The Storm King(105)

He leaned forward to press his left thumb against the curve of the post. As if in the clutches of a medieval torture device, he increased the pressure as he leaned forward millimeter by millimeter.

“Tell me what you planned to do to Owen after you broke in through the window upstairs,” Nate said. He visualized the first carpometacarpal joint. He shifted to tweak the angles, clenched his teeth, and forced himself forward.

“Huh? Oh. We were going to mess with his water filter. Add a heap of red dye concentrate to it so all the taps would run red like blood.”

The pain at the base of Nate’s thumb grew from an ache to a warning to an alarm. He felt things stretch in ways that they weren’t meant to stretch.



“But then we saw…her,” Pete said. “And he caught us. Then I think Maura made it upstairs, but he—he must have—”

Nate heaved all of his weight forward in a sudden lurch. He wasn’t sure at first if the crunch that resulted was audible or the kind of sound that only resonated within the body it originated from, but as his peripheral vision went black, Pete stopped talking.

The pain was incandescent. Nate sweated limply against the floor and marveled at how many shades of agony there were. Easily as many as there were of anger and sadness. But what about happiness? he inquired of the plastic drop cloth. Eating out of containers with Grams at her little kitchen table. He, Tom, and Johnny casting from the dock on a summer morning. Meg’s smile when he woke to find her looking at him. Livvy’s tiny finger when she pointed at something she’d never seen before. For him happiness arrived in one flavor, but that never made it less sweet.

“Um, Mr. McHale? Are you, like, okay?”

“Call me Nate.” His fingers quivered as he compressed them against his dislocated thumb. It was still a struggle as he slid his mangled hand out of the cuff. In his troubled years he’d dislocated this thumb twice before. He thought that maybe its history of trauma had made it easier to dislodge now. He thought that maybe the suffering you’ve already survived is sometimes the only thing that can keep you alive.

Nate was dimly aware of Pete swearing in awe as he got to his feet and cradled one hand in the other. It took a moment for him to find his balance. A wave of nausea hit him as he surveyed his askew digit. He attempted a clinical distance as he snapped it back into place. This time the adrenaline coursing through his system dulled the edge. If nothing else, the pain wiped aside most of the lingering effects of the chloroform.

“I’ll look for something to cut you out.”



“Don’t leave me here!”

“I won’t.”

The walls of the mirrored alcove were angled like a department store fitting room. A post like the one Nate had been bound to was near its center. Chained to it in her wheelchair, Mrs. Liffey would have no option but to see from a dozen angles what had been done to her. A second alcove, next to the first, had a small kitchen with a refrigerator and sink. The corner across from the fridge was tiled and had a showerhead. If it was possible, it smelled worse here than it did anywhere else in the fetid basement. This must be where Owen sometimes hosed his mother down. A bin piled high with solid blankets was nearby.

Nate found a knife in a drawer. The blade was one step up from a letter opener, but he was able to use it to cut Pete’s ties. The boy gasped as he clutched his arms to his chest and began rubbing the blood back into his hands. To get to his feet, he had to grapple his way up the post to which he’d been bound.

“I’m going to piss myself. I’ve had to go for, like, a day.”

“There’s a sink in the back.”

“Do you think it’s okay?”

“I won’t tell.”

As Pete staggered away, Nate bent to whisper into Mrs. Liffey’s ear. “We’re going to get you out of here.” The woman seemed half asleep, but at least one word was still on her lips.

“No, no, no—”

Nate went up the steps to test the door to the main floor. It felt more substantial than the average interior door, and the locks and chains further reinforced it. Nate could hear them jangle as he battered his shoulder against it. Each jolt sent voltages of pain up his arm from his damaged thumb. It was back in its socket, but he must have torn something along the way.

Even if the steps hadn’t offered such a poor vantage, Nate didn’t think he’d be able to knock down the door.



He heard the rustle of Pete padding across the plastic-draped floor.

“Better?”

Pete’s mouth twitched into the bud of a smile. It sat there for only a moment, but long enough for Nate to glimpse the boy underneath the terror. “What’s the deal with the door?”

“It’s solid, and there are a ton of locks on the other side.”

An ax or sledge might get them through the door, but Nate doubted they’d find such tools down here. The basement was huge, but except for the kitchen with the shower, it was mostly empty.

“See if he left your phone—or Maura’s—down here somewhere. Keep an eye out for anything we can use on that door. Weapons, too,” Nate said. The dull knife he’d used to free Pete wouldn’t be any use against Owen, but with the right weapon they might have a chance.

Pete looked at him in alarm. Nate didn’t like the idea of having to fight Owen, either. The big guy had lost weight since their high school days, but he still had dozens of pounds on Nate, and it was all muscle.