Part 35 (1/2)

That was it-a painting that looked perfectly real, so you felt like you were looking out windows even though it was only a wall.

A blank wall!

She heard the chittering then, and the sc.r.a.ping, as the rats began to penetrate the door behind her. She glanced back and saw them, coming through the door, and out of the walls, and- Panic seized her, and without thinking, Angie pulled herself to her feet, ignoring the agony in her right leg and hip as a stream of adrenaline surged through her, spurring her onward.

Out! She had to get out before the rats could reach her. If she couldn't- She had to get out before the rats could reach her. If she couldn't- She could already feel them, biting into her legs, tearing her flesh from her bones, ripping at her until- She hurled herself toward the image of the world outside, where the sun was s.h.i.+ning and the flowers were in bloom and it was a perfect summer day and- One of the French doors flew open before her, and Angie tumbled through it, falling into a swirling maelstrom of air and and light.

Bright light, light that hurt her eyes.

Unearthly light.

She closed her eyes tight against the blinding light and tried to twist her body away from the pain of her broken bone.

”Okay, move her out,” a woman said.

Angie opened her eyes. A heavyset woman in an ancient nurse's uniform stood over her, glowering down with furious eyes. ”Are you going to behave now?” a harsh, guttural voice demanded.

Angie tried to move but couldn't. She could barely even breathe. ”Let's go,” the woman said sharply, clapping her hands.

Two men lifted Angie off a bed. Except it wasn't a bed at all-just a few wooden slats in a frame.

She could barely move her legs and her upper body was immobile.

She looked down and finally understood. With its large buckles and the heavy cloth, there was no mistaking what she was wearing.

It was a straitjacket.

Bound in a straitjacket, she was being half carried and half dragged by the two men through the door of a tiny cell and into a dark hallway, barely lit by the gaslights hung along its walls.

She tried to speak, tried to ask where she was, but even though she could work her lips, no sound came out. Now she looked frantically around for someone who might help her, but except for the two men flanking her and the stolid woman marching ahead, all she could see were glimpses of haunted-looking faces behind the barred windows that pierced each iron-strapped door she pa.s.sed.

m.u.f.fled voices muttered.

A woman screamed.

Fingers came through a window, as if reaching for her.

They were near the end of the long corridor when Angie Garvey's eyes suddenly locked on to those of someone whose face was all but invisible in the darkness of his cell. But it didn't matter, for she recognized those eyes in an instant, and finally found her voice.

Her mouth opened and with all the energy she could muster she howled out the name of the man behind those eyes.

”MIIIITCH!”

Her husband's name echoed up and down the corridor for what seemed to Angie like an eternity, then faded away.

For her, though, eternity had just begun.

Chapter Thirty-one.

Kate Williams drove slowly through the early morning rain as she turned off the highway toward Warwick. The morning had dawned unseasonably warm, and the heat along with the rain had dissolved almost all evidence of the snowstorm that blew in so suddenly last night.

Ed Crane's voice on the telephone this morning had struck a chord with the nagging feeling growing inside her that things might not be entirely right at the Garvey house. She had managed to shelve that feeling in the hope that she was wrong and that she wouldn't have to add Sarah Crane to her already crus.h.i.+ng caseload. But Ed Crane had sounded not just worried, but actually frightened, and right after his call, she canceled her entire morning calendar and headed for Warwick.

Kate turned onto Quail Run and parked in front of the Garvey house. The draperies were still drawn, as if the household hadn't awakened yet.

She grabbed her shoulder bag, walked up to the door and pressed the bell. She heard the spaniel bark, but n.o.body came, and finally she opened the storm door and tried the k.n.o.b.

It turned.

She hesitated. Should she go in? Or should she call the police? But what would she say? That she'd found a house left unlocked on a Sat.u.r.day morning with n.o.body home but the dog? They'd think she was an idiot!

She pushed the front door open. ”h.e.l.lo?”

No answer, except the tail-wagging of the dog, who ran toward the back door, whining to be let out.

Kate paused in the living room. ”Is anybody home?” she called. More silence, so she continued on through the small dining room into the kitchen.

Half-cooked chicken lay in a cold frying pan on the stove. Wilted salad sat in a bowl on the counter. And the dining room table was set for dinner. The Garveys had left last night, and they'd left in a hurry. She let the dog out to relieve himself, waited for him to come back in, then retraced her steps and left the house, closing the front door firmly behind her but leaving it unlocked, just the way she'd found it. She paused on the porch, surveying the Garveys' neighborhood.

It looked exactly as it should on a quiet Sat.u.r.day morning.

The door to the house next door opened, and a man in his bathrobe stepped out to retrieve the morning paper. ”Good morning,” Kate called to him.

”Eh?” He looked startled, but then nodded. ”Yuh-it is is a good morning, isn't it?” a good morning, isn't it?”

”I'm wondering if you might know where the Garveys are this morning?”

The man frowned, pursing his lips as if wondering just how much he should say to this person he'd never seen before in his life. But as Kate was reaching into her purse for her county identification card, he answered: ”The wife said their girl was in some kind of accident last night. Saw it on the news.”

”Which girl?” Kate asked, the quick breakfast she'd grabbed forty minutes ago suddenly congealing in her stomach.

”'Ats all I know,” the man said. ”Some crazy weather, eh?” He waved his paper at her and went back inside.

Kate ran down the steps and got into her car. She'd been to the Warwick police station a couple of years ago, and now found it in less than two minutes. She parked in front and strode through the gla.s.s entry.

The uniformed deputy behind a desk glanced up at her. ”Take a seat,” he said. ”I'll be with you in a minute.” Before she could protest that she had an emergency-which might not exactly be true-he'd turned his attention back to a distraught woman who was sitting in a chair next to his desk.

”He didn't come home last night,” the woman said, twisting a sodden handkerchief, then dabbing ineffectively at her eyes. ”Dan always comes home. Always!”

The deputy spread his hands in a helpless gesture. ”I'm really, really sorry, Andrea, but there's nothing I can tell you. We haven't heard from him, and believe me, we've been trying to get hold of him for hours.”

But the woman wouldn't be put off. ”Zach Garvey said Dan went with his parents to Bettina Philips's house. Have you been out there yet?”

Kate sat up straight.

”Bill Harney and I just got back from there half an hour ago,” the deputy said. ”Dan isn't there and neither are the Garveys.”