TWENTY-SEVEN
Natalie Bailey couldn’t stop thinking about Mike. Was her husband okay? She prayed he was okay. And if he was okay, that would mean he’d be frantic. And yet there was nothing she could do to help either one of them.
She was trapped. Locked in an ancient-looking handcrafted cell that had been welded together with rebar that was bent and rusting in places. She had no idea how she’d ended up in this place with its cracked, uneven cement walls and moldy smell. Beneath the fresh straw, she could smell a hint of bleach.
How many people had been locked up before her?
And who was in the enclosed cell nearby? Every once in a while she’d hear a long, mournful cry. At first she’d thought it was a wolf. Now she wasn’t so sure.
The last thing she remembered before waking up in her own personal hell was being home in her warm bed. Sometime well after midnight, she’d felt the weight of a hand clamped tightly over her mouth. Her eyes had shot open, and she’d seen a shadowy figure hovering over her. Her muffled screams had gone unnoticed, which made her think her abductor had already done something with Mike. At one point she’d managed to kick her abductor in the groin, and he’d grunted in pain. But then she’d felt a pinch in her side right before everything went black.
She looked at Zee, who was preoccupied at the moment, talking to herself. Natalie had been awake the other day when the poor girl was dragged down the stairs, her head thumping against each step.
Their abductor, a skinny man with a pale face and big blue eyes, stood at about five foot ten. His wheat-colored hair was straight, cut short and at odd angles. He’d struggled with Zee’s deadweight, huffing and puffing until he’d finally left the girl in a heap in the middle of the cell next door before locking her in.
When he’d returned the second time, Natalie had been shocked to discover that he blamed her mother for what he’d become. He’d said he’d met her mother, Sue Sterling, on May 14, 1999. He was gone now, but Natalie knew he’d come back sooner or later.
She still couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said about her mother. Natalie would have been seventeen at the time. Mom and Dad had divorced two years before that. Her mother used to come home exhausted, overwhelmed by the sheer number of children who were being abused and needed help.
But that Friday, May 14, 1999, was especially memorable to Natalie for another reason. That was the same day her mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer.
And that was when it came to her. Her heart raced as she realized she knew who he was. Mom had talked about him often, more worried about the abused boy than her cancer diagnosis. She’d made multiple phone calls until a caseworker had assured her that she would follow up.
His name wasn’t Scar, as Zee referred to him. His name was Forrest Bloom.
With renewed determination to get out of there alive, Natalie got to her feet and walked around the cell, examining every nook and cranny. She pushed the straw away from the walls, making a pile in the center of the room. Then she examined the cracks in the floor, looking for anything that might help them escape.
She ran her hands over the rough metal, looking for flaws. In the cell next to her, Zee still stood by the door, her fingers curled tightly around the bars as she rocked back and forth. She hadn’t moved since the last time the madman had marched from the room.
“He never should have done that,” Zee said when she saw Natalie walking around. “He’s a very bad man and will be punished.”
Natalie glanced at Zee. “What did you say?”
“Shut up, Lucy,” Zee said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Who are you talking to?” Natalie asked.
“Nobody,” Zee said as she continued to sway back and forth, causing the metal bars to squeak in protest.
Natalie looked up. There it was, about a foot above Zee’s right hand. A fragile link in the rebar. How much effort, she wondered, would it take to break one of the bars? Would Zee be able to shimmy her way up the rebar and squeeze through the space?
“Zee,” she said, “look up. Every time you shake that bar, it squeaks. There’s a weak point above your right hand. If you can break it loose, you might be able to get out of here and save us both.”
“I could be a hero,” Zee said.
“That’s true,” Natalie agreed.
Zee’s eyes narrowed. “I really thought he liked me.”
Natalie didn’t say a word. Zee was obviously at war with the demons inside, muttering to herself, her body tense.
Zee’s face turned red, and she began to shake the bars again, harder this time, the noise deafening.
Suddenly she stopped and looked up at the spot Natalie had pointed to. She stared, her eyes narrowing, and then shook the bars again. She did the same thing again and again, stopping, looking, shaking.
The bar was loosening.
Zee looked over at Natalie and smiled.