. Though it might mean that she had suffered so much that she had descended into a state of open-eyed catatonia, a traumatic response more devastating to some than Kevin's autism could be.
He repeated the words one more time. It was all he could risk. If he spoke more than that he was worried that he might be heard. "Are you all right?" he repeated.
The girl nodded.
Scott smiled at her, and as he did so he realized what a gruesome figure he must have presented: a scarred face looming over her as she woke, a hideous stranger in what must have been a night of hideous experiences. Yet she had not screamed, had not thrashed around. Again, this either spoke for the girl's character in an amazing way, or pointed at stress-related shock. The latter would be a more reasonable assumption, but just as he had felt that the house was not empty; that there was someone inside waiting and willing to do others harm, so Scott felt now that this girl, though shocked, was made of deeply tough stuff.
He smiled again, and was relieved to see her eyes slip into a less-widened position as she relaxed ever-so-slightly. She was aware he was not a bad guy. She was aware he was there to help. He marveled at the resiliency of some people. He did not know if he could have reacted with nearly such aplomb had he been victimized the way this girl had been.
And there, in the darkness, he had a realization: the girl had not been victimized. Oh, she had been hurt, it was true, had been treated cruelly, it could not be denied. But she had not allowed herself to become a victim. She was still fighting, still ready to be rescued, as shown by her readiness to accept the idea that Scott was a police officer here to help her, as demonstrated by the fact that she had not screamed at his scarred visage, but had waited patiently to find out what he was planning to do. She had not allowed herself to be made a victim. Though she had been powerless to stop others from harming her physically, she had retained and reserved for herself the right to choose not to be victimized, the privilege of deciding how she would react when evil came knocking at her door - or in this case, knocking it down and taking her hostage.
Scott felt ashamed. This girl had shown more strength this night - in the past five seconds, in fact - than he had shown in the last eight years and more. She had not allowed the whims of fate or chance or the malicious eye of cruelty to beat her down; she had refused to be cowed.
Scott looked around again; they were still alone in the front room. He took the girl's gag off. "Where are your parents?" he said.
"I don't know," she whispered back.
"I'm going to try to get you out of this," he said, and began fumbling in the darkness at her ropes. Quickly, however, he determined that it was no use. The knots were too tight. He would have to find a knife or some other tool to cut her loose.
That meant he would have to leave her here. And go farther into the house.
"Honey," he whispered, "what's your name?"
"Tina."
"Okay, Tina. I'm going to find something to get you loose. I'll be right back, all right?" She nodded. "Do you know how many people did this to you?"
She shook her head, fear creeping into her eyes for the first time. "I was asleep in my room and I heard something downstairs. Then the door opened, and that's...." Her breath hitched in her throat. "That's the last thing I remember before I was here."
Scott tried not to let any disappointment show in his face. It would have been tremendously helpful to at least know how many people he was up against. But he was still playing this game blindfolded. He had one more question, but it had to be asked. "Are you hurt anywhere else? Or just your face?"
"I don't know."
He cursed mentally. As a homicide detective, he had learned that someone attacking the face only usually meant it was a close acquaintance of some kind behind the violence. If Tina had been able to answer him he could at least have deducted that he was looking for a single, unbalanced friend or relative, rather than any number of unbalanced persons unknown. But fate was not to let him get through this easily in any way, it seemed.
"I'll be right back, Tina. You stay brave, okay?"
She nodded again. Tough kid.
Scott looked around. There was a doorway to the left, which no doubt led to a kitchen and basement, and a hall to his right that curved around and disappeared. Judging by the layout of the house, it probably went to one or more rooms, as well as to a staircase to the second floor.
Too many options, he thought. It was the worst kind of place to have to deal with alone: one with many ways in and out of the rooms, one where he would have no guarantee of the rooms remaining clear and safe even after he had checked them out.
Still, he had to try. Tina was relying on him.
He decided to try the left. Hopefully he could get to a knife in the kitchen, then come back and cut Tina's bonds before anyone knew he was here. That way he could send her out to be with Kevin and Lynette before he tried to find her family...and whoever had done this to her.
He crept to the kitchen. The door between the front room and the kitchen swung on well-oiled hinges, but even the swish of the air as the door swung inward sounded like a hurricane to Scott's fear-tuned ears. He expected the house to shake on its moorings at the sound; expected those behind this nightmare to come rushing out of the blackness to attack him.
But no. No one was in the kitchen.
He grabbed a knife from a nearby knife rack and hurried back to Tina.
She was still alone. Still had not moved.
He began hacking at her bonds, but the rope was thick, and made of some tear-resistant material that made the blade of his knife want to slip off constantly. He realized after about twenty seconds with little progress made that he was not going to be able to cut her loose without either hurting her or remaining a sitting duck for far longer than he sensed was safe to do.
Somewhere in this house, evil was awake, sliding from room to room like a snake in human flesh.
He would have to leave Tina here. For now.
A noise sounded from upstairs.
Scott looked above him and saw a ceiling fan wavering. Something had slammed against the floor hard enough to shake the appliance from above.
Tina let forth a small cry.
Time had run out. Whatever was going to happen in this house, was happening now.
***