CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
NOTHING ABOUT THIS was usual. Not the house. The details. The missing bodies. The lack of one solid, indisputable lead. God knew they had plenty of disputable ones.
Case in point: They were standing inside the Avon Avenue house.
They’d positioned an A-frame ladder under a loose piece of sheetrock. Near where the railing would’ve been had the house not been blown out yesterday. Amanda climbed the metal rungs. “You sure this place actually belongs to Simone?”
Robinson stood nearby, eying the entire structure, his hands on either side of the ladder. Holding it steady. He’d refused to set it up until he’d talked to CMFD regarding the overall safety of the place. Had them actually come to the house and point out every place of weakness.
“That’s what the county has on record.” Seriousness underlined every word. “Mona Hicks has been the sole owner since the seventies.”
Amanda didn’t take her sight from the piece of hanging sheetrock directly above. She’d seen it before. Was almost positive lettering hid behind it. “So she would’ve been the landlord during the time that woman committed suicide here?”
“Uh-huh.” Robinson had been pretty tight-lipped since they’d been to the morgue this morning. Since he’d gotten a call shortly afterward. One he hadn’t disclosed the details of. “Simone—Mona or whatever she wants to go by now—got married first. Acquired some other assets with her husband. Started a band.” He shifted. “What exactly are you looking for?”
Something to prove her dreams were exactly that. She paused midway up, her eyes connecting with his. Concern highlighted the bluish-green. “I keep having these weird dreams—nightmares. I don’t know what to make of them.”
“I know.” His hand moved toward her calf. Squeezed. “I’m not stupid. Is it the same one? You’re lying on the floor surrounded by your own blood?”
It was bigger than that. Darker. Scarier. It seemed so real, she had trouble shaking it. At least in the last two nights.
“Because it’s normal. With the way your mom died, I’d expect you to have those kinds of dreams. That doesn’t go away overnight.”
This one was different. “There’s a new one—maybe just an extension of the usual. I’m surround by a crowd, walking toward a mirror with letters scrawled across it. And then I’m not me at all. I’m Beth.”
“A.J.…” His voice was low and full of understanding. Of course it was. He was probably the only person on the planet who understood what uttering her name meant.
“When I get close to it, there’s a woman lying at my feet. She’s bleeding from her wrist. There’s a giant slice in it.” Just like Jane Doe’s.
There wasn’t a connection—couldn’t be between the past and present. She noted the broken banister, the blown-out windows, the furniture in complete disarray and the floor beneath them. The rug was pulled back, a patch of the wooden surface slightly lighter in color than the rest of the room. The material was inset more than the rest of the flooring, the patch a three-by-three section.
She turned to her husband. “Do we have a name for the woman who died here back in the seventies? Back when Simone first owned the place?”
Seriousness covered his face. The room settled in an eerie calm. Withholding information from her wasn’t his go-to.
She blew out a breath. “Robbie. Her name?”
“Vi.”
“Vi…?” Something sparked to life in her mind—a memory, a dream. She didn’t know anymore. “As in Charleen? That Vi?”
“Her name also appears in several other places.”
She moved down the ladder. Hit the floor. “Such as?”
“The sign-in roster for that rehab center in Raleigh. Right under Dexter’s.”
That couldn’t be right. She was misunderstanding. “You’re not making any sense. How is a woman who committed suicide in the seventies signing in to a rehab center almost thirty years later? And why is that suddenly coming to light?”
“Because Charleen requested the information. Same way she asked for evidence from the hospital after the Pilots Bombing.”
This was a joke. “At the risk of sounding like a broken record—that doesn’t make any sense.”
“Neither does this.” He pulled out a thick piece of paper, unfolded it, and held it up. A marriage certificate stared back at her with two names on it. Amanda grabbed it. Scanned the contents.
Dexter Knight. Vi Archambault.
The document was dated for last May—an entire month before the hospital shooting. Witnesses had signed below the officiating pastor.
Simone Archambault. Michael Hicks.
“Where did you get this?”
“I picked it up inside the hospital. It was laying outside the morgue.”
“The date is wrong. Everything about it—it has to be wrong. Dexter would’ve said something. He never would’ve agreed to look into her background.” She moved to the next piece of paper. Noted foster care paperwork for Josiah and Fay Wittemoore in the mid-seventies. Again Simone Archambault’s name appeared.
Amanda shook her head. The timeline was off. Everything about it.
A loud crack filled the room as the sheetrock above them shifted. Robinson grabbed her and pulled her backward as it split from the ceiling and dropped to the floor at their feet. It broke in half. Particles of dust settled around them.
“You good?” He waved his hand in front of them, clearing the floating dirt from the air.
“Yeah.” Her gaze shot upward. Toward the letters carved into the wood.
REVIVAL.
A face materialized in the grit, near the missing banister, a form moving across the upper level and to what remained of the stairs. Dark hair, green eyes, and the tall stature of a man came into view. He dragged something—someone—into the light by long brown hair. Paige’s scared eyes connected with Amanda’s. She had silver tape across her mouth, her hands bound in front of her by thick rope.
Everything inside her stopped working. She was seeing this wrong. Dreaming. Hallucinating. Blinking brought it all back in focus.
Amanda pulled her gun and centered it on them. Robinson followed suit.
The man holding their daughter laughed. “Welcome, Agent Robinson, Detective Nettles. You’re just in time.”
___
Paige came to in a zap that flooded every muscle in her body with awareness. Flooded her chest with agony. Made it difficult to catch a full breath. Difficult to move or open her eyes. They were heavy. The surface beneath her back was hard, something lumpy but marginally softer behind her head. A pungent smell filled the air.
Where was she? She’d been at school, trying to get away from Will, then… Panic. A rush of events flooded her brain. Will and Ricky slung insults at each other. The image of a man with slicked-back hair popped into her mind. He’d taken them and bound their hands. Covered their faces. Shipped them to a strange place. Then Amanda and Robbie had shown up. The man had grabbed her hair, shoved her toward the remains of the stairs. Tears had blurred her vision of her aunt and uncle.
That couldn’t be right. It was a dream. She was still asleep in her bed. One that was hard. And jagged.
Her pulse picked up pace.
The man with the slicked-back hair had taken her—it was real. Put a hood over her head. Managed to pick her up even as she’d screamed. Kicked. Fought. Someone had to have seen or heard that. Why hadn’t anyone done anything?
“I know, I know.” The voice was strong and sure. Young. Familiar. “I sling her and he’ll pull her back. Instant repeat. Mental exhaustion. Amnesia.”
Sling? Paige didn’t dare move. Tried to repress the urge to hyperventilate.
“Don’t get cocky.” The voice was feminine, distinct but unfamiliar. “Don’t think he doesn’t suspect things. He’s been watching. What you did at school was risky, Ricky.”
Ricky?
Right. He’d been there. Shown up out of nowhere. The kid had to be scared out of his mind. Had the guy with slicked-back hair harmed him?
“You heard what Will said to Paige.” Annoyance laced Ricky’s words. “What kind of man lets that happen?”
Ricky hadn’t been close enough to hear them. There was no way. No one had. Not today. Not yesterday.
“A man who’s actually ten and half the other guy’s size. A boy who shouldn’t interfere—not like that.”
A soft scrape filled the silence. “Age and size are irrelevant. I know what’s at stake and he’s a jock with one thing on his mind. There might be a mission, but that doesn’t mean I’m blind to everything else in the world. You can warn me of the dangers of not living conventionally all you want. It won’t change my mind. If I see a situation that needs righting, I’m not waiting for a normal opportunity. I’m taking it.”
A laugh filled the room. “You’re just like your mother, kid.”
Paige’s eyes snapped open. Pounding in her temples blurred her vision. It made the small, dim room wobble before coming into view. Empty shelves lined one side of the room, dust settling in the light coming from around the closed door. She sat up. Turned until she found Ricky in the far corner, tools surrounding him. There wasn’t anyone but the two of them and a whole lot of dust. “Who were you talking to? Where are we?”
“We.” He lifted a floorboard and set it aside as if the voices she’d heard were a thing borne of shock. “Are in a pantry.”
There was a haze filling the room, the smell registering as smoke. “How did we get here?”
He set the tool aside and fished inside the hole. Brought back a handful of spider webbing. Wiped it on his pants where it stayed. “A man named Josiah Wittemoore kidnapped us and brought us here.”
Why? The question echoed in her soul. If experience had taught her anything, there was always a reason. Small, underlying, something.
The logic didn’t stop the iron fist around her lungs. She wasn’t going back to any kind of captivity. Wouldn’t suffer at the hands of another. Watch others do the same.
Ricky continued working as if nothing odd were happening.
“What are you doing?”
He glanced up. “Getting you out of here.”
“Where are my aunt and uncle?”
She had to get to them. Let them know she was okay.
“In the kitchen. My mom is already here. She’d die before letting anything happen to them.”
The last time Paige had seen Ricky’s mom, she was heavily pregnant. “What is Miss Juliana gonna do?”
“Juliana’s not my mom.”
“What? Ricky.” She moved toward him. Put both her hands on his shoulders. “Look at me.” He had to be going into shock. She’d seen it enough times to recognize it.
She stilled. Wild-eyed panic was nowhere near his face. Instead, soul-deep peace resonated in his eyes. She stepped back. That was wrong. Shouldn’t he be full of fear? “How are you so calm right now?”
The man with the dark hair had taken them. Brought them here. Amanda and Robbie had shown up. Why couldn’t she remember the time in between? She moved in a circular motion. “He had you in that old house. He had us both.” She looked at her hands. The ties were gone, the fear still creeping up. “This is a nightmare. I’m dreaming. I’ll wake up. I’ll be at home. Safe.”
Ricky grabbed her wrist. Pulled her toward the door at the other end of the room. Knelt near it and motioned for her to do the same. Then he took her hand. Placed it against the surface. It was hot against her skin. There was a dirty old towel at the base of the door.
“Look.”
Paige complied. Pressed her face to the skeleton keyhole. Six adults were in view, two of them—Ms. Harwood, and a man who looked a lot like Ricky—strapped to chairs directly in their view.
“That’s my uncle Finn.” Ricky’s voice was a whisper next to her ear.
There was a welt over Finn’s temple. Tears poured down Ms. Harwood’s face. Beyond them, flames ate a circle around the room. At the other side, Amanda and Robinson sat in the same predicament. Her heart soared into her throat.
Paige moved back. “We have to do something.”
He shook his head. “You can’t help them like this. You’ll only end up getting yourself killed.”
“You don’t know that.” She attempted to rise.
He grabbed her hand. Held her still. “I do.”
Everything inside her wanted to push the kid back. Rush out the door and get everyone to safety. He was ten. He couldn’t possibly know the horrors the world held. She did. She lived with them. The faces she still saw in her dreams. The girls she had been unable to keep safe when she’d barely been able to save herself. “You don’t.”
“I was talking to your mom—your birth mom. Earlier.”
What? “No.” Paige clamped her eyes shut. She’d heard wrong. “You couldn’t—”
“Talk to me?” The feminine voice had her eyes popping open. Centering on a woman in a white dress with a red bow. Brown hair the same shade as her own. “Hello, Paige. We meet again.”
A scream clawed its way up her esophagus. Got trapped in her throat. She backed away. Tripped over the material her head had rested on. Landed hard on her rear end near the hole Ricky had opened. “You’re not real. You’re a dream. A hallucination. This is all a nightmare.”
The other woman didn’t move. “Ricky is right. If you go out there, you’ll die. Right now you’re just another means to an end.”
“W-why would I trust you?”
“The same reason you trusted me last summer when you were in captivity.”
Desperation. Lack of food and water. Insanity. She’d thought this woman—this person who intermittently shielded her from harm—was a figment of her imagination.
Ricky grabbed her hand. Tugged her toward the opening he’d created in the floor. “Someday you’re going to be a surgeon. One of the best this country has ever known. You’ll save so many lives.” He pointed toward the hole. “This is a crawl space that reaches around the entire house. You’re going to go through it. Away from the fire.”
She shook her head. Cobwebs still lined the opening which led to black dirt and darkness. Unknown darkness.
“We’re going to crawl to the south end of the house—not the north. That will bring you to the side of the house and closest to the road. You’re going to have to unlock the crawl space entry. It’s a combo lock on the inside. Nine, seven, six.”
“H-how do you know that?”
“I grew up here—in the summers. We’re gonna go out. Get help.”
Paige shook her head. This was a nightmare. A terrible dream. She couldn’t leave them. Couldn’t wait and wonder what would happen if they didn’t make it. She was tired of being the victim.
The doorknob rattled.
“If we could do it differently, I would.”
“You mean sling me?” The words whispered through her. Somewhere inside her mind, they meant something. A spark that lit in the distance. “What does that mean?”
Ricky hadn’t moved. “Go, Paige. Before it’s too late.”