The Coffin (Nightmare Hall) (18 page)

Five times, Tanner stepped away from The Booth, each time going farther and farther away, and although she was hampered somewhat by the sorry condition of her feet, tried to run straight toward the box, throwing her complete weight against the door, her goal to tip it over on its back.

The last two times she tried, it did tip slightly, but always steadied itself.

She probably never would have succeeded if it hadn’t been for Sigmund himself. It didn’t take him long to figure out how she had escaped. Sigmund, Tanner knew, wasn’t stupid. Crazy, but not stupid. When she heard him banging against the back wall, she knew he’d realized how she’d made her escape, and was attempting to do the same thing himself. It would be much easier for him than it had been for her. He was stronger, and the wall was no longer attached very securely.

Tanner was sick with disappointment. And fear. Not only was he going to get out, after all her hard, painful work, but he’d be so furious when he made his escape, she probably only had a few more minutes to live.

It was then that she noticed The Booth shaking, and realized what he was doing. He had noticed that the wall wasn’t as firmly attached now, and he was throwing his full weight against it in an attempt to remove the wall completely.

She knew it wouldn’t take him more than two or three tries to break free.

But … if she could time it perfectly, if she could guess when he was about to fling himself at that back wall, and do the same thing herself against The Booth from the outside, their combined weight might do exactly what she wanted.

If she hadn’t been so terrified that it wouldn’t work, she would have laughed aloud. Because if it
did
work, Sigmund himself was going to help her trap him. That seemed so wonderfully ironic, so perfect …

Still, if it didn’t work, she wouldn’t be laughing. She wouldn’t be doing anything. She wouldn’t be anything … except dead.

The Booth shook again, and it seemed to Tanner that the back wall of The Booth made a faint ripping sound. Some of the nails pulling free? One or two more tries, and Sigmund would be at her throat.

She backed up, away from The Booth, counting in her head, and then, when she thought the time was right, made an awkward stumbling, almost-running jump, ignoring the pain in her feet, and threw her body, full force, against The Booth—at precisely the same moment that Sigmund threw his body, full force, against the back wall.

The Booth tipped, tilted, and then fell slowly, heavily, onto its back, making a soft whooshing sound as it landed on the thick carpet.

Tanner stood, paralyzed, at one end of The Booth, staring down at it. Now it really did look like a coffin again, lying on its back like that. Sigmund was screaming from inside it, screams of outrage and disbelief.

She couldn’t believe it, either. Her crazy, insane plan had worked. It shouldn’t have, but it had.

He couldn’t get out now. The back wall was pressed into the floor, his weight and the weight of The Booth on top of it, making it impossible for him to remove the wall as she had done.

Tanner finally snapped out of her awe. Time to leave, to get out, to run to freedom, while he was trapped inside that box.

She stumbled gleefully toward the door. She would have run, but her feet were bleeding and she had to walk on her heels.

He was still screaming with outrage when she got to the door.

And realized, with a lurch of her heart, that she wasn’t going anywhere, after all.

Because she didn’t have the key to the music room door.

He had it.

In his pocket.

Inside the coffin.

T
ANNER DIDN’T KNOW WHAT
to do. She couldn’t get out of the music room without that key. There was no telephone, no way to call for help before Sigmund found a way to escape his prison. Her only hope was to get out of the room. But how was she going to get that key?

The door to The Booth was on the top now, where she could easily open it. But if she did, and reached in to try pulling the key from his pocket, he’d grab her and choke the life out of her.

Tanner leaned against the music room door. So close to freedom, she was so close, and now …

There was a new sound now, combined with Sigmund’s furious shouting. The sound of something heavy hitting wood. His feet … kicking at the floor of The Booth … he was going to kick his way out?

Tanner remembered how easily she had removed the ceiling, because Sigmund had done the ceiling and floor last and hadn’t been that careful. That floor wouldn’t hold for long against his strong, angry kicks.

Hesitantly, Tanner moved closer to The Booth, wincing each time Sigmund’s work-booted feet slammed into the floor. She could already see a crack in the boards. She stood watching with dread as the box shook with his rage and his determination to be free of his coffin, the one he had constructed for her, not for himself.

He would be free in minutes.

And then …

A board in the floor of The Booth shattered, then, a moment later, another splintered and cracked and shattered. Two of the smaller boards were still intact. He’d make short work of those, and then he’d be wriggling his way free, feet first.

Feet first …

Tanner kept her eyes on The Booth. She had one chance now. Only one …

He was coming out feet first.

The key was in his jeans pocket. That was where he always put it.

His feet, his legs, his jeans, would emerge first, before the powerful arms that could choke or pummel the life from her.

His
jeans
would come out first.

The jeans with the pocket.

The pocket with the key.

They would emerge from the box first.

And she’d be there, waiting. She would only have a second or two, no more than that.

Scarcely breathing, Tanner moved closer to the floor of the coffin and crouched, conscious of pain in both feet. She waited, her heart in her throat.

Two more solid kicks, and the floor was gone, her end of The Booth surrounded by shattered wood.

Here came his feet now, the workboots pushing their way through the hole he had created.

Every nerve in Tanner’s body was on alert.

Now his ankles, his shins, his legs …

She held her breath and leaned closer, closer, her right hand extended, waiting, waiting …

Mumbling triumphantly, he pushed again, scooting forward quickly, so quickly …

His thighs, his hips …

There! the side pocket she had seen him slip the key into each time he came back into the music room. And there it was, the metal tip of it sticking half out of the pocket, right there, so close, so close …

Tanner’s right hand shot out, yanking on the key.

It stuck.

They both screamed at the same time, he with rage, feeling the movement at his pocket, she with frustration.

The key was stuck on something inside his pocket.

He was still wriggling, faster now, it seemed to her, shouting and cursing the whole time. There was his belt buckle, emerging.

Shaking, fighting tears of frustration, Tanner pulled with superhuman strength on the thick metal key.

She heard a ripping sound.

Sigmund shouted at her.

But the key came free.

So did Sigmund’s lower chest and his fists. But his arms were still pinioned inside the coffin.

Clenching the key in her own fist, Tanner leaped up and raced for the door. She thrust the key into the lock.

Upside-down.

Ripped it out, spun it right side up, thrust it in again.

Scuffling sounds behind her. A satisfied gasp that told her he was free.

She turned the key.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” he shouted, and she whipped her head around, saw him on the floor, free of the box, saw him jump to his feet, aim for her …

“Oh, yes, I do,” she said. The doorknob turned in her hand. She grabbed the key free, yanked the door open, and jumped into the hall. She was about to pull the door closed when she saw him, halfway across the room, yank off his mask.

Tanner froze.

She knew that face. Strong, good-looking, with nice eyes when they weren’t behind a nasty mask. Kind eyes, she had thought when he showed her around campus in late August. Kind eyes, she had thought when he told her which were the best places to eat and where to do her laundry and what hours the library kept. She had thought he knew all those things because he’d taken a summer course at Salem. Now she knew that wasn’t why. It was because he had started school here a year ago. Then his education had been interrupted by emotional problems, problems for which her father had prescribed care in a residential treatment center.

This year, supposedly treated and cured, he’d returned to continue his education. To start over, begin his life again, make new friends. Friends like her, and Charlie, and Sandy, Vince and Jodie and Sloane.

The face Tanner saw, twisted with anger and hatred, belonged to her good friend, Philip Zanuck.

The shock of seeing the face of a friend froze Tanner’s movements. It wasn’t until that face, almost unrecognizable in its fury, was only a foot away from hers that she remembered what she had to do.

He screamed, “You don’t know what it was like! Being trapped, being caged!” and lunged for the door.

“Yes, I do!” she shouted back, and slammed the door shut. Before he could shove it open again, she stuck the key into the lock and turned it.

She sagged against the door. Philip? Philip. So that was why he’d hated her father.

She might have dated Philip, if she hadn’t met Charlie.

She moved away from the door, toward the foyer, so exhausted the slightest movement was an effort.

She was free now.

She was safe.

The pounding that she heard then wasn’t Sigmund, wasn’t coming from behind her, from the music room door. It was coming from the front door. Someone was pounding on the front door of Dr. Leo’s house.

She knew, even before she opened it, that it was Charlie. He had come, at last, to save her.

But she’d already done that herself.

Tanner, her back and shoulders very straight, her head high, walked slowly, painfully, to the front door to open it.

T
ANNER LAY IN A
long, narrow, white bed in the infirmary with her feet, cocooned in thick layers of white, sticking out from underneath the blanket. Her face was no longer flushed with fever, and she smiled as she looked up at Charlie, who sat beside her bed holding her hand.

Jodie, found tied and gagged but alive in the basement of Dr. Leo’s house, lay in the bed next to her. Other than several ugly bruises on Jodie’s chin from a rough landing when Philip had tossed her into the basement, she was in good shape.

“I still can’t believe Philip would do such awful things,” Sandy said for the fifth or sixth time.

Tanner groaned. They had discussed Philip so thoroughly, she had reached the point where she never wanted to hear his name again. “Well, he did,” she said curtly. “And every time he left me, he went straight to the frat house and did everything he usually did, so that no one would suspect him. Even borrowing the motorcycle from the garage where he worked didn’t raise any suspicion, because he’d done it before. His boss didn’t mind.”

“I keep thinking about how surprised I was when your dad gave me Philip’s name!’ Charlie said soberly. “I couldn’t believe it. Thought he’d made a mistake. But when he said how angry Philip was about being sent away, how he’d threatened your father with revenge, I knew that whatever was happening to you was because of Philip. I shouldn’t have wasted time going to the police station like that, but I was hoping they’d found out where Philip was hiding you.”

“I saw him on the motorcycle that day,” Sloane volunteered. “That day you were hit, Charlie. But I never once connected Philip with your … accident. I knew he sometimes borrowed bikes from the garage, but I never had a clue that he’d deliberately run someone down. I mean, Philip never even got into fights. He never seemed mad at anyone. I sort of envied how cool he was.”

Tanner nodded. “We all thought that. It was exactly what he wanted us to think. Philip is very, very clever.”

“Ah, but so are you,” Charlie said with admiration.

“This is true,” Tanner said, smiling. She knew the nightmare of being trapped in that horrible box would stay with her forever. Forever, But that didn’t mean she had to let it ruin her life.

“He seemed so normal,” Sandy mused aloud. “I always thought psychos had wild hair and eyes and talked to themselves all the time. Philip wasn’t like that. Everyone liked him.”

“He’s sick,” Charlie reminded her. “And you can’t always tell that when you look at someone, not even someone as sick as Philip.”

“Can we
please
stop talking about him?” Tanner cried, moving restlessly in her bed. “I don’t want to think about it anymore, okay?”

Charlie nodded. “You’re right, Philip is where he’s supposed to be, put away in a hospital for good, and you’re safe. That’s all I care about.”

“So, when does your father arrive?” Jodie asked Tanner.

Sloane, standing at the foot of the bed with Vince, made a face of distaste. Ignoring him, Tanner replied, “This afternoon, I still can’t believe he took the first plane out after he talked to Charlie.”

“He was really worried,” Charlie said. “I could tell. I knew the minute he gave me Philip’s name that you were in serious trouble, but I didn’t say anything to him. He just guessed, that’s all.”

Sloane snorted. “You’re not going to make a hero out of him now, are you, Tanner? Just because he’s interrupting some dumb conference to rush to your side?”

“And
his vacation,” Tanner pointed out. “No, Sloane, I’m not going to canonize him. But I just might stay in that house, after all.” She turned her head toward Charlie. “It’s weird. When I was trapped in that room, I thought all I wanted to do was get away from there, and never come back. But now, I figure the worst has already happened, right, and I got through it. So what’s there to be afraid of now? Of course,” she added softly, sadly, “Silly won’t be there. That’s the worst part.”