The Chain(45)

“I don’t think you’re bluffing. You seem like a very determined young lady. You should pull the trigger.”

“I will.”

“Do it, then.”

She stands up, aims the revolver at the man’s kneecap, and squeezes the trigger the way her uncle Pete taught her.

The hammer falls down on the percussion cap. There’s a click, and then silence. She squeezes the trigger again. The chamber revolves; the hammer goes back and comes down on another percussion cap. Another click, then more silence. She pulls the trigger four more times until she has gone through the entire six bullets in the gun.

“I don’t understand,” she says.

The man reaches out and takes the gun from her. He clicks open the revolver and shows her the six gleaming empty brass cartridges that he put in the weapon.





32

Saturday, 7:35 a.m.



There’s a noise upstairs in the kitchen.

Has the cop come back?

Rachel picks up the gun and points it at the top of the basement steps. “Who is it?” she asks.

She sights the gun. Holds her breath.

Pete comes running down the steps.

“I got the EpiPen. It arrived at the drop box!” he says.

“Thank God!”

Rachel backs away as Pete injects Amelia in the leg. It works almost immediately. Like a goddamn miracle. Amelia gasps and begins to cough.

She coughs and sucks air and coughs again.

Pete gives her water and she drinks it and wheezes.

He takes her wrist. “Pulse coming down to normal. And she’s breathing better.”

Rachel nods, walks upstairs, finds the Appenzellers’ liquor cabinet, and pours herself a large tumbler of Scotch.

She drinks it and refills the glass.

Forty-five minutes later, Pete comes up to join her. “How is she?” Rachel asks.

“Doing much better,” Pete says. “Fever’s way down.”

“She was in a very bad way. I think her breathing stopped.”

“It was my fault. I didn’t check the cereal.”

“I would have let her die, Pete.”

Pete shakes his head but he knows she would have and that he probably would have too.

“I’ve become them,” Rachel whispers.

They stare at each other for a beat or two. Their eyes tell the same story: shame, exhaustion, fear.

“When you were out, some woman came to the door looking for Elaine Appenzeller. She went away but she called the cops,” Rachel says.

“Did the cops come here?”

“Yeah.”

“Are we compromised?”

“I don’t think so. I flirted with the cop and I think he thinks I’m some horny old lady who nuisance-calls the police just to get dates with them.”

“You’re not old,” Pete says with a smile, trying to lighten the mood.

I’m probably dying, Pete, Rachel thinks, how much older can you get? “So Amelia’s OK?”

“She’s on the mend, yeah.”

“I’ll go down and see her.”

Amelia’s breathing and complexion don’t fully return to normal for another half an hour. If only a trace amount of nuts has done this to her, then a full-blown exposure would certainly have killed her.

“Why do you always wear those masks on your face?” Amelia asks her.

“It’s because when we give you back to your mommy, we don’t want you to be able to tell her what we look like,” Rachel says.

“Doesn’t Mommy know what you look like?”

“No.”

“You should Friend her on Facebook and then she’ll know,” Amelia says definitively.

“Maybe I’ll do that. Do you want a juice box?”

“Is it apple juice?”

“Yes,” Rachel says as she hands it to her.

“I hate apple juice. Everybody knows I hate apple juice.” Amelia groans and throws away the apple juice and then she throws the Lego horse she’s playing with. It smashes into half a dozen pieces. “I hate it here and I hate you!” she yells.

“You have to keep your voice down, sweetie,” Rachel says. They had done a good job with the soundproofing but still…

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t, I guess we’ll have to put tape over your mouth to keep you quiet.”

Amelia looks at her in amazement. “How would I breathe?”

“You’d breathe through your nose.”

“Would you really do that?”

“Yes.”

“You’re mean.”

Rachel nods. The little girl is right. She is mean. She’s so mean that she’d been willing to let her die down here.

Rachel takes a burner phone out of her bag. “Would you like to speak to your mom?” she asks.

“Yes!” Amelia says.

Rachel dials Helen Dunleavy’s number.

“Hello?” Helen says. She sounds frazzled, exhausted, afraid.

“Would you like to speak to Amelia?”

“Yes, please.”

She puts the phone on speaker and hands it to the little girl.

“Sweetie, are you there?” Helen asks.

“Mommy, when can I come home?”