Sitting on the mattress, her gaunt face stained with resigned horror, was Silvia Kalen.
She scrabbled backwards, her eyes wide, shaking her head.
She ducked over the far edge of the filthy bed, and disappeared.
"Oh, my god," Ian said.
"Silvia?
Silvia, is that you?"
The room was silent.
Ian took a tentative step into it, and his foot kicked something on the floor.
It skittered a few feet across the cement, then came to a stop.
Ian stared at it, his mind churning, for several seconds before he finally recognized Alex's backpack.
He couldn't process this.
He looked up.
"Silvia?"
There was no answer.
The room might have been empty.
A horrible thought flitted through his mind: that she wasn't real, that he was imagining her.
"Are you Silvia Kalen?"
She didn't answer, but he heard her: breathing, whimpering.
She thinks I'm here to rape her.
He clenched his eyes shut, put his hand to his temple.
"No.
Honey.
Sweetheart.
I'm gonna get you out of here.
Okay?"
He walked carefully around the bed, his palms up as if trying to calm a wild animal.
"I'm not gonna hurt you.
Okay?
I swear.
I swear to god."
He saw her then, and the sight tore the air from his lungs.
She was hugging her knees, her back to the cement wall, rocking back and forth in a tight ball.
Her dress was filthy, torn; her face was criss-crossed with bruises, caked with grime.
She couldn't have been more than five years old.
"Oh, kiddo," he breathed.
"Oh, I'm so sorry."
She flinched from his words, turned her face away; seemed, impossibly, to draw further against the wall.
"Silvia," he said, "I'm going to get you out of here.
Okay?
We're going to leave.
Your dad is looking for you, and I'm gonna bring you to him.
I won't hurt you, and I won't let anyone else hurt you."
These last words sparked on his tongue, ignited something in his chest that caught and blazed, roaring, and he said them again.
"
I won't let anyone hurt you.
"
She wouldn't look at him, still.
He imagined what she might be thinking; how many times she had heard these promises or something like them before.
Eston told Alex he'd bring him home too.
He stole a glance toward the door. The flickering light from the bulb in the hallway danced around its edges.
There was no one there.
Yet.
"Just take my hand, and we can go.
All right?"
He held out his hand and she recoiled from him, trembling with raw panic.
His voice went up an octave.
"Oh, hey, no, no, no... it's okay, I swear I won't hurt you.
I
swear
, okay?
Please, sweetheart, we need to get out of here.
Don't stay here.
I'm here to get you out.
I'm gonna take you to your daddy, okay?
We're gonna -"
But at the mention of her father she started shaking her head, furiously, disbelieving.
She's heard that before.
She's heard it too many times.
She pushed herself to the floor, to worm underneath the bed.
"Silvia, please," he begged.
"I'm Alex's daddy."
She froze.
Even her breathing stopped.
"Yes.
Okay?
He told me where you were, and I came."
As he said it, he knew it had to be true.
I'll just call for you.
His sight went blurry, brimming with tears.
Oh, Alex.
"I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner.
I didn't understand.
I
wanted
to, but I just didn't.
I just didn't.
I'm so sorry.
But I figured it out now.
Okay?
He sent me here to help you, and I'm here."
He blinked hard, pushed the tears from his eyes.
The feeling in his chest had grown to an inferno.
And finally, she looked at him.
Her voice, when it came, was fragile as glass.
"He said you would come."
She stood, and he took her hand.
It was fragile, and little, and warm - it made memories of his son burst in his thoughts like suns - and for an instant, it struck him dumb.
He clenched his eyes closed, fighting with himself.
Get her out.
Get her safe.
"Okay," he said as they started toward the door, "Okay, good.
Stay close to me, all right?
Even when we get outside.
You stay close, and we'll get you somewhere safe.
We'll get you -"
He started to say,
To your daddy,
but bit it off.
"We'll get you safe."
He reached the door and peered around the corner; held his breath, and listened.
Nothing.
They hurried up the hellish corridor to the narrow steps, and he pressed her ahead of him.
"You go first," he said.
"Can you do it?"
She looked at the steps, nodded fervently.
"Go ahead.
Be careful."
But she stopped, staring at him, eyes wide.
"I'll be right here.
I promise.
No one's gonna hurt you.
He's not home.
Okay?
Go now.
Quick!"
When she still hesitated, her lip trembling, he took her hand and set it on the second step.
"Climb it like a ladder.
Can you do that?"
After a heartbeat, she nodded again.
Then she started up.
He watched tensely, ready to catch her if she fell.
She was wearing a dress.
He saw that she had no underwear, and had to swallow a surge of bile.
As she reached the top and began to climb out, he followed.
The shadows in the dining room had grown longer; the light outside was a strip of red, burning beyond the western tree line.
In the dimness she was just a silhouette.
"Okay," he said.
He tried to smile at her, but there was nothing inside him capable of it.
"You did great.
I'm gonna carry you for this part now, okay?"
He held out his arms, and she came to him.
He scooped her up, careful to keep her dress smoothed so his hand wouldn't touch her bare bottom.
As he straightened up he waited for the familiar, dependent weight of her legs latching on to his belly and hip, but she wouldn't do it.
Her legs jutted stiffly from her body, and he would not ask her to do otherwise.
"Okay," he breathed.
"I'm going to lean you back to carry you."
He set the crook of his arm against the back of her neck, his other arm behind her knees, and rested her backwards, carrying her like a baby.
Like he had carried Alex, even when the boy was older and giving him that silly, contented grin.
"Okay."
For a mad instant he tried to figure out how he would get through the window with her; then he realized he could just go out the front door.
"Okay," he breathed again, and turned to cut through the kitchen.
As he rounded the corner he saw Tim Kelton in the front door, a plain, brown grocery bag on the floor at his feet.
He had a handgun aimed at Ian's chest.
"Drop her," he said.
Silvia's head whipped around at the sound of Kelton's voice; her entire body stiffened.
"I said drop her," Kelton repeated.
"Fuck you," Ian rasped, and Kelton shot him.
The muzzle flared, coughing sparks.
A concussive blast thundered in Ian's ears, as if he'd just been smacked in the side of the head with a cinder block.
He wanted to turn, to grab his gun, to dodge or run, but in the instant these notions flashed through his mind, his leg gave out.
Silvia spilled from his arms.
He toppled sideways, clutched at the door jamb, and smashed face first to the kitchen floor.
The stink of gunpowder was everywhere.
The world filled with a long, scraping buzz.
His ears throbbed with pain; they had
to be bleeding.
Kelton was behind him, shouting, but the words were a thousand miles away.
He couldn't make them out.
Ian scrabbled at the gun in his waistband, yanked it free, turned painfully on to his back.
When Kelton rounded the corner he hoisted it and pulled the trigger, but nothing happened.
He'd forgotten the safety.
Kelton flinched out of sight when he saw the weapon anyway.
Fuck,
Ian thought.
Oh, fuck.
He fumbled at the safety switch, got it off.
The floor was slick with blood.
It was coming from his leg.
Silvia,
Ian said.
He couldn't hear his own words.
He craned his head back to find her, trying to keep one eye on the corner in case Kelton came around again.
She had run into the dining room, curled herself into the corner.
Come here,
he said.
It felt like he was talking into a gag; he could feel his words pushing against his jaw, but not hear them.
Come to me.
Kelton darted back around the kitchen corner and fired twice, the sound like twin sledgehammers to Ian's eardrums.
The fridge handle blew loose, ricocheted to the floor; a chunk of wooden counter exploded. Ian screamed, twisted back, and squeezed off three shots of his own, but Kelton was already gone.
Compared to Kelton's weapon, the .22 was lobbing little firecrackers.
God dammit,
Ian whined or thought, the words swallowed in the onslaught of rushing wind in his ears.
He kept his eyes glued to the corner where Kelton was taking cover, but the corner led to the living room, which joined around to the dining room behind him.
Kelton could appear at either side of the kitchen any time.
Ian felt curses dribbling from his lips.
He clenched his teeth, snorting, and pushed his back to the cabinets, trying to gain his feet while keeping watch.
As he maneuvered, he felt a weird tugging sensation within his thigh.
As he put pressure on the leg, the tugging bloomed into a fiery pain.
Silvia screamed from the dining room, loud enough to be heard through the mountain of cotton jammed in his ears.
Ian twisted to look that way, but the sudden motion cost him his balance.
He slammed into the floor, his teeth biting hard into his tongue.
Kelton shoved the dining room table over, forming a makeshift barricade so Ian couldn't shoot him.
Then he darted behind it, grabbed Silvia, and pelted for the front door as she shrieked.
No!
He felt the word tear from his throat, but it was impotent, silent.
Again he forced himself to his feet as his leg threatened to buckle beneath him.
He staggered around the corner, saw the screen door banging closed behind Kelton as he hauled the girl toward his van.
Ian heaved his .22 up and fired at the fleeing man's back, missing twice.