The Chain(36)

They park on Revenue Street at six thirty, but for some reason a line of kids and adults are coming out of the Old Customs Hall.

“What the hell? Who are those kids? Jesus, I think that’s the archery club!” Pete cries.

“Look at all those bows and stuff. It is them! We’ve screwed it up already!” Rachel exclaims.

“Go! Run the route!” Pete says, and Rachel puts the car in gear.

“I’m going.”

“I don’t understand it. They’re supposed to get out at seven o’clock. Why would they leave early? And half an hour early! It makes no sense,” Pete says.

“Oh God, oh God,” Rachel is saying over and over.

“It’s all right,” Pete says evenly. “They’re only just getting out. We’ll be OK.”

Rachel drives quickly up Revenue Street. She turns on Standore Street, and there, about a hundred yards up the road, is a kid in a parka carrying a sports bag with what looks to be a composite bow sticking out of it. The kid has his hood up and is walking in the direction of the Dunleavys’ house.

“Is that him?” Rachel asks.

“No idea, but that sure looks like the end of a bow in his bag. And there’s nobody on either side of the street. For the moment.”

“Ski masks on,” Rachel says, desperately trying to keep the blind panic out of her voice.

“Coast is clear,” Pete says. In the end they hadn’t needed the trees or the dark to hide them because the rain deterred any potential witnesses. Rachel puts the wipers on, kills the lights, drives the car up the street, and stops in front of the child.

“No one around,” Pete says, scanning both sides of the road.

“Go, then!” Rachel says.

Pete jumps out the passenger-side door with the .45. Rachel sees him talk to the kid. He turns and shakes his head at her.

Something’s wrong. Pete comes back to the car without the boy.

What the hell is happening?

“What’s the problem?” she demands.

“It’s a girl,” Pete says.

Rachel pulls her ski mask down and gets out. And sure enough, it’s a little, skinny, brown-haired girl about eight or nine years old. She’s carrying a gym bag that looks far too big for her.

“Did you just come from the archery club?” Rachel asks her.

“Yes,” the girl replies.

“Why did they get out early?” Pete asks.

“The heating was broken so we had to come home. Why are you wearing those things on your faces?”

“What’s your name?” Rachel asks.

“Amelia Dunleavy.”

“Where’s your brother, Toby?”

“He went to Liam’s house. He told me to take his bag home.”

“What are we going to do now?” Pete asks Rachel.

“We’re taking her,” Rachel says grimly.

“That wasn’t the plan.”

“It’s the plan now,” Rachel tells him. She knows she’ll never be able to go through this again. And if she can’t go through with it, Kylie’s dead.

“Come on, Amelia,” Pete says. “We’re giving you a ride home.”

He puts her in the car, clasps her seat belt, sits beside her, and locks the door. Rachel makes a U-turn and drives toward the Route 1A exit.

“Are we really doing this? What about her health issues?” Pete asks.

“We’ll deal with them. No peanuts or peanut products. We’ll get an EpiPen…shit!” Rachel exclaims and punches the dashboard.

“You shouldn’t use that word,” Amelia says.

“You’re right,” Rachel replies. “Sorry, sweetie. How old are you, honey?”

“I’m eight,” Amelia says. “I’ll be nine in December.”

“Who lets an eight-year-old walk home by herself at night in this day and age? In the rain? Who does that?” Rachel mutters.

“Toby was supposed to be here. It was my very first time at archery tonight. I can use the junior bow now. And he was supposed to walk me home, but he went to Liam’s because we got out early.”

“And Toby let you go home by yourself?”

“He said I was a big girl. He let me carry his bag,” Amelia says.

“Well, you have to come with us now. Your mom said it was OK. It’s an adventure,” Rachel tells her.

She sees Amelia shake her head in the rearview mirror. “I don’t want to go with you. I want to go home,” she says.

“You can’t go home. You have to come with us,” Rachel insists.

“I want to go home!” Amelia says and begins to wail.

Rachel gags as Amelia begins to thrash and claw at the seat belt.

“I want to go home!” Amelia yells and Pete holds the struggling little girl with his big hands.

When she’s out of town, Rachel skids the Dodge to the side of the road on an isolated bit of Route 1A somewhere in the marshy woods between Beverly and Wenham. She climbs out of the cab, takes off the ski mask, and vomits.

She spits and vomits again. Her mouth is acrid and her throat burns. Tears are pouring down her cheeks.

She vomits until she’s only dry-heaving.

Pete opens the car door and throws out Amelia’s shoes and the gym bag. “Better sink those in the swamp,” he says. “Just to be on the safe side. Might be a GPS transmitter in them.”