Chilling Effect (29 page)

He guessed what she was thinking and shook his head. “Second-

fl oor windows are rigged, too.”

She wet her lips. “What’s your plan—you want to live in here

forever, the two of us?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not crazy, Aroostine, but I am desper-

ate. I’m not going to die in a cage. So you pick: forget we had this 231

MELISSA F. MILLER

conversation, let the drone thing go, and walk out of here to live the rest of your life, or die with me in what promises to be an impressive explosion. I’m at peace with either decision.”

She believed him. He looked relaxed and loose. When he spoke,

his tone was calm, almost hypnotic.

“And what if I do neither. What if I just settle in, decide being

your captive beats either alternative?”

“If you make that decision, then I’ll open the door and decide

for you.”

Her breath caught in her dry throat. She started babbling, the

sort of stuff movie police offi cers say to insane, dangerous men with nothing left to lose, even though it never sways them. She knew he

didn’t intend to let her live, no matter what promises she made. He’d decided to die in a blaze and to take her with him.

“Boom, you don’t want to do this. We can work something out.

Disarm the bomb and let me go.”

Just like a central-casting villain, he threw back his head and

laughed.

“Be serious.”

She mentally inventoried the contents of her pockets: pen; nearly

dead cell phone; Isaac’s keychain; and a lip balm. Someone could

likely make a creditable weapon out of those items—unfortunately,

she was not that person.

She smiled. Boom smiled back, although his eyes registered dis-

trust. She breathed in, breathed out, and took a step closer to him.

Gave him another smile.

“Boom, please.” As she said the words, she kept her eyes locked

on his and took another step toward him. She was close enough to

smell the fabric softener on his shirt.

“Your fate is yours to decide, daughter.”

She nodded. Inched one step closer, until their foreheads were

nearly touching.

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Don’t back up
, she pled silently, willing him to stay right where he was standing.

As if he heard her thought, he obliged, planting himself more

fi rmly and leaning slightly forward.

“You know what to do,” he whispered in a low voice.

She did, in fact, know what to do. She just had to force herself

to do it. She stared into his gold-fl ecked eyes and readied herself.

“Aroostine?”

She snaked both hands out and grabbed his shirt in her fi sts

and pushed him backward, hard. As he lost balance, his torso went

back, but his head whipped forward. She lowered her head, tucked

her chin into her chest, and pulled him toward her. He fl opped

forward, and the center of his face smashed into the crown of her

head with all the force of his one hundred and eighty pounds and

the momentum of her push and pull. Her head instantly screamed

with pain; the reverberation of pain began on the top of her head

and ran to the base of her skull.

She released the fabric from his shirt and let him fall to the

ground. Th en she pounded up the stairs without looking to see if he was unconscious, dead, or alive. She simply ignored the thumping

pain on the top of her head and ran.

As she hit the landing at the top of the second fl oor, she fum-

bled for the cell phone. She pressed herself against the wall, her legs shaking, and hit the speed-dial button for Joe’s temporary phone.

He answered on the second ring. “Where are you? You disap-

peared on me,” he grumbled.

“Th is is important. Do not try to get into Boom’s house.”

“What? Where are you?”

She panted, trying to catch her breath. “I’m at Boom’s. He’s

booby-trapped the doors and windows. If any of them open, the

house will blow up.”

“What?”

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MELISSA F. MILLER

“I’ll explain later, just please, get Chief Johnson, call Sid, call Carole Orr—do something, but do not try to enter the house. Make

sure you tell them.”

“Okay, I got it. Why’s he letting you use the phone?”

She leaned and peered down the stairs but saw no movement

below. Was he conscious down there?

“I head butted him. I think I knocked him out, maybe?”

“You did what?”

Impatience vied with panic. She didn’t have time for this.

“I head-butted him.” She had never done such a thing, but

after prosecuting a felony murder case in which a suspected drug

dealer had head-butted the arresting offi cer, who fell, hitting his head on the ground and sustaining a subdural hematoma, she knew

the physics behind an eff ective head butt.

“Whoa.”

“Listen, Joe. Really, we can’t stay on the phone.”

“How are we going to get you out of there?”

“I think I have an idea. But fi rst make those calls.” She cocked

her head, listening for any sound from downstairs. Silence.

“I will. Roo?”

“Yes?” She couldn’t keep the irritation out of her voice. Why

wouldn’t he just hang up already?

“I love you.” His voice cracked as if he were crying.

She stopped pacing and pressed her forehead against the wall.

“And I love you.” She waited a beat, just listening to his ragged

breathing on the other end of the phone, and then couldn’t wait

any longer. She ended the call.

She pocketed the phone and stared up at the drop ceiling in the

hallway. It looked to be the same as the one on the fi rst fl oor—a collection of inexpensive pop-up tiles that hid the wires, pipes, and other house guts inside.
Just like Grandfather’s house.

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CHILLING EFFECT

She had been fi ve years old. And her parents had left her at

Grandfather’s house—again. But she couldn’t sleep because there

was a loud rustling noise over her head. She’d squeezed her eyes shut for hours and pressed a pillow over her ears, but she could still hear it. Finally she’d padded across the hall to her grandfather’s room.

In the moonlight streaming through the window, she could see

him clearly. He was sleeping, his mouth slightly ajar.

“Grandfather,” she’d whispered.

His eyes opened immediately.

“What is it, child?”

She told him about the sound. He clicked on his bedside lamp

and sat up. He slid his feet into the slippers lined up beside the bed and took her hand.

Th ey could hear the frantic noise from the hall outside the room

in which she slept. She gripped his hand harder. He cocked his head, listening.

“It’s a bird.”

“Why is it trying to get in?”

“It’s trying to get out,” he corrected her gently.

He led her back into the bedroom and settled her in the bed.

Th en he turned on the light and walked in a slow square around

the perimeter of the room. He completed one circuit and began

another. A third of the way through, he stopped and stood at the

foot of the bed. His presence was like a blanket of peace.

She held her breath while he reached a hand up and popped

out the square above his head. A terrifi ed bluebird swooped into the room and made a rapid circle. She knelt on the bed and forced the

window sash up. Th e bird circled again, squawking, and fl ew out the open window. Th e next morning, he took her out on the roof and

showed her the hole near the fan vent. Th ey’d patched it together.

Now she just had to hope she could be as lucky as a bird.

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MELISSA F. MILLER

She followed the hallway to the small green-and-white bath-

room at the end of the hall. She closed the toilet lid, stepped up on it, and steadied herself with a hand against the wallpapered wall.

Th en she pushed up on the ceiling tile overhead and slid it out. She climbed onto the toilet tank, gripped the corners of the space the

missing tile had occupied, and hoisted herself up.

She army crawled through a nest of foamy pink insulation and

angled pipes. Her pulse was trapped in her throat, fl uttering just as that bluebird’s wings had fl uttered so long ago. She reached the end of the crawl space and smacked into a wall.

She rubbed her cheek to stop the stinging and then raised her-

self to her feet. She straightened an inch at a time. Th e last thing she needed was another good crack on her head. She’d end up like

Boom downstairs. When she was still bent at the waist, her hand

hit the vent pipe that jutted out onto the roof.

She pushed. Nothing.

She pushed again, harder. Th e vent wiggled in her hand, but

the roof tile held tight.

Tears pricked at her eyes. She punched up with both hands.

More wiggling, but still the tile held.

Frustration and despair clawed at her. She was going to die like

this. Boom was going to wake up and detonate the bomb in his rage.

No.
She might die here, but it wouldn’t be because she gave up.

She owed it to Joe to keep fi ghting. Unbidden, the thought of their dog fl itted into her mind. She owed it to Joe and Rufus.

Th ink.

She needed a tool. She dropped down to her hands and knees

and slowly crawled backward to the opening she’d created. It felt

like it took an hour, no, a week, to get there.

Hurry.

She jumped down and spun through the bathroom, surveying its

contents. Th e towel bar would be ideal. She gripped it, two handed, 236

CHILLING EFFECT

and pulled but it was tightly affi xed to the wall. She yanked harder but it didn’t yield.

She wrenched open the narrow linen cabinet. Towels, wash-

cloths, extra soap lined the shelves in neat rows.

Th e cell phone chirped in her pocket.
Joe.

“What?”

“I made all the calls. I’m outside Boom’s. Ruby’s with me.

Where are you?”

“I have access to the exhaust vent on the roof. But I can’t break

through it. It wiggles but that’s all.” Her voice cracked, and a raw sob escaped.

Cry when it’s over,
she ordered herself.

“Okay, let me think.”

Twenty long seconds of silence ticked by.

“Forget the vent. It’s going to be sturdier than the roof itself.”

“You think?”

“Yeah. Old house, not well constructed. Find a piece of ceil-

ing tile that has air leaking through. It’ll be loose. And then go to town on it.”

“I’ll try.”

“Don’t try. Do it.”

Another sob caught in her throat. She wanted to tell him she

was terrifi ed. She wanted to tell him to come save her. But no words came.

She ended the call and pulled herself back up into the hot,

cramped space, moving faster this time. She wiped sweat from her

brow when she reached the end and crouched, running her hands

overhead, feeling for air.

Th ere.
A cool breeze tickled her fi ngers. She laughed.

She lay on her back and braced her legs against the roof. Th en

she pulled them back to her knees and kicked out, like a jackknife, both feet kicking hard. She smashed into the roof.

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MELISSA F. MILLER

Wood splintered and a shingle fell sideways, hanging crookedly

and letting sunlight fl ood over her. She blinked and turned her face to the sky. She hadn’t been sure she’d ever see it again. Hope bubbled up in her chest.

She scrabbled out onto the roof and scanned the ground below

in the fading daylight.

Joe spotted her and waved his arms overhead, joy and relief beam-

ing from his face like a ray. Ruby stood beside him, her face pale and drawn.

Aroostine shuffl ed a little closer to the edge.

“You’re not really going to jump, are you?” Joe yelled up to her.

She shook her head. No, jumping was defi nitely Plan B. But

she could climb like a squirrel.

She worked her way to the spot where the gutter met the down-

spout and lowered herself onto the downspout. Th ere was no way it

would hold her weight, but she could use it to stabilize herself while she worked her way down the side of the house.

As plans went, it was terrible. But it was the one she had.

She jammed her fi ngers around the downspout and swung her-

self out so her feet dug into the crevice between two sheets of siding.

With her free hand, she clung to the roof line. And then she started to back herself down one piece of vinyl siding at a time. She didn’t look down. She could hear Joe and Ruby calling to her. She couldn’t make out the words. She wanted to stop and listen to what they

were saying. But she forced herself to keep moving.

After the fourth panel of siding, the downspout groaned and

pulled loose from the house. She let go of it and dug both hands

into the siding, clinging to it with both arms and legs. She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Let go. I’ll catch you,” Joe’s voice promised from below.

It sounded closer than she dared hope. She opened one eye and

craned her neck. She was probably nine feet from the ground.

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Just nine feet,
she told herself. But she was frozen. She’d fallen out of trees higher than this as a kid. But she couldn’t peel her fi ngers off the side of the house.

“Roo, listen to me. I promise, I’l catch you. You have to trust me.”

Th e break in his voice on the last two words tore her in half.

Her husband was begging her to trust him.

She closed her eyes and pictured herself falling, falling, and

landing in Joe’s waiting arms.