“Thanks.” Tony sidestepped to the next cabinet and considered the three-inch binders stored there. He reached for the first one on the highest shelf. Test Subject #2 Ellen Carson.
The find sent a shot of adrenaline firing through his chest. He moved on to the next and the next. Files dating back eighteen years, including the other women in Jo’s scrapbook were there. There were a couple dozen files—women and men. Ages varied from late teens to midtwenties. Each was labeled with a Test Subject # whatever.
They were all here—except Jo’s.
Tony moved to the other cabinet the detective had opened. No binders in there. This one contained supplies. Reams of paper. Ink cartridges. Pad, pens. The usual.
Where the hell was Jo’s file?
Tony walked back to the desk and looked around. He picked through the papers until he found one with Jo’s name. He crouched down to look under the desk. He had to lean just so to see beyond what was left of the professor draped in the chair.
And there it was. Another three-inch binder on the floor far beneath the desk. Blume must have removed the contents and tossed the binder out of his way. Judging by the pages on the desk he’d been reading Jo’s file when he shot himself or someone else did the honors.
“LeDoux,” the second detective called from the other side of the room. “You’ll want to see this.”
What looked like a copy machine or printer sat on the table where the detective waited. He held two sheets of paper he’d pulled from the paper tray. The pages had been faxed from Dr. Ima Alexander’s office. Examination conclusions on Vickie Parton and Tiffany Durand.
Son of a bitch. One or both of the Blumes were involved. “Thanks.”
The detective nodded. “This is what we’ve been looking for.”
The detective was right. Tony turned back to the decomposing professor. Unless his wife was involved, how the hell would they find Tiffany now?
A forensic tech found Blume’s wallet in his trousers. Amid the mass of papers on the desk they also found what appeared to a suicide note.
I cannot live with what I’ve allowed to happen.
It was signed Orson Blume.
A handwriting expert would be required to determine if the signature was Blume’s. Jesus Christ. Why couldn’t they have found this days ago?
Tony thanked the forensic techs and the detectives and exited the safe room. He peeled off the shoe covers in case he’d picked up something that might be scattered to other parts of the house, but he kept the gloves on. He headed upstairs, moving from room to room until he found what he was looking for. A photo that showed Blume’s left hand and right wrist.
The ring currently trapped in the goo and the Rolex on the skeleton’s wrist were the same. Had to be Blume. Despite the jewelry and the wallet, an official ID confirmation would be necessary.
Hopefully the coroner could confirm tonight.
From the conditions of the cool, dark room, maybe sixty degrees, and the decomp of the body, Blume had likely been dead three or so weeks.
Whatever happened in this house, one thing was abundantly clear: Orson Blume couldn’t have taken Tiffany and Vickie... He had an unshakable alibi.
He was dead.
44
Day Eleven
Eighteen years ago...
The lights are on—the walls are no longer black, they’re white. There’s a cage-like door with a big lock over the opening between this space and the one above us. I don’t know what this means.
It’s so bright we can’t bear to open our eyes for long. It burns.
Ellen is better. No more vomiting. The bleeding has stopped.
No water today.
No food.
I’m so hungry and thirsty. I tell myself not to think about it but it’s so hard.
I have come to realize that no one is coming to save us.
We will die here.
“My name is Carrie.”
I try to open my eyes and look at No-Name. “Carrie?” My lips split further even as I say her name.
Her knees are pulled to her chest. She lowers her face to her arms to shield her eyes from the light. “Carrie Cole.”
I shelter my eyes the same way. “Joanna Guthrie. My friends call me Jo.” She already knows my first name but she doesn’t know my last.
“Ellen Carson.”
Ellen is lying on her side, curled into the fetal position. She sounds so tired. So weak.
The light feels so hot, like the blaring bulbs in a tanning bed. My skin feels as if it’s blistering, too.
Don’t think about it. I say, “I have a brother named Ray.”
“I only have my mother,” Carrie says. “She doesn’t even know where I am. I got mixed up with drugs when I was sixteen. She threw me out. I don’t blame her. I was one crazy bitch.”
“I want to go home,” Ellen whispers so softly I can hardly hear the words.
I sigh. “Me, too.”
Carrie says, “We can’t let them win. No matter what.”
“No matter what,” I agree.
“I don’t know if I can fight again,” Ellen whimpers.
I reach out and squeeze her arm.
There’s nothing else to say.
“Let’s make a deal,” Carrie says.
“Okay,” I murmur.
“If just one of us gets out of here, promise to find the families of the others and tell them we love them. I mean, I don’t have anyone but my mom but I’d like her to know since I’ve been such a shit to her. I wish I could do my life over.”
“I like that deal,” I tell her.
“Me, too,” Ellen whispers.
For the next few minutes we talk about home and who our parents are. Then more of that silence closes around us.
“But we won’t have to worry about doing any of that,” I say with renewed determination, “because we’re all getting out of here together.”
Alive, I pray.
45
Tiffany wasn’t sure which of them was hurt the worst.
Vickie just lay on the floor saying nothing. Lexy was curled up in a corner. They should close their eyes but the two of them just stared unblinking at the images.
At first it felt like the people in the movies or whatever it was were real. Even now, Tiffany reached out and tried to touch the moving images.
“Not real,” she murmured.
Maybe she wasn’t even real anymore.
Maybe they were all dead—zombies or something.
She had thought she preferred the darkness to the light but now she didn’t care which came as long as the pictures stopped.
The people in the movie or whatever it was were slashing and stabbing each other. Limbs were chopped off. Heads severed. Eyeballs poked out.
It didn’t stop. She couldn’t say for sure but it felt like the movie had been playing for days. The words murder, murder, murder kept floating across the images. Then it would change to kill, kill, kill. And then survive, survive, survive.
Tiffany closed her eyes and put her head down. She didn’t want to watch.
She wanted to think of home. Of her mom and dad and her uncle Tony.
They were looking for her, she was certain.
The others didn’t believe. They were sure there was no surviving because no one was coming. But Tiffany refused to give up.
She couldn’t estimate how long it had been since they ate. Two or three days. No water today either. Her lips were so dry and cracked. Every bone and muscle in her body seemed to ache.
She had dried blood all over her. It hurt to pee. She wasn’t sure why, maybe because she wasn’t getting enough water.
Her coordination was off.
And she was so tired. She just wanted to close her eyes and sleep but her body refused to shut down enough to allow sleep to come.
The movie suddenly stopped and the screaming began. So loud, so many different people screaming.
Tiffany covered her ears.
She scrambled to her feet and tried to remember where Vickie and Lexy were lying.
A body slammed into her and knocked her on the floor.
Tiffany tried to scramble away.
“They told me what you said!”
Lexy’s voice.
Tiffany tried to fend off her blows. “What are you talking about?”
“You said you were going to kill me in my sleep!”
What the hell was she talking about?
Lexy suddenly flew off her.
Tiffany scrambled away.
“You’re the one!”
Vickie’s voice.