Seconds Away

CHAPTER 23

I couldn’t breathe.

There was no question about it this time: It was the same guy in the old photograph-and he hadn’t aged a day.

For a few seconds, my brain just shut down. I didn’t wonder how this could possibly be. I didn’t wonder whether I was dreaming. I didn’t think about running after him or calling out or doing anything. I just stood there, frozen, looking up into those green eyes with the yellow rings, the same eyes I’d seen the day my father died.

When he ducked away from the window, my brain unlocked. For a single second, no longer, I stared up at the window and considered the possibility that my mind was playing tricks on me.

No friggin’ way.

I ran back to the door and this time I didn’t hesitate. I lowered my shoulder and rammed into it. The door didn’t give way so much as shatter, the wood breaking into splinters. I fought through them, pulling myself through the opening. I stood in the front foyer. The living room was on my left. The record player was still on. On the fireplace, I saw that same old picture of the hippies with the butterfly T-shirts.

I heard a noise above me.

He was still upstairs.

Okay, now what?

I could wait right here, couldn’t I? He would have to come down these stairs. I could just stand here and wait and demand answers.

Would that really work?

I didn’t know, but a thought occurred to me. I needed help, and one person immediately came to mind: Uncle Myron.

That surprised me, but then again, who else did I have? Ema and Spoon couldn’t really come to my aid here. If I called Mr. Waters, well, I’d just broken into a house, hadn’t I? I could get arrested.

Another noise from upstairs.

I grabbed my phone and hit Myron’s number. Two rings later, he answered. “Mickey?”

My voice was a whisper. “I’m at Bat Lady’s house.”

“What? Why?”

“Can’t explain. Please get over here. I need help.”

I expected more questions. I didn’t get them. Instead Myron said, “It’ll take me fifteen minutes.”

I hung up.

Now what?

Wait. Stand by the stairs and wait. Either Myron would get here in time and we could go upstairs together or the Butcher would have to come down.

But suppose Bat Lady was up there. Suppose he had attacked her or worse.

What if, right at this very moment, he was strangling her or something. Was I just going to stay down here and let that happen?

I stared at that old staircase. It didn’t even look as though it could hold my weight. I was still debating what to do when a sound made up my mind for me.

From upstairs, I heard a window creak open.

Was the Butcher trying to sneak out?

Uh-uh, no way. No way was I going to let this guy get away when I had him trapped.

I ran up the stairs. Part of my brain told me to slow down, to be careful, to not underestimate my opponent. I was young, yes, but I had been trained all over the world how to fight.

So what was my training telling me now?

It didn’t matter, because when I reached the upstairs hallway, what I saw stopped me as if my feet had suddenly been nailed to the floor.

What the…?

I don’t know what I expected. I guess I figured that the upstairs would be, well, like the downstairs-dark, dingy, maybe some old wallpaper, antique sconce lighting on the walls. But that wasn’t what I saw.

I saw photographs. Hundreds. No. Thousands. Thousands and thousands of photographs.

The hallway was completely blanketed with pictures of children and teenagers. They were everywhere, on every available space, not just encasing both walls from top to bottom but even glued onto the ceiling overhead.

I reached my hand out and touched them. There were photos on top of photos. Layers and layers of photos-I couldn’t say how deep. The photos were all various sizes. Some were black and white, some color, some fading, some vibrant. Some were smiling, some were grim. The children were of every race, creed, nationality, and even era.

Both bedroom doors were open and maybe that explained it, but there seemed to be a wind effect going through that corridor. A few of the portraits started peeling off, falling down around my feet. One was of a little boy, no more than eight or nine, with curly hair and sad eyes. The boy somehow looked familiar to me.

Something in his face…

Another photograph gently landed next to it. Then another. I looked down and saw a photograph at my feet that almost made me scream out loud.

It was a school portrait of Ashley-my former girlfriend who we all rescued down at the Plan B Go-Go Lounge.

I stared down at her pretty face, lost for a second, confused.

A sound at the end of the corridor knocked me out of my stupor. No time to worry about a bunch of pictures. Not right now anyway, because down the hall, at the end of this row of photographs, was the door leading to Bat Lady’s bedroom.

He-the Butcher, the Paramedic, whoever-was in that room.

I headed for it now. The portraits were still peeling off the walls and ceiling, almost like they were shedding. Several landed on my face. I raised my hand as a shield, got to the door, debated how to enter, and then just threw open the door.

The room was empty.

There was no more wind because someone had just closed the window. And either that someone had to still be in this room or he had gone out the window.

I hurried over, closing the door behind me. If he had managed to jump out, he couldn’t have gotten far. Not yet. He’d still be in the yard. I looked out the window.

Nothing.

Cold dread spread through me. Nothing. That meant he was still in here, still in this very room. I slowly turned away from the window.

The room had wallpaper that was either yellow or aged, I couldn’t tell which. On the bedside table were two photographs. One was an old sepia-tone picture I had seen before-the Sobek family before the start of World War II. Samuel, Esther, Emmanuel, and little Lizzy. The other photo was in fading color-it was Bat Lady, looking to be in her fifties or sixties maybe, standing by a tree with that same sad-eyed, curly-haired boy whose picture I’d just seen in the corridor.

I kept very still and strained to pick up any sound.

Where was the Butcher hiding?

I stood right next to the bed and for a moment, I wondered whether he was hiding underneath it. I glanced down at my feet, just starting to think that it would be too obvious a hiding spot, when two hands shot out from under the bed, grabbed my ankles, and pulled hard.

I let out a scream and lost my balance. My elbow banged against the night table, knocking down the lamp, plunging the room into total darkness as I landed hard against the wood floor.

The hands kept pulling, dragging me under the bed.

In a frenzied panic, I started to kick, hoping to land something or maybe free my ankles. But he held on. I couldn’t see a thing. I could just feel myself slowly being sucked down.

I was three-quarters of the way under the bed.

What was he trying to do anyway?

I didn’t know and I didn’t care. I wanted to be free. I kicked and bucked and screamed until finally one ankle, and then the other, slipped free. I scuttled across the floor and into the far corner. I huddled there, knees to chest, and waited.

I wasn’t sure about my next move. My eyes had not started to adjust to the darkness from the shattered lamp. I had my hands up in a defensive position. My adversary was still in the room, but I didn’t know where. I had to be prepared. Again I tried to stay still and listen, but my breathing was too loud now.

Then the bedroom door quickly opened and closed.

I got up and ran toward it. I fumbled for the doorknob, turned it…

The knob didn’t move.

I twisted it harder, but the knob wouldn’t budge. From behind the door I heard a sound like crinkling. I sniffed and smelled something that made my eyes widen. I reared back and once again used my shoulder. Nothing. I took a step back and rammed the door once again.

It gave way. I stumbled and fell into the middle of that corridor with all those photographs.

And they were on fire.

The fire raged, the flames quickly dancing up the walls and onto the ceiling, the photo paper working like kerosene. The portraits crinkled, peeled, and blackened, filling the corridor with smoke. The flames quickly flanked me, blocking my way back into the bedroom. I used the crook of my elbow to cover my mouth and searched for a way out.

I was surrounded by walls of flame.

I remembered a tip from a fire safety talk when I was in fourth grade: Stay low and crawl. I did that, but I wasn’t sure it was going to do much good. The flames were everywhere, the heat unbearable. The smoke was starting to choke me. My path back to the bedroom had been swallowed up by the flames-the same with the path forward to the staircase.

With the flames creeping closer, I saw an opening on my right.

A doorway.

I rolled into what I guessed was a spare bedroom. I couldn’t see much-I was still keeping low and the smoke was thick-but I could see that unlike the rest of the house, this one was brightly painted in red, yellow, and blue. My eyes started watering from the smoke. I tried to hold my breath and crawled some more. My hand hit something… squishy maybe? Rubbery? I heard a squeak and looked down.

It was a rubber duck. The floor was covered with toys.

I had no time to even register confusion. The fire roared into the room as though it were following me. I rolled onto my back and kicked away as the flames hungrily licked at my feet. My back hit a wall.

I was trapped.

In seconds, the flames would swallow me whole. I wish that I could tell you what I thought about at that moment, with death surrounding me. I don’t think my life flashed before my eyes. I don’t even think that I pictured my mother in rehab or my father at the accident or any of that. Fear-pure fear-pushed out all thoughts but one.

I had to find a way out of there.

I managed to open my watery eyes. The flames were moving closer. I looked up, and through the thickening smoke, I saw a window.

I read somewhere that no computer can compete with the human brain for speed of certain calculations. So what happened next took maybe a tenth of a second, probably less. My brain flashed to the front of the Bat Lady’s house-the street view, if you will-and it quickly figured out the placement of the second-floor windows. I realized where I was, how high, and that if I got out that window, I’d be on the porch roof over the front door.

With the flames almost upon me, I jumped to the window and pulled it up.

It didn’t move.

I could see there was no lock on it. The window was stuck.

No time to think or try anything else. I leaned hard with my back into the glass. I could feel the window shatter and give way as I fell outside. The oxygen fed the fire, but I kept myself flat on the roof. The flames shot over me.

The roof was pitched and I started to slide down it. Using my hands to find the edge, I let myself go with gravity. As I started to fall, I twisted my body so that my feet were beneath me. I landed hard on the front yard and tucked into a roll. I stood up and looked back at the house.

It was completely engulfed in flames.

In the distance I heard sirens. I had no idea what to do here. I turned to my left, saw nothing, turned to my right, and there, staring up at the flames, was the Butcher.

For a moment I just stared at him, unable to move. I was okay, physically. There may have been a scrape or minor burn, but I knew that I’d be fine. Maybe I was catching my breath. Maybe I was simply too stunned. But I stood there, no more than fifty feet from the man who had taken my father away and just tried to kill me, and I didn’t move.

The sirens sounded again, and just like that, the Butcher turned and ran away.

That snapped me out of my haze. Again I thought: Uh-uh, no way. No way was he getting away from me. The Butcher may be fast, but I was faster and I had desire on my side. There was no way he was getting away with this.

I thought the Butcher would head for the woods, but instead he headed for the neighbor’s backyard. There was no hesitation on my part. Not anymore. I sprinted with everything I had toward him. We ran through one backyard, then another, then a third.

I was closing the gap.

Behind me I heard voices. Someone yelled, “Stop!” I didn’t. I figured that I’d obey when the Butcher did. He leapt over a hedge. I leapt it too.

Only ten feet separated us when he finally veered into the woods. It wouldn’t do him any good. I was there. I was going to catch up to him and take him down and…

I went down hard.

Someone had tackled me. He was straddling me.

“Stop! Police!”

I looked up into the face of Chief Taylor!

“Don’t move!” he shouted.

“Let me go! You gotta go after him!”

But Chief Taylor wouldn’t listen to me. “I said, ‘Don’t move.’ Lie flat on the ground and put your hands on your head.”

“He’s getting away!”

“Now!”

Taylor started to flip me onto my stomach. I let him roll me and just kept going with it, throwing him off me. I jumped back to my feet.

“We can’t let him go!” I shouted, turning back toward the woods.

But by now another officer was there. And another. One went for my legs, the other hit me high. I fell back to the ground. Taylor stood over me, his face red with rage. He reared back his foot as if to kick me, and then I heard another voice shout, “Get away from him, Ed!”

It was Uncle Myron.

Taylor turned to the voice. I tried to get up, tried to keep running after the Butcher, because there was no time to explain, not really, and I figured that they’d follow me and I could explain later. I actually managed to shrug him off, but when I looked back at the woods, there was no one, not a sound. I hesitated, looking for him, giving the cops a fresh chance to grab me.

There was no point in struggling anymore.

The night fell silent. The Bat Lady’s house burned down to the ground. And the Butcher was gone.