“He said that if I didn’t want Pru or Greg to end up in trouble,
I might want to be nice. So I . . . I let him get in a good, long, dirty
little grope.” When Sarah pulled in a breath, Tori said, “Don’t, okay?
I already feel like I’ve crawled through a sewer. But you know those
beans Pru gave him? Cutter offered the can to me, like payment. He
said he didn’t expect something for nothing. That . . . that the kids
might like more food if I would, you know, do more. And what’s horrible?” Tori’s eyes dropped to her lap. “For a second, I thought . . .
okay.”
“Tori.” Sara could taste the acid boil from her empty stomach.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I don’t know.” Tori gave a hopeless shrug. “Maybe I do. The kids
are hungry, and what if Cutter threatens to hurt Greg? Or Pru? None
of us are safe.”
“Look, let’s just take a step back, okay? Nothing’s happened yet.
We’ll talk to Greg and Pru. We’ll think of something. Know what? I’d
like some tea. Want tea?” Sarah stood up so quickly her heart couldn’t
keep up, and a sweep of vertigo blacked her vision. She gulped back
a shaky breath, then another. “You want chamomile or chamomile?” “Chamomile’d be great.” Tori managed a wobbly smile. “Look, I
already put Daisy and Ghost with the girls. Would you drop off Jet
with the boys? That dog goes crazy when you’re not around.” Not as crazy as I feel right now. “Sure.” She turned to go, Jet on her
heels. “It’ll be okay, Tori.”
“It’s nice,” Tori said, “that you think so.”
God, the thought of Cutter hitting on Tori . . . Sarah shuddered as she walked the breezeway connecting the school to the church. The idea made her want to take a cup of bleach to her brain and hit rinse. The thought of his creepy old hands on her, or his mouth . . .
“Gag me with a fork.” Frosty air palmed her face as she pushed through double doors and into the west vestibule. Directly ahead were two sets of stairs. Bear left and you had a choice: either up three steps to a cloakroom or down twelve to the basement. Choose the right set of steps, however, and you accessed a circular stone stair coiling up to the bell tower.
She flicked on a flashlight and took the left stairs. The church was not her favorite place. The place creeped her out, day or night. Constructed entirely of off-white, native limestone, the church was a soundproofed ice cube that held onto a deep gloom and a stone-cold chill. Following her light, she descended into the midnight gloaming of the windowless basement. Grit crackled like cap guns under her shoes. The gelid air was fiery on her skin. The basement was dominated by the inky cave of a common room that seemed only blacker with the cold. Shivering, she hung a left for the kitchen, a long, narrow throat of a room designed on the cheap. The cupboards were puke-yellow, vintage plywood. The floor and counters were stained Formica. The industrial-sized stainless-steel sink sported two spigots, not that she’d ever known water to run from either. All their water came from snowmelt, and they always kept an aluminum camp pot, with a plug of ice, at the ready.
It was when she fumbled out a match that she heard it: a very small but crisp crunch like sand under a heavy boot. What? Her heart cramped. She went completely still, unlit match in hand, then eased right to peer down the long throat of the kitchen’s one aisle and toward a closed storage room where they kept their meager rations under lock and key. As her weight shifted, she caught the snap and crackle again: grit under her feet. You heard yourself, silly. Touching off the Coleman, she squared the pot of ice over the burner. Just freaking yourself out.
Shaking out her keys, she walked to the storage room, socked in a key, turned it, and heard the thunk as the lock didn’t release . . . but engaged. Huh? She frowned. The door was open? That wasn’t right.
Then she recalled what Tori said: When I went to sweep out the basement . . . Tori had used the chore as an excuse to open the side door, so Greg and Pru could slip inside. But now there’s sand. She thought about how much colder the vestibule seemed, and her pulse ramped just a little higher. Always icy, the church had been frigid because the side door was open? Would she know? No, not if she didn’t stop to check or feel a draft. And the basement’s freezing, which follows because if the door is open, the air has two ways to go, up into the sanctuary . . .
Or down here, into the basement, with her.
But hold on, hold on. Tori had gone after Greg. Had she mentioned locking up once the boys left? Sarah hadn’t asked. It wasn’t something she’d have checked anyway, because Tori had enough common sense to realize that you always locked doors.
Even if she did lock it, something could have come in earlier, and be here now.
No, that was silly. Why hang out in a frigid basement? What was here that was nowhere else? Well, food. Duh. And that made her think of something else Tori said: when she opened the side door, Cutter had been there.
Oh God. What if Tori had jumped to the wrong conclusion? Cutter had keys. So maybe he was really there to steal food. A spoonful of peanut butter here, a few crackers there—who’s to know? It wasn’t like they counted every bean.
Maybe she should just get out of here and close off the basement. Yeah, but that meant going through that dark, spooky common room to the stairs. From there, the only way out was through the side door, or the chancel the next flight up. So, maybe best to retrace her steps, make a beeline back for the school, and then the girls could lock themselves in. If something came after them . . .
Tori has the shotgun. I’ve got the pistol. But she wasn’t good with guns, didn’t like them. Fine, don’t fight the boogeyman. Lock the doors, open a window, and scream. If anyone heard them. It was late afternoon, slipping into early evening. Not a lot of people moved around these days if they could help it. Very little food meant very little energy—
The sound came again, and it was harsher this time, not merely a pop and crack but a scuff like a heavy boot.
That was when she knew. There wasn’t something lurking in the storage room. There was something behind her, spiriting out of the black well of the common room.
Coming right for her.
42
“Don’t.” Greg wedged his boot between the door and jamb. “Don’t make this tougher than it has to be.” “But you’ve made a mistake.” From what Greg could see through the crack—one glittery bat’s eye far back in the cave of her socket— Verna Landry looked as if she’d have to stand twice to throw a shadow. “I don’t know who told you—”