Dismember

THIRTY-SIX

Mike took a sharp curve, and something in the back seat fell to the floor. Libby reached around to pick it up. It was the cordless Dremel rotary tool, a thing that looked a little bit like an industrial-power toothbrush, loaded with the sharpest bit Mike had been able to find. Libby returned it to the back with the rest of their makeshift arsenal. In addition to the Dremel, they had a ball peen hammer, a cordless drill, and a foot-long steel chisel that wasn’t razor sharp at the end but that would put somebody down if you swung it hard enough. Pretty mediocre firepower, but better than nothing.

Mike watched Libby and the tools from the corner of his eye and through the rearview. He was driving too fast, almost dangerously, and needed to keep his face pointed forward, his eyes on the road. It felt strange driving the Honda, not only because he hadn’t been behind its wheel for almost a year, but because the car was technically Libby’s now and not his. He shouldn’t have felt awkward or guilty—it wasn’t as if he’d forced his way into the driver’s seat without her permission. They’d agreed he should drive. Trevor had given him the directions, after all—if Libby had gotten behind the wheel, he’d only have spent the whole time navigating.

“You know,” Libby said, facing forward again, “maybe the cops or the deputies or whoever they are, maybe they’re already there. Maybe they’ve got the guy in cuffs or a body bag.”

“Yeah,” said Mike, though he didn’t believe it. “If we’re lucky.”

“What do we do if we get there and he’s got a gun or a crossbow or something?”

“A crossbow?”

Libby shrugged. “I don’t know. Weirdo like this guy, he could have a cannon for all we know.”

“He doesn’t have a cannon,” Mike said, shaking his head.

She said, “That’s not the point. All this stuff we brought, it could barely get us through hand-to-hand combat. If he’s got a gun, we’re screwed.”

Mike took his eyes away from the road just long enough to scoff at her. “Hand-to-hand combat? You’ve been watching too many Rambo movies.”

“But what would we do?”

“We’d do whatever it takes,” he said, knowing it was vague, not really an answer at all, but also knowing it was what she wanted to hear. “We’re going to get him back. I promise.”

Libby looked at him for a long time. He sensed her eyes on him but didn’t return the look. He eased the car around another tight curve, and Libby finally looked away. She stared quietly through the window, chewing at her lip and twisting her fingers.

They found the place just like Trevor had said, right down to the dilapidated fence at the front edge of the property. Of course, Trevor hadn’t used the word dilapidated—falling apart, he’d said. Not that he would have needed to know about the fence anyway. Something was wrong with this place, something heinous in the air around it, something Mike could physically feel, like nervousness in the stomach only higher up, butterflies fluttering around his heart.

“Do you feel that?” Libby asked.

Mike nodded. He turned the car into the driveway and shut off the lights. This wasn’t exactly a stealth mission—they would have to go in strong—but he wouldn’t give the guy any extra warning if he could avoid it. The Honda bounced over the rough ground, tall weeds and grasses scraped against the undercarriage, and for a second Mike had the vague impression that some thing lay underneath, trying to claw its way in.

Stop it, he thought. He couldn’t let himself get too freaked out. It wouldn’t do Trevor any good.

As they approached the dark house, Libby reached into the back seat, took the four tools-turned-weapons into her lap, and waited.

Mike followed the driveway past the front of the house and stopped. He started to shut off the Honda but didn’t. They might need to get out of here in a hurry. The last thing he wanted was to die because of a stubborn ignition or a flooded engine. He looked at Libby. She handed him the drill and the chisel, kept the Dremel and the hammer for herself.

“Ready?”

She unbuckled her seatbelt and nodded. Mike let himself out of his own harness and said, “We need to split up. You go in the back, I’ll take the front. If one of us runs into the asshole, at least the other will be able to get to Trevor.”

“And the other boy,” she said.

Mike nodded. “And him.”

They got out of the car, stood on either side of the rumbling engine. Mike motioned for her to follow the driveway to the back of the house and started for the front.

“Mike,” she said.

He turned to her.

“Good luck.”

He smiled. “You, too.”

They turned from each other then, clutching their poor excuses for weaponry, and went their separate ways.