There was a knot in his gut the size of a boulder when he swung open the last one to reveal a wide space that likely measured the remaining square footage of the cabin above. He searched for light switches, but when he found them and turned them on, nothing happened. Taking out his cell, he used the flashlight app to take a careful look around as he entered the area.
It was empty save for a table in the center of it piled with . . . He drew closer. Shone the tiny beam over the objects. Another laptop. What looked like a projector. Both were balanced on piles of books.
There was one window on the left, high in the wall, which gave no light. Same on the right. But ahead there was a dais of some sort that took up a full third of the space. Heavy curtains hung on either side of it, but when Mark approached at an angle, he could see something lying on the stage. A mattress.
And on the mattress, a still, unmoving form.
Oh, God, no! A quick spear of despair stabbed through him. They couldn’t be too late. He closed the rest of the distance in a near run. “Whitney DeVries? Whitney, we’re here to help.”
No response. No movement. Mark jumped up on the stage. He’d been steady enough exchanging gunfire upstairs, but now his pulse was galloping through his veins, and dread pooled in his belly. He knelt beside the mattress. Reached out an unsteady hand to turn the body over.
Whitney DeVries. Her face was a mottled assortment of bruises, and there were matching bruises around her throat. Mark reached out to check the pulse at the base of her neck. Faint but there.
“Whitney.” Relief flooded him when the girl’s eyes fluttered open. Blinked uncomprehendingly. “It’s over. You’re safe now.”
Whitney DeVries
November 21
8:32 a.m.
“Whit’s got a busy morning.” Whitney thought her dad looked like a stubborn bulldog, blocking the door of her hospital room so Agent Foster couldn’t come in. “She didn’t have a great night, and they’re planning more tests to check for internal injuries.”
“Dad.” Her voice still sounded like a frog’s croak, even when she was trying to yell. “I need to talk to him.”
Her mom looked up from straightening the bedcovers. “Brian, don’t be rude. Whitney asked me to call Agent Foster last night and have him come by this morning.”
Her dad backed away and let the agent inside. “Keep it short. She’s told you guys every detail she knows by now.”
Whitney could already see how this was going to go down. Her parents meant well, but they really couldn’t handle it when she started talking about what had happened to her in that basement. And okay, maybe she was still having a hard time, since she burst into tears at the drop of a hat, even when Ryan had brought her a crumpled picture he’d drawn for her. There was no way she’d be able to get her mom out of the room, short of dynamite. But her dad . . .
“Dad, would you go ask the nurse if I could get some more cherry Jell-O? It really helps my throat.”
His face always got soft when he looked at her now. The sight had her blinking away tears. “We’ll just use the call button, honey.”
“It comes faster if someone goes and gets it, though.”
He didn’t want to, she could see that by the way he hesitated, but pretty soon he nodded. “Sure, honey. I’ll be right back.” Once he’d left, she looked at the agent, a sudden shyness coming over her. She had a vivid memory of being lifted in strong arms. Opening her eyes to see him holding her like some white knight in a kid’s fairy tale. You’re safe now. She hadn’t believed it at first. But when he’d carried her upstairs, the place had been full of cops and ambulance attendants. There’d been blood all over the kitchen he’d whisked her through, and she’d prayed with everything inside her that it belonged to the freak.
That part was all a bit hazy, but it got clearer every time she saw Agent Foster. Despite what her dad said, she didn’t mind talking to the man. He was the only one she could speak to freely, without worrying that she’d upset him. And it didn’t hurt that when he smiled, he looked a bit like Orlando Bloom. “Thanks for coming, Mr. Foster.” She was suddenly aware that her hair had been washed only once since she’d been rescued, and her face and arms were still a rainbow of bruises. “I had my mom call you because I think I remembered something else.”
Her mom smoothed back her hair. “It’s Agent Foster, honey.”
“Hi, Whitney.” He approached the bed and smiled down at her “And I’m a mister, too, so it’s okay.”
“I was sort of dozing yesterday afternoon. They wake you up all the time at night, so you can’t really sleep for long. When I was dropping off, I half dreamed about when I escaped. When he caught me.”
“Oh, Whit, it’s okay.” On cue, her mom reacted. Took her hand. “Don’t think about that. You’re safe now.”
“I know, Mom.” With a mixture of love and exasperation, she squeezed her mom’s hand. “But you have to let me talk. It’s probably not good to keep trying to get me to bottle things up, right?” At least that sounded like something the therapist on staff had told her when she’d talked to the woman. Whitney saw the agent’s mouth twitch, as if he was trying to hide a smile. “But I remembered something the freak said when he was choking me. ‘I’ve given you so many chances. And always you disappoint me, Margaret.’”
“Margaret? You’re sure?” Agent Foster’s expression had gone still.
“I’m sure. I just didn’t remember it until last night. Does that help?”
“It really does.”
Whitney pleated the sheet with her fingers. “Do you . . . was Margaret another girl he kidnapped?” No one wanted to tell her anything, but she’d overheard the nurses whispering a couple of times when they thought she was sleeping. Whitney and Kelsey hadn’t been the only ones the monster had taken. There had been a lot of them. A chill skittered down her spine, and she was suddenly glad her mom was by her side.
“No, Whitney, Margaret was his sister. The one you told me about, remember?”
She’d repeated all the personal revelations the man had made in their conversations. “So he was thinking about her when he was choking me?” Her mom looked like she was going to cry at the reminder. Whitney heard her dad’s voice in the hall. Knew she didn’t have much more time. She met the agent’s gaze. “Will you tell me the truth about something?” She saw his gaze flick to her mother. Back to Whitney. “Did you find Kelsey Willard? Is she . . . is she okay?”
His silence and that of her mom was all the answer she needed. Whitney raised a hand to wipe away the tears that sprang up as the realization hit her. “She’s dead?” She honestly didn’t know if she would have had the courage to escape if she hadn’t found the other girl’s writings. She’d told her mom all about it, over and over again. Knowing that another had experienced the same thing she was going through . . . and hadn’t broken had given Whitney strength when she’d needed it most.
“Yes.” Agent Foster’s voice was gentle.
She sniffled like a little kid, and her mom handed her a tissue. It was hard to sit here and wonder why she got to go home again and Kelsey had never gotten the chance. Whitney knew it would be a long time before she stopped feeling guilty about that. “She was really brave.”