toe, almost like a mummy. Deep
scratch marks clawed into the wood on the sides of the bed. There
were sewing needles, fishing hooks, matches. Blood pooled onto the
dirt floor, running underneath the bed frame like a slow leak in a
faucet.
"Told . . . ," a voice began, only to be drowned by static. There
was a small television/radio sitting on a white plastic chair at the back
of the cavern. Will kept down in a crouch as he moved toward the
chair. He looked at the buttons, pressing a few before he managed to
turn off the radio, remembering too late that he should have had his
gloves on.
He followed the cord of the television with his eyes, finding a
large marine battery. The plug had been cut off the cord, the bare red
and black wires attached to the terminals. There were other wires,
their ends stripped down to the copper. They were blackened, and
Will caught the familiar scent of an electrical burn.
"Hey, Gomez?" Fierro called. His voice was all raw nerves.
"It's empty," Will told him.
Fierro made a hesitating noise.
"I'm serious," Will told him. He went back to the opening, craning
up to see the man. "It's empty."
"Christ." Fierro's head disappeared from view, but not before
Will saw his hand shoot up in the sign of the cross.
Will was ready to do some praying himself if he didn't get out of
here. He shone the light on the ladder, seeing where his own shoe
prints had smeared into the bloody footprints on the rungs. Will
looked down at his scuffed shoes, the dirt floor, finding more bloody
footprints that he had smeared. He crammed his shoulders back into
the shaft and put his foot on the rung, trying not to mess up anything
else. Forensics wasn't going to be happy with him, but there was
nothing he could do about it now except apologize.
Will froze. Anna's feet had been cut, but the cuts were more like
the nasty scrapes you get from stepping on sharp objects—pine needles,
burrs, thorny vines. That was why he had assumed she had
walked in the woods. She wasn't bleeding enough to leave bloody
footprints that were so pronounced he could see the ridges of the sole
in the dirt. Will stood there with his hand above him, one foot on the
ladder, debating.
He gave a bone-weary sigh, then crouched back down, skipping
the light along every corner of the cave. The rope was bothering
him, the way it had been wrapped around the bed. His mind flashed
on the image of Anna tied down, the rope wrapped in a continuous
loop over and under the bed, securing her body to the frame. He
pulled one of the lengths out from under the bed. The end was cut
clean through, as were the others. He glanced around. Where was the
knife now?
Probably with that last stupid rat.
Will pulled back the mattress, gagging from the smell, trying not
to think about what his bare hands were touching. He kept the back
of his wrist pressed under his nose as he pulled away slats of wood
that supported the mattress, hoping to God the rat didn't spring up
and claw out his eyes. He made as much noise as he could, dropping
the slats in a pile on the floor. He heard a squeaking sound behind
him, and turned to find the rat crouched down in the corner, its
beady eyes reflecting the light. Will had a piece of wood in his hand,
and he thought about hurling it at the beast, but he was worried his
aim wouldn't be good enough in the narrow space. He was also worried
it would piss off the rat.
He laid the plank onto the pile, keeping a wary eye on the creature.
Something else got his attention. There were scratch marks on
the bottom of the bed slats—deep bloody gouges that didn't look
like they were made by an animal. Will shone the light into the opening
under the bed. The dirt was excavated about six inches below the
floor, running the length and width of the bed. Will reached down
and picked up a small length of rope. Like the other pieces, this had
been cut, too. Unlike the other pieces, there was a knot
scratch marks clawed into the wood on the sides of the bed. There
were sewing needles, fishing hooks, matches. Blood pooled onto the
dirt floor, running underneath the bed frame like a slow leak in a
faucet.
"Told . . . ," a voice began, only to be drowned by static. There
was a small television/radio sitting on a white plastic chair at the back
of the cavern. Will kept down in a crouch as he moved toward the
chair. He looked at the buttons, pressing a few before he managed to
turn off the radio, remembering too late that he should have had his
gloves on.
He followed the cord of the television with his eyes, finding a
large marine battery. The plug had been cut off the cord, the bare red
and black wires attached to the terminals. There were other wires,
their ends stripped down to the copper. They were blackened, and
Will caught the familiar scent of an electrical burn.
"Hey, Gomez?" Fierro called. His voice was all raw nerves.
"It's empty," Will told him.
Fierro made a hesitating noise.
"I'm serious," Will told him. He went back to the opening, craning
up to see the man. "It's empty."
"Christ." Fierro's head disappeared from view, but not before
Will saw his hand shoot up in the sign of the cross.
Will was ready to do some praying himself if he didn't get out of
here. He shone the light on the ladder, seeing where his own shoe
prints had smeared into the bloody footprints on the rungs. Will
looked down at his scuffed shoes, the dirt floor, finding more bloody
footprints that he had smeared. He crammed his shoulders back into
the shaft and put his foot on the rung, trying not to mess up anything
else. Forensics wasn't going to be happy with him, but there was
nothing he could do about it now except apologize.
Will froze. Anna's feet had been cut, but the cuts were more like
the nasty scrapes you get from stepping on sharp objects—pine needles,
burrs, thorny vines. That was why he had assumed she had
walked in the woods. She wasn't bleeding enough to leave bloody
footprints that were so pronounced he could see the ridges of the sole
in the dirt. Will stood there with his hand above him, one foot on the
ladder, debating.
He gave a bone-weary sigh, then crouched back down, skipping
the light along every corner of the cave. The rope was bothering
him, the way it had been wrapped around the bed. His mind flashed
on the image of Anna tied down, the rope wrapped in a continuous
loop over and under the bed, securing her body to the frame. He
pulled one of the lengths out from under the bed. The end was cut
clean through, as were the others. He glanced around. Where was the
knife now?
Probably with that last stupid rat.
Will pulled back the mattress, gagging from the smell, trying not
to think about what his bare hands were touching. He kept the back
of his wrist pressed under his nose as he pulled away slats of wood
that supported the mattress, hoping to God the rat didn't spring up
and claw out his eyes. He made as much noise as he could, dropping
the slats in a pile on the floor. He heard a squeaking sound behind
him, and turned to find the rat crouched down in the corner, its
beady eyes reflecting the light. Will had a piece of wood in his hand,
and he thought about hurling it at the beast, but he was worried his
aim wouldn't be good enough in the narrow space. He was also worried
it would piss off the rat.
He laid the plank onto the pile, keeping a wary eye on the creature.
Something else got his attention. There were scratch marks on
the bottom of the bed slats—deep bloody gouges that didn't look
like they were made by an animal. Will shone the light into the opening
under the bed. The dirt was excavated about six inches below the
floor, running the length and width of the bed. Will reached down
and picked up a small length of rope. Like the other pieces, this had
been cut, too. Unlike the other pieces, there was a knot
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