Page 176 of Cold, Cold Bones

Never easing up, I watched Henry disappear into the shadows. She returned with a wire attached to a wooden peg at each end.

Sweet Jesus!

The garrot that killed Frank Boldonado?

Henry dragged a second chair to a position facing mine, draped the garrot across its back, turned and fixed me with another icy grin. “You’ll have the best seat in the house, Doc.”

With that, she withdrew again.

Footsteps. Somewhere in the cellar a door opened. I heard fabric swish, a thud, then grunting, like someone struggling under the weight of a heavy burden. A minute later—maybe several, I’d lost all track of time—Henry emerged from the shadows, hands hooking Katy’s armpits, dragging her motionless body across the slick floor.

Katy’s eyes were closed, her head lolling uncontrolled on her chest. Her skin was ashen.

I felt my heart explode.

“No!” I shrieked. “No!!”

“Save it for the show, Doc.”

Breathing hard under the strain of moving her one-hundred-and-thirty-pound captive, Henry lugged Katy to the empty chair and, lacking a free hand, kicked the garrot to the floor, out of my reach. Emitting a final Maria Sharapova–level grunt, she heaved my daughter up, then double-shackled her as she had me.

Did the restraints mean Katy was alive? Or were they simply to hold her lifeless body in place?

I looked at my daughter, slumped like a rag doll, vulnerable and helpless.

“Katy!” I screamed. “Katy! Wake up!”

“Save it. She can’t hear you.”

“For God’s sake. Don’t do this.”

“After all those years planning? Ha!”

“It’s true,” I said. “You’re sick. Stop now and we can get you help.”

With an exaggerated tooth-baring smirk, Henry pivoted and swept a hand toward Katy. “Heeere’s Johnny!”

God, no! Please no!

Henry bent to snatch the garrot by one of its pegs, straightened and began circling toward Katy’s back, carefully staying out of my reach.

Or so she thought. Under the guise of irrational thrashing and flailing, I’d been hitching my chair forward millimeter by millimeter.

Now!

Planting both feet, I thrust hard against the floor while swinging my upper body like a pendulum gone mad. The chair tottered, then toppled sideways with a metallic crash. I shoved wildly, lurching myself jaggedly across the floor.

Startled by the noise behind her, Henry whirled, realized her mistake, and tried yanking the full length of the garrot clear of my reach.

Too late.

Moving with a quickness I wouldn’t have thought possible, I scooted onto the wire, grabbed the retreating peg with one cuffed hand, and tucked it under the arm of the rusty chair encasing me.

Henry reacted with a swiftness equal to mine. Springing forward, she attempted to right the overturned chair and its occupant. Keeping my head tucked and my torso curled, I kicked out whenever she drew close enough for a foot to connect. Again and again, I struck flesh, occasionally bone.

Frustrated, Henry snarled and scampered out of my field of vision.

As seconds passed, the only sounds in the basement were the dripping water, Henry’s panting, and the booming of my own heart. Nothing from my daughter’s direction.