House of Reckoning (24 page)

The painkiller they’d given him hadn’t killed any pain at all; instead it had just given him nightmares.

Nick sank back into his pillow and closed his eyes against the blinding white of the room. Perspiration trickled down the side of his face and into his ear, and now his head was starting to feel like it was going to explode.

He felt around on the bed for the button that would call the nurse, but before he found it a different light—a bright orange light—flickered through his closed eyelids.

He squinted against the throbbing in his head and reopened his eyes.

Flames—
real flames!
—were burning at the bottom of the draperies. All the fear he’d felt in the nightmare flooded back over him as the fire climbed quickly to the ceiling, then started creeping toward him, blackening the acoustic tiles, then devouring them to feed its insatiable hunger.

Then one of the flaming ceiling tiles dropped away and Nick watched helplessly as it fell to the foot of his bed.

The white blanket burst into flames.

But this time he was awake
.

This time it was no dream!

He tried to scream, tried to call out for help, but his voice was drowned out by the screaming voices that had suddenly risen in his head, all of them panicked, all of them shouting at him.

He tried to push himself up the bed, tried to pull his feet away from the flames, but the covers were pulled so tight he couldn’t move. Now the fire was burning through the blanket and sheet and boring deep into the mattress.

“Help me!” he screamed, his strength already failing him, but it was too late—he knew it was too late. The flames were all around him now, rising up like some great beast, towering over him, and he could feel his face starting to burn.

Once again smoke and heat seared his lungs.

Once again he smelled the stench of his own burning flesh.

“F—Fire …” he gasped one last time, and as the cacophony of screams in his head began to die away, one voice rose above the rest.

Laughter.

It was the sound of laughter as the being in his head rejoiced at the inferno consuming him.

Nick let out a final anguished cry, praying for death.

And then a cool hand touched his forehead and he felt the prick of a needle in his arm.

Sarah Crane’s face floated up in his mind’s eye.

She smiled at him.

And then darkness.

Blessed darkness.

Angie Garvey lay flat on her back, staring up at the ceiling and listening to Mitch’s loud snore beside her. But it wasn’t Mitch’s snoring that woke her—that was her cross to bear, and she’d learned to bear it years ago. No, something else had disturbed her sleep. But what?

She gently pushed on Mitch’s shoulder. He rolled over, temporarily silencing his snores, and Angie listened carefully.

Nothing.

Except it was something, and until she found out what it was, she wouldn’t be able to sleep at all. Sliding out from under the covers, she put her feet on the floor.

And knew what it was: a cold breeze swirled around her feet and legs.

Which was wrong.

She’d closed the house up tight before going to bed—she was sure she had. Had Zachary gone and left his bedroom window open?

That would be unlike him—Zachary was a good boy.

But God had shown her what was wrong—the draft coming under the door—so now it was up to her to fix it. She stood, picked up her
robe from the foot of the bed, stuck her feet into her favorite felt scuffs, and quietly opened the door.

Out in the hall it wasn’t just a draft—it was downright cold. Angie licked her forefinger and held it near the floor, then followed it until she came to its source: the breeze, feeling more like a cold wind now, was coming straight down the stairs from the attic.

That girl!

Did she think the money to pay for heat grew on trees? Angie marched up the narrow staircase to the attic door, pushed it open, and jerked the chain that turned on the light. The bulb swung on its wire, throwing shadows around the room, and she immediately spotted the source of the frigid breeze.

The window stood wide open.

Air as cold as if it were coming straight down from the North Pole—which it probably was!—flowed in through the window and down the stairs while the furnace in the basement worked overtime to pump heat—heat she and Mitch were paying for!—right out the window. If she hadn’t found it, this would have cost more than the county paid them to house the stupid girl.

A fireplace poker lay on the floor by the window, and Angie could see the gouge it had made in the sill as Sarah used it to pry the window open. Not enough to waste heat—she had to damage the window, too. She picked up the poker, clutching it tight. If she hadn’t known that the Lord frowned on actually killing people, she might just have taken a whack or two at Sarah Crane, if only to teach her the value of money.

“Wake up, Sarah!” she commanded, a vein in her head starting to throb, which was a sure sign that her blood pressure was getting a lot higher than it should be.

Which was Sarah Crane’s fault, too!

And the girl didn’t even move.

Angie shoved the window down and locked it, then turned around and marched over to the cot Sarah was using as a bed.

It was empty.

Angie hefted the poker once more and realized it was a good thing God was keeping Sarah out of her reach at precisely this moment. Then she threw the poker onto Sarah’s bed and made her way back down the narrow stairs.

Maybe she should wake Mitch and tell him that the girl had sneaked out of the house.

Except that Mitch would just wake everybody up and then call Dan West and wake him up, too. There was no reason to get everybody in an uproar—not for someone like Sarah Crane.

Then what should she do?

But of course she already knew. Taking a deep breath, she dropped back down to her knees, bowed her head, and began to pray. And, as He always did, God quickly answered her prayers, telling her exactly what she must do.

She went downstairs to make certain the locks on both the front and the back doors were secure. Sarah might have snuck out of the house, but she would not be allowed to sneak back in. She’d
ask
to be let in, and she’d better hope that God was feeling a lot more merciful than Mitch when he found out how much heat had been wasted. But one way or another, Angie was determined to see to it that God’s will be done. It was becoming increasingly clear that He had brought Sarah to their home for a reason, and one of those reasons was that He wanted her to teach the girl to take responsibility for herself.

And she would do precisely as God bid her, just as she always did.

The front door was securely locked, but Angie unlocked it and locked it again, just to make sure.

Then she threw the dead bolt.

God’s will perfectly executed, Angie Garvey went back to bed.

Now she could sleep in peace.

“L
et me out here,” Sarah said, her eyes fixed on the house that was still a block away, but was glowing like a beacon in the predawn darkness, which could only mean one thing. At least one of the Garveys—probably Angie—was awake. Awake, and waiting for her. “I’ll walk the last block.”

“I should go talk to Angie,” Bettina said, “and let her know that you were safe at my house last night.”

“That’ll only make things worse,” Sarah said, her voice starting to tremble. “Please?”

Reluctantly, Bettina pulled over and Sarah slid out of the car. “I’ll see you at school,” Bettina said. When Sarah barely even nodded, Bettina asked, “You’re sure you’re all right?”

“I’ll be okay,” Sarah sighed. She closed the door, waited until Bettina’s car finally disappeared around the corner, then started toward the house, trying to figure out what she would say to Angie. What had she been thinking to spend the night at Bettina’s? And why had Bettina let her sleep until 6:00
A.M
.? But of course she knew the answer to that one—she’d hadn’t finished her drawing until way after midnight. Besides, none of it was Bettina’s fault—it was all her own, and now all she could do was stand up and face the music, as her mother used to
say. Refusing to give in to her urge to turn around and walk the other way, she went up the front steps and tried the storm door.

Locked.

She rang the doorbell.

Angie opened the front door, then stood glowering at her. For a second Sarah thought she might just slam the door in her face, but at last she unlocked the storm door.

Sarah pulled it open, stepped inside, and smelled bacon frying in the kitchen. But instead of getting back to fixing breakfast, Angie held her cold eyes steady on Sarah. “You owe me an apology,” she finally said.

“I’m—”

“And one to Mitch.”

Sarah kept her eyes fixed on the floor.

“But mostly you need to pray to God that He forgives you for lying, cheating, and stealing.”

Sarah’s head snapped up. “I don’t lie, and I don’t cheat, and I don’t steal!” she said with enough force that Angie’s eyes glittered with fury.

“Shut your mouth,”
her foster mother spat. “You pretended to go to bed—that’s lying! You pried that window open, gouging the sill instead of coming down the stairs and leaving through the front door like an honest person. So there’s the cheating! And you let heat from our house run right out that window when you left it wide open, and that’s taking our money as much as if you’d just stolen it out of my purse.”

“I’m sorry,” Sarah breathed, though she knew the words were going to be far too little and far too late.

“On your knees,” Angie commanded. “Right here, and right now.” Angie dropped to her knees on the living room floor and pulled Sarah down with her, ignoring the whimper Sarah couldn’t choke off as a searing pain flashed through her bad hip and leg. “Ask God to forgive your sins and to show you how to live in His grace.”

Sarah bowed her head. “I’m sorry,” she whispered again. “I really am. But I’m just so confused—”

“The Lord has given us the Ten Commandments so we don’t
need
to be confused,” Angie cut in. Her hands clasped at her breast, she bowed her head. “Teach me, O Lord. Show me the way to lead this child to the path of righteousness.”

Sarah closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on the prayers Angie wanted her to offer up, but the pain in her body was so great that tears began trickling down her cheeks, and she knew that if she tried to say anything at all she would only start crying.

And that, she was certain, would only make things worse.

Seconds dragged into minutes, and each minute seemed to go on for an hour, but at last she heard Angie murmur one last word.

“Amen.”

“Amen,” Sarah quietly echoed. Then, as Angie rose to her feet, Sarah struggled to her own, her hip threatening to buckle under her.

“It is God’s will that I deliver you to Mitch for whatever punishment he deems fit. He deals with the likes of you every day of his life, and he will certainly know what to do.”

Sarah steeled herself against the wave of nausea that rose in her at the thought of what Mitch Garvey might consider a proper punishment, and then she bolted past Angie to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before she began throwing up. She was trying to rinse the bitter taste from her mouth when she caught a glimpse of Angie looming in the doorway, a look of triumph on her face.

“That’s the evil in you,” Angie said. “God is casting it out!” Sarah said nothing as she dried her face on a threadbare hand towel. “Mitch is upstairs putting a lock on the attic door,” Angie went on. “And he’s nailing that window shut.” As Sarah hung the towel back on its bar, Angie’s fingers closed on her arm, and a moment later she was being half led and half dragged up the stairs to the second floor, and as Angie shoved her up the steep narrow flight to the attic, Mitch smiled down at her.

But there was no warmth in his smile.

“Well, look who’s back,” he said. “The one who likes to stay out all night.”

“I’m so sorry,” Sarah whispered.

“Not as sorry as you’re going to be,” Mitch replied. His fingers clamping down on the flesh that his wife had already bruised, Mitch pulled her into the attic and closed the door. “But you can stop worrying,” he went on as Sarah backed away from him. “If I put a mark on you, we’ll lose our county money. So you’re getting a pass this time.”

Sarah’s panic began to subside.

“But you listen to me and you listen to me good. The next time
you cause me or my wife any kind of worry at all, I will hurt you.” He hefted the hammer as if already weighing the damage it could do to her. “You think about that, understand? You stay up here today and you think about what you did. And I warn you—if I hear that you even tried to leave this room today, I’ll fix you so you’ll never leave it again.” His lips curled into a smile as cold as his eyes. “And I’ll fix your father, too. Understand?”

Sarah nodded again.

“Speak!” Mitch demanded, smashing the hammer down on the table that served as Sarah’s desk.

Sarah jumped reflexively. “Yes, sir,” she whispered. “I understand.”

“Then when I come home from work tonight, I expect to see a different Sarah Crane. Understand?”

The hammer rose again, but this time Sarah didn’t wait for it to crash down. “Yes, sir,” she breathed.

Mitch left the room, locking the door behind him, and when she was finally alone, Sarah sank down onto the narrow cot, curled herself into a tight ball, and finally gave in to the tears she’d been struggling against for so long.

Ed Crane slowed to a walk as he finished his fifth lap around the prison yard, and used the sleeve of his prison-gray shirt to wipe away the sheen of sweat that covered his brow despite the chill of the air.

“Hey, Ed!” Little Mouse Mostella dropped his own pace as he caught up with Ed, falling in beside him for a moment. “Sonofabitch Mitch wants to talk to you.”

Ed’s eyes followed Little Mouse’s tilting head, and sure enough—there was Mitch Garvey, lounging against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes staring a hole right through him.