The Chain(38)

She calls Pete on a new burner phone. “It’s done. Everything OK there?”

“Not so great. I put the handcuff on and chained her to the pillar. She didn’t mind that too much. And she’s not screaming or anything, but she’s crying and wants her mom and says she can’t stay here without Mr. Boo. He’s a bear, apparently. There’s plenty of other stuffed toys but only Mr. Boo will do.”

“I understand,” Rachel says.

She drives home and goes upstairs into Kylie’s room. She finds Marshmallow, Kylie’s pink stuffed bunny. How is Kylie able to sleep without Marshmallow or her cat?

She takes Marshmallow, puts on a hoodie, and runs through the rain to the Appenzellers’.

She taps on the back door and Pete lets her in. He’s on the phone. He looks worried.

“What’s the matter?” she whispers.

“AmEx is verifying the charge,” he says, putting his hand over the receiver.

“Visa did that with me too. If the money doesn’t go through tonight, they kill Kylie.”

“I know. I’ll take care of it,” he replies. Pete doesn’t look good; he’s twitchy, bug-eyed, sweating.

“Are you OK?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll take care of it.”

Rachel puts on her ski mask and goes down to the basement.

Amelia is exhausted. She has cried and fought and cried some more and all she probably wants to do now is sleep but she can’t without Mr. Boo. She’s sitting on the sleeping bag on the mattress surrounded by Legos and games and the wrong stuffed animals.

Rachel sits next to her. “I know you’re scared, honey, but there’s nothing to be scared of. You’re safe here, I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I want my mom,” Amelia says.

“I know. We’ll get you back to her soon. Look, I heard about Mr. Boo and although we don’t have Mr. Boo, this is my little girl’s special friend Marshmallow. She’s had it since the day she was born. He’s very, very special. He’s got thirteen years of love in him.”

Amelia looks at Marshmallow suspiciously. “I want Mr. Boo.”

“We don’t have Mr. Boo, but we have Marshmallow,” Rachel says. “Marshmallow is Mr. Boo’s friend.”

“Is he?”

“Oh yes, they’re very good friends.” Rachel passes him over and Amelia takes him hesitantly.

“Do you want me to tell you a story?” Rachel asks.

“OK, I guess.”

“Do you like milk and cookies?”

“Yes.”

“Wait here and I’ll see what I can do.”

She goes back upstairs. Pete is on the porch trying to convince American Express to put his charge through. If he doesn’t convince them, a crazy woman will murder her daughter in two hours.

She taps the kitchen door and Pete turns to look at her. “What do they say?” she asks.

“I’m still talking to them.”

Rachel reads the label on Lorna Doone cookies and Googles the ingredients just to be on the safe side. They are nut-free. She goes back downstairs with the milk and Lorna Doones.

She tells Amelia the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears and Amelia is happy because she knows that one.

She does “Hansel and Gretel” next and Amelia knows that one too.

Stories of kids surviving peril in the woods.

Poor little Amelia, vanished like that other Amelia all those years ago.

She’s a good kid. A smart kid. Rachel likes her. How could she not? And how could she possibly harm this child?

Half an hour later Pete appears at the top of the stairs. He gives Rachel the thumbs-up.

“The charge went through?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God for that.”

“How’s Amelia?”

“Come down and see.”

“She’s sleeping. How did you do that?” Pete whispers at the bottom of the basement steps.

“Milk, cookies, and Marshmallow, apparently.”

“What kind of cookies?”

“Lorna Doone. They’re OK. I checked them.”

“The EpiPen is on the way. I ordered it from eBay.”

“You’re not getting it sent here?”

“No. It’ll go to an eBay drop box in Newbury.”

“Good.”

“I’ll stay here tonight,” Pete says. “You go on home, you look beat.”

“I should stay.”

“No, go home, please.”

She doesn’t want to fight him. She is beat. Utterly defeated. She takes a picture of Amelia with one of the burner phones. “I’ll send this to them.”

“Get some sleep, Rachel.”

“I’m not tired,” she insists.

Pete is scratching his arm and sweating. He looks vacant, unwell.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asks.

“Me? Great. You go home, I’ll be fine here.”

She nods and goes up the basement steps. Down the porch. Along the beach. Home.

She’s glad for the freezing rain. She deserves discomfort and misery and pain. She stands in front of her house and calls the Dunleavys on a new burner phone.