It came from behind the door. I stepped through into a small room, less than five by five. On the wooden floor lay a moldering pallet, half-covered with a moth-eaten, coarse blanket. The room was empty, yet I could still hear crying. It came from all sides, as if the very walls were sobbing.
“Didn’t mean it, didn’t mean it,” whispered a voice.
“Who’s there?” I said, twisting, trying to pinpoint the source. “Is that you, hon? You didn’t do anything—”
“Sorry, so sorry, so sorry.”
The words came louder now, the voice distinctly female. Wrenching sobs punctuated the babble of apologies. I stepped into the empty rooms on either side. From both, I could still hear the voice, yet it obviously came from the middle cell.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, hail—” A sob. “I don’t—don’t remember. Hail Mary…”
“Hello?” I walked back into the middle cell. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The only answer was a soft clacking. I thought of the marble in my pocket.
“Hail Mary,” the voice whispered. “Hail Mary, full of grace.”
Rosary beads. The click of someone counting off rosary beads. A distant door banged. The voice gasped, choking back her prayer mid-word. Footsteps sounded in the hall—the thud of heavy, booted feet. I stepped through the door. No one was there. Yet I could still hear the footsteps, growing louder as they came down the hall toward me.
From inside the room came a muffled whimper. As I looked around, a new sound filled the air, a steady thumping, softer than the footsteps, growing faster as they drew nearer. The tripping of a frightened heart.
“Holy Mary, mother of God.”
The prayer came out no louder than a breath, whispering all around me, barely audible over the patter of her heart. The footsteps stopped outside the door. A jangle of keys followed. A whimper, sounding as if it came from right beneath me. A key screeched in the lock.
“No, no, no, no.”
The door hinges squealed, and I heard it open, yet the door stayed shut. The woman gave a sudden cry that nearly sent me to the rafters. I whirled around, but I was still alone. From beneath me came the frantic scuffle of someone scrambling across the wooden floor.
“Hail Mary, full of—”
A laugh drowned out her prayer. The door slammed shut. The woman screamed. Then a slap resounded through the room, so loud I reeled as if I’d felt it. Another scream, a bloodcurdling scream of fury and fear.
And all went silent.
I looked around, tensed, waiting for the next spectral sound. But I heard only the faintest scratch of tiny claws from a distant rat.
Slowly, I stepped from the cell. The boy was right there. I jumped, letting out an oath. He waggled a finger at me, then motioned with the same finger, and took off.
I hesitated, getting my bearings, then went after him.
15
THE BOY LED ME THROUGH YET ANOTHER BOARDED-UP door, into another room that stank of rot and stale air. There, wedged between two towers of rotting wooden crates, he’d hidden his stash of treasures—a handful of marbles, some colored stones, feathers, a tin cup painted sky blue, and a hand-sewn animal that was either a dog or an elephant.
“I think you’re missing something,” I said as I crouched beside the pile.
I pulled the green marble from my pocket. The boy gave a wordless chirp, then threw his arms around me. I hesitated, surprised, then hugged him back.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
He only looked at me, smiled, and nodded.
I pointed at myself. “Eve. I’m Eve. And you are…?”
The smile brightened another few watts but, again, he answered only with a nod.
“I’m going to help you get out of here. Take you someplace nice. Would you like that?”
He nodded, still smiling. I suspected that if I asked whether he wanted me to take him dogsledding in Siberia, he’d have given the same nod and smile, having no clue what I meant, but perfectly amenable to anything I suggested.
“We’ll leave soon, hon,” I said. “I just have to do one thing first. Find someone. Someone here.” I paused.
“Maybe you could help.”
His head bobbed frantically, and I knew that this time he understood me. So I described Amanda Sullivan. But as I did, his eyes clouded with disappointment, and he gave a slow shake of his head. Finding someone was a concept he understood—applying a verbal description to that person was beyond him.
I concentrated on the news article I’d read, the one with Sullivan’s photo, and tried to make it materialize.