As Night Falls (16 page)

A
solid sentry of wood stood between Sandy and Ivy. The only way Sandy was able to cope with the space splitting them was to listen to the quiet place inside her, the therapist's assessing instinct, which said that unless ordered otherwise, Harlan didn't present a danger.

She felt Nick's dark presence behind her as they walked down the stairs.

“The snow really isn't that big a problem,” Sandy said. “My husband takes groups out in it all the time.”

“I'm sure he does,” Nick muttered.

Encouraged, Sandy swung around. “And you seem to be walking just fine. You don't want to waste these hours while everyone's occupied clearing the roads.”

“Of course I'm walking just fine!” Nick roared, and as he stepped, he stumbled. He recovered quickly, grabbing the twisting vine of rail and repositioning himself on a length of level wood. “Save your tricks for Harlan,” he said. “They won't work on me.”

Nick shoved her forward, making her lurch. Sandy's feet found the next stair and she stayed there a moment, waiting for her heart to stop thudding and her breath to return.

Things were silent as they began again to descend.

Then Nick spoke. “Come on. How long are we going to keep playing this game?”

His voice was a flicker, right at the edges of her consciousness. He leered at her like a reflection in a funhouse mirror. Sandy looked away.

Down below and through the kitchen lay the door to the basement. A few dozen feet, maybe a hundred at most, yet impossible to reach.

“Suit yourself,” Nick said at last, and Sandy blanched at the lack of life in his tone. It was as if a computer were talking. He extended his arm, indicating that she should go. “After you.”

Sandy edged around him. This time, Nick checked before shifting on the stair, making sure he had room. He followed a step behind.

As they reached the bottom, a series of notes sounded.

“What the hell is that music?”

Sandy grinned humorlessly. “It's the phone. They don't just ring anymore. That's the landline.”

Nick pushed past her. “I cut it. Downstairs.”

Sandy's smile became a trifle more real. “You need a degree in engineering to be sure you're cutting the right thing these days. It's impossible to fix your own car anymore, too. Did you know that?”

Nick didn't answer.

The phone continued to play its lilting, upbeat song, a few bars over and over, interfering with thought. Possibilities burred in Sandy's mind, most of them stupid, immediately discarded. Nick began to walk forward, but Sandy stayed in place, thinking furiously.

“There aren't many people who call on that line,” she said. “It won't be—it shouldn't be a problem. But if I don't pick up…well, it could be.”

Nick let out an ugly laugh. “You forget I already know what a liar you are. Maybe someone's calling about the combo to your safe.” He headed for the kitchen again.

“Please!” Sandy screamed. “I'm telling you the truth!”

The music abruptly cut off.

Sandy felt her wrist locked by Nick's hand, then he dragged her toward the kitchen. Sandy's feet skidded; she had to skip a step to keep up. Injured or not, Nick pulled her easily across the floor, stopping only when they came to the cordless phone on its section of counter.

Nick pointed to the green flashing light.

“Tell me what that means,” he said. He lowered his face to hers and spoke into her ear. “And don't lie about it. If you do—” A puff of breath. “—I'll go back upstairs and tell Harlan to throw the princess out her window.”

Sandy turned to him in horror.

Nick smiled blandly. “That'd be a fitting exit from the castle, wouldn't it?” His voice broke into a growl, and he spoke deliberately. “Now. What. Does. That. Light. Mean?”

Sandy's tone was brittle. If she allowed any emotion in, she feared she might break down completely. “It means we have a voicemail.”

Nick swiveled toward the staircase. “Oh, Harlan—” he called in singsong.

“A message,” Sandy said hurriedly.

“Fine,” Nick said, turning back. “We had those before I went in. They just looked different. Play it.”

The hollow, disembodied voice that entered the kitchen was instantly recognizable, even though the caller didn't identify herself.

“This time it's pretty bad, Dr. Tremont.”

Madeline insisted on calling Sandy
doctor
even though Sandy had explained many times that she was a social worker, not a psychologist or psychiatrist.

The message continued. “Gloria says she's trying to reach you, but your cell must be out. So I decided to try you this way. I hope you can call me back. Here's my number.”

The airless voice recited it.

Sandy lifted a triumphant face to Nick. Never mind that a patient had her home number; she wasn't even all that surprised by that.

“See?” Sandy said. “I have to call her back.”

“Who is it?” Nick asked. He was eyeing the cordless as if it were an infuriating insect. “And how the hell many ways are there to call someone these days?”

“A patient of mine,” Sandy replied. “I can help her with her problem, and then everything will be fine. But if she doesn't hear from me…” Sandy let her voice trail off, hoping Nick would envision a scenario.

He leaned against the counter, arms folded across his chest. “Yeah? If she doesn't hear from you, what?” His face fractured into a smile. “She comes out here with an arsenal and mows down the criminals to save you?” Nick paused. “What kind of doctor are you anyway?”

“I'm not a doctor,” Sandy muttered. “I'm a therapist.”

“Ah,” Nick said. He was sitting on the counter now, regarding her from above. “No wonder you went to work on Harlan. A head shrinker. Why am I not surprised by your choice of career?”

Sandy took a breath. “She may not send in the cavalry,” she said, choosing words carefully, like stepping over rocks in a creek. “But she could call my boss again at the hospital.” Gloria wasn't actually her boss, but that didn't matter. “And Gloria does know where I live. She might get concerned and drop by. Or send somebody.”

Sandy closed her mouth and waited. The truth was that if Madeline pestered Gloria with too many more calls, the admin would tell her to scram until her next scheduled appointment. Gloria could keep patients at a distance like a bodyguard held off paparazzi. But again, Nick would have no way of knowing that.

He eased himself off the counter. Sandy flinched, anticipating a series of blows. Instead, Nick turned and placed the receiver in her quaking hand.

“Fine,” he said. “Call her back.”

Sandy looked at him.

“Go on, do it,” he said. “It's not a trick. I'm not going to stop you.”

Further hesitation would only give him the chance to change his mind. Sandy's fingers skidded over the face of the phone, slap-dash keying in a sequence to call up the number. Sandy hit the wrong one, had to stop and go back. She started over, pressing each button deliberately.

Nick lowered his hand onto hers. It felt strong enough to crush not only her fingers, but the phone she held too. Dark, inky tattoos began at his wrist, then twined up his forearms before disappearing beneath his sleeves.

“You'd better not try anything,” he said.

Sandy nodded. Her mouth was woolly and dry.

“If you say anything that sounds even a little funny to my ears, the princess vacates the premises without making use of her door.” Nick walked to the wide window above the kitchen sink and gazed out. “Man oh man, was she right.” He whistled loudly. “The second floor must be thirty feet off the ground.” Nick touched the glass with his palm, then gave a mock-shiver before turning around. “Oh, and let me listen in, will you?”

“I can put it on speaker,” Sandy said faintly.

But for a few seconds her fingers trembled too hard to press anything. Instead, her gaze was fixed on the black void outside, imagining the sight of her daughter's body tumbling through all that space before breaking into pieces on the frozen ground.

C
ut off from the rest of the world, without her phone or even her computer, Ivy felt as if she were stuck on one of the backcountry trips her father planned, where she was forbidden to bring any devices.

Not stuck. That wasn't the right word. Ivy actually enjoyed those trips. She used to anyway. Back in the days before Darcy and all the others except Melissa blurred into one shiny, skinny streak, practically interchangeable right down to the fact that they all looked down on Ivy.

She and Harlan were sitting on the floor now. Thank God. This felt a lot safer. Ivy had managed to locate a deck of cards in the bottom of some box that had never gotten unpacked. She had tried to teach Harlan Spades, but that hadn't worked out so well, and the sight of him getting frustrated had caused instant backtracking on Ivy's part.

“Go fish,” she mumbled, unable to masquerade her boredom.
What time was it? When was this night going to end?
How
was it going to end?
She shivered.

“You could put on a sweater,” Harlan suggested.

Ivy got up and went over to her dresser.

Harlan looked happy, thrilled almost—as if he had figured something out and it hadn't been half so hard as he'd imagined—when she came back, zipping up a hoodie.

“How come you let Nick boss you around?” Ivy asked. She pushed her fanned-out cards onto the purple band of her rainbow rug.

Harlan lifted his head. His brows wriggled like caterpillars. “Nick's a lot smarter than me,” he said at last.

“Huh,” Ivy replied. “You know, I don't think so.”

“You don't?”

Ivy shook her head, though she wasn't one hundred percent positive about that. In some ways, Harlan seemed more simpleminded and literal than the kids she babysat, although he showed flashes of knowing things deep down. And hadn't Nick been a little babyish himself, tantruming when Ivy refused to do what he wanted in the basement? He'd acted a lot cooler and smarter since coming upstairs, except when he saw the snow, but still; Ivy momentarily dismissed both captors with disgust.
Children
, she thought. So maybe Harlan could be manipulated, like a sugared-up preschooler. Without him even realizing what she was doing.

She'd have to get him to talk.

As if reading her thoughts—but he couldn't do that, could he?—Harlan said, “You look like someone I know.”

“Yeah?” Ivy asked eagerly. “Who?”

He turned his head away momentarily. It was the size of a pot you put a houseplant in. A really
big
houseplant.

“Want to see something?” he asked.

Now he sounded almost shy, like this boy Ivy had known forever, since kindergarten anyway, but who only spoke to her once a year.

“How was your summer?” the boy always asked.

Darcy teased Ivy about it, saying how the boy's mother probably coached him at home. She would act out the whole scene, playing the mom in a whiny, nagging voice: “Why don't you just talk to the girl?” and then doing the boy: “Oh, yeah, right, what should I say?” Finally Darcy would sing out: “Just ask her how her summer was!”

Harlan began to shift his body around, messing up the cards Ivy had spread out. He took off one of his shoes, and Ivy frowned. The shoe came apart, and Harlan removed something, holding it out to her.

Ivy reached forward with a hand that felt too loose to grasp anything, as if all the bones inside it had dissolved. “What is this?” she asked, trying not to let her distaste show.

“That's my sister's teddy bear,” he said. “Well, part of him. I never had a teddy bear. My daddy said I was too big to need one. But my sister didn't mind sharing.”

Ivy looked down, the caramel-colored clump resolving into a tuft of fur. She bit her lip. “Is it your sister?” she asked. “Who I look like?”

Harlan matched her lip-biting gesture, revealing front teeth the size of stones. “You know things, too. Just like your mama.”

“What?”

He took the piece of fur out of Ivy's hand, and reached up without rising so much as an inch off the floor. He tucked the clump under the sheet on her bed.

“Why was it—why was he in your shoe?” Ivy asked.

Harlan settled both hands in his cavernous lap. “He comes out after lights out and goes back in before morning count.”

“Lights out? Like at camp?”

Harlan wagged his head. “I never went to camp.”

And they wouldn't really do morning count at camp anyway, would they? The truth was beginning to come to Ivy now, pieces jigsawing into place. She couldn't believe she hadn't put them together before. She really was dumb, just like Darcy said.

“Hey, look.” Harlan pointed to his cards. “I have another match.”

Ivy took the pair and placed it on the slim stack he had acquired.

“You met Nick in prison,” she said, a figuring-things-out note in her voice. “That's why you're wearing those clothes.” A short laugh escaped her; it didn't sound anything like normal laughter. “How the hell did you get to our house?” Cursing. Also not like her. “No wonder you have to walk to another country.”

Harlan's face changed, grew smoldery and shut.

He doesn't want to talk about it, Ivy realized. Doesn't even like to think about it. Why? Because he can't stand the idea of being captured. She felt a flash of power, like a plug sparking.

Maybe if she made Harlan mad, some kind of change would take place. Like shaking a stuck appliance until something popped loose.

“You think the police won't find you there?” Ivy asked. “They have the news in Canada too, you know.” She sounded like Darcy when she talked to that shy boy, or any of the losers—Darcy's name for them, not hers—at school.

But unlike Darcy, Ivy instantly regretted her course of action.

Harlan rose off the floor, looming over her like a building. “The police aren't looking for us.”

“No,” Ivy said. “I'm sure they're not.”

“I better ask Nick.” Glowering, he lowered his hand.

Ivy cowered on the floor. Once she stood up, she wouldn't have any excuse for how insignificant she felt beside him.

Harlan thrust his arm at her impatiently.

Ivy stared upward until her neck began to ache.

They were at a standstill, except not a real standstill, because both of them knew how easily he could just pick her up, make Ivy do whatever he wanted.

Light swept across the windows from outside. Ivy twisted to see, and Harlan turned, too. Two far-off blue-white scoops, bright as spotlights. Or headlights.

Just about to make the turn onto their road, a car.