“Oh my God,” I breathe. “Grant? If you can hear me, bang on the wall or something.”
Nothing. So he can’t hear me.
Or he no longer has hands. Oh, God.
I lurch back to the keypad and desperately punch in1234. There is a red-flashingBEEEEEPthat might as well sayNICE TRY, IDIOT. I try4321.BEEEEEP.I try 6969.BEEEEEEEEEEEP.I swear that beep ran longer, the red lights flashing a little more indignantly.
I slam a frustrated hand against the wall, and it’s not the hollow thud I expect. Whatever this secret room is, it’s heavily reinforced, maybe soundproofed. Maybe that’s good; maybe the silence doesn’t mean Grant’s dead or unconscious. Maybe he’s shouting out random desperate trivia about himself even now; I just can’t hear him.
Or maybe I’m too late.
Hang on, Grant! I’m going to get you out of there!is the heroic and reassuring thing I mean to yell at the bookcase, but I’m a little preoccupied fighting off images of him bleeding out on the floor,so instead it comes out “HANG UP GRANT I’M GOING TO OUT YOU.”
I tear back through the house in a desperate search for the key code, taking the stairs two at a time.
The front door slams. I stop cold.
Plodding footsteps drift from downstairs, along with an incomprehensible, agitated muttering.
“Come on, Howard. You can do this. Youcan.”
There is the sound of a weak slap, as if he has tried to smack his own face but couldn’t quite commit.
I duck down a few inches, hazarding a glance through the railing. He’s standing in profile, rubbing anxiously at his bald spot. In the other hand he holds a brown paper bag, from which he retrieves a half pint of whiskey. I almost laugh. A serial killer so gutless that he had to leave his own crime scene to fetch some liquid courage. With jittery hands, he peels the plastic off the neck and unscrews the cap, then downs half of it before launching into a coughing fit.
He stills and closes his eyes, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“I amnota coward,” he affirms, as if standing up to some invisible schoolyard bully. “No more Cowie Howie. I amHoward. I candothis!”
With that, he turns abruptly in the direction of the hidden room and, with a visible tremor down his spine, leaves my line of sight.
I fight the urge to charge after him. Much as I would love to pummel him into a warped Picasso of his former self, he has to lead me to Grant first.
With a slow, calming breath, I sneak down the stairs, tiptoeing after him, then dart back when he turns around wringing his hands. A sharp inhale, a trembling exhale, and he says again, “I am not a coward.” He continues toward the room.
I stalk closer, diving into the kitchen when he doubles backto ask himself if hereallyhas to go in there, then ducking behind the bathroom door when he pivots to chug more whiskey. We continue this way down the hall; him, alternately chickening out and psyching himself up, and me, creeping up on him like a cat. Step, step, hide. Step, step, step …hide. I’m in the coat closet when he finally reaches the flower painting and freezes, white-knuckling the whiskey bottle.
I watch him through the sliver of open door as he sinks into a miserable crouch with his back to the bookcase.
“Listen, Howard,” he whispers harshly, thumping his head back against the shelf. A copy ofHow to Win Friends and Influence Peopletumbles out, narrowly missing him. “All you have to do is get in, cuff him, get out. That’s all. It hardly takes an MBA to do that.”
Cuff him.The words send a whisper of relief through me. You don’t restrain dead or severely injured people, right?
Right?
He downs the last of the whiskey and rises slowly, then repositions the empty bottle in his hand, gripping it upside down by the neck. Gingerly, he retrieves a pair of handcuffs from his pocket.
I can almost taste the silence that fills the house. It’s that thick, choking stillness that only comes right before all hell breaks loose. The tide running out just before a tsunami. The final girl’s slow, shaking breaths right before the horror movie jump scare. I myself am holding my breath, because I’m no amateur.
He’s frozen at the hidden door, weighing his last chance: go in, or turn back.
And then, he decides:Go.
He smashes the bottle against the bookshelf, its empty heel transforming into a jagged crown of shards. He holds it high, ready. His fingertip hits the keypad. Three beeps. A flash of green. The door opens.
Somewhere in the hour-long second it takes me to break from the closet and tear down the hall, I hear the voice I’ve been waiting for:“BACK OFF.”And then a decidedly less confident “Oh, shit.” A solar flare radiates from deep in my chest. He’s okay. Okay enough to be freaking out, anyway.
I catch the bookshelf-door just before it swings shut and heft it open to reveal a dank, windowless cement-block room, lit by a single hanging lightbulb. And there in the corner are Howard and Grant, mid-struggle.
