The Waiting: A Supernatural Thriller(60)
They stepped into the basement after Evan turned the next switch on, and he moved to one side, giving the other man a clear view of the clock. Evan watched his reaction, waiting for an outburst, either tears or maybe a crazed battle cry, but Becky’s father did nothing. He stood motionless, taking in the clock’s wide-shouldered encasements, its black shine. For a moment he thought the man might be transfixed, hypnotized by the sight, but then he was moving, walking in a straight line toward it, his eyes never leaving it. Evan took a half step toward the stairs, trying to judge whether he could make the turn and race up the treads, out of sight before the gun would go off. He needed to get Shaun out of the house and into the pontoon, away from this man whose grief was driving him to things Evan was sure he would never even consider normally.
He glanced at the stairway and then back to Becky’s father as he set the gun on the table and bent to pick up something from the floor near the workbench.
This is your chance. Go while he’s not looking, get Shaun safe and then call someone to get this man some help.
All of his thoughts ceased when he saw what Becky’s father held in his hands.
The can of mineral spirits looked old, the top holding a slim layer of brown rust, and cobwebs first stretched from its handle and then broke, floating back to their tethers on the wall. Becky’s father held the can at arm’s length, then spun the cap off.
“Tessa’s always after me to stop smoking,” he said, digging in one front pocket. “Now I’m so glad I haven’t, because I don’t see any matches down here.”
He drew out a silver lighter, the refillable butane kind, and pivoted toward the clock. Before he turned, Evan saw a manic smile stretched across his lips.
Evan ran.
He didn’t wait to see if Becky’s father would actually go through with what he intended. He didn’t try to talk him out of it. He ran. A solitary pain lanced through his heart as he realized his chance to make things different, as insane as it seemed, would be a pile of ashes soon, possibly with the rest of the house. He almost stopped and turned back, a powerful pull trying to lock his feet to the stairs.
You’re giving up the chance to save Elle, to save Shaun from the disabled life he is cursed to lead. You’re running away again.
The last words came in Elle’s voice, and he stumbled, nearly falling into the kitchen. Evan grunted and continued to move, shoving away everything else besides the need to get to Shaun.
He stepped into the kitchen and ran across the floor, for the first time noticing the chill on his bare legs.
Wait around, it won’t be cold for long.
He nearly brayed insane laughter at that.
Hope you have good homeowner’s, Jase. ’Cause this one’s gonna catapult the old premium!
A loud bellow came from the basement, followed by a metallic clang.
Evan slowed and then stopped, breathing with his mouth wide open, listening over the pounding of his blood.
Silence. No whoompf of the clock igniting, no crackle of flames eating wood in burning bites. Serene quiet. He gulped down air, trying to slow his heart and the racing thoughts in his head. What the hell happened? All this buildup and no fireworks? The feeling of laughter came again, and he squashed it, because he knew if he started now, he might not stop.
Shaun’s snores came from the partially open door of his room. Cold sweat formed on Evan’s back, and he shivered as a bead ran down the groove of his spine. Still no sound from below.
Get Shaun out of the house, that’s your only concern right now.
He nodded and took a few steps back the way he’d come, stopping to listen every other second. Nothing. Afraid that he would see the shiny barrel of the handgun appear in the doorway at any moment, Evan walked closer and closer to the stairs. With a quick movement, he poked one eye around the doorjamb and then drew back.
The stairway was empty. As silently as he could, he moved down the first two treads, ready to run back at any sign of approach from below. Another step. Another. Evan stopped at the landing and peered around the corner, mimicking the move he’d used at the top of the stairs.
The basement was empty.
The absence of Becky’s father startled him more than if the man had been inches away, the gun pointed directly at him. He blinked, searching the floor and corners. Where was he hiding? Evan moved from the safety of the stairwell and took the last steps down. The cold cement leeched heat from the soles of his feet, sending frigid runners up through his calves. He scanned the boxes to his right, the sewing area, the table—everything was where it should be. He knelt, making sure the other man hadn’t crouched beneath the worktable. Only shadow and dust lay there. He walked forward, a new, unnamable fear falling over him like a wet sheet.
Turning in a circle, he looked at every possible hiding place. Outside of Becky’s father being a professional contortionist, the options were limited. He opened each of the cabinet doors above the workbench to quell the need to be sure. After making his way to the end of the bench, he stopped, staring at the glass encasement below the clock’s face. A man could hide in there. Definitely.
Evan walked around the table and approached the clock, his hands blocks of ice at the ends of his arms. The air in the basement seemed to have dropped several degrees, feeling more like a meat locker with each passing second. With one hand, he reached out and touched the brass knob on the center door and tried to turn it. It wouldn’t budge. He tried harder, the flesh of his fingers turning white with effort. The knob squawked and then turned, and the door opened. A waft of air smelling of dust brushed past him as he leaned in closer. The pendulum and its surrounding darkness were all he could see. No man, no gun, nothing but shadow.