Tess Gerritsen - Bloodstream

She felt her way down the hail, searching for the light switch. At last she found it and flicked it on.

At her feet, a naked Barbie doll lay on the threadbare runner. Claire reached down for it. “Mrs. Braxton? It’s Dr. Elliot.”

Her announcement was met with silence.

She looked down at the Barbie doll and saw that half of its blond hair had been cut away. When she had last visited this house, three weeks ago, she had seen Faye Braxton’s seven-year-old daughter Kitty clutching a Barbie doll like this one. It had been dressed in a pink prom gown and the long blond hair had been tied back with a scrap of green rickrack.

A chill slithered up her spine.

She heard it again: the rapid thump-thump-thump of footsteps moving across the ceiling. She looked up toward the stairs, toward the second floor. Someone was home, yet the heat was off, the house was freezing, and none of the lights were on.

Slowly she backed away, then turned and fled the house.

Sitting in her car, she used her cell phone to call the police.

Officer Mark Dolan answered.

“This is Dr. Effiot. I’m at the Braxton residence. Something’s wrong here.“

“What do you mean, Dr. Elliot?”

“I found the front door open, and there’s no heat on, no lights. But I heard someone moving around upstairs.”

“Is the family home? Have you checked?”

“I’d rather not go upstairs.”

“All you’d have to do is take a look. We’re already swamped with calls, and I don’t know when I can get a man over there.”

“Look, could you just send someone? I’m telling you, it doesn’t feel right.”

Officer Dolan gave a loud sigh. She could almost see him at his desk, rolling his eyes in derision. Now that she had actually voiced her fears, they did not seem significant. Perhaps she hadn’t heard footsteps at all, but merely that loose shutter swinging in the wind. Perhaps the family was away. The police will arrive and find nothing, she thought, and tomorrow the whole town will be laughing at the cowardly doctor. Her reputation had already suffered enough blows this week.

“Lincoln’s somewhere over that way,” Dolan finally said. “I’ll ask him to swing by when he gets the chance.”

She hung up, already regretting the call. Stepping out of the car again, she looked up at the house. Dusk had thickened to night. I’ll cancel the dispatch and save myself the embarrassment, she thought. She went back into the house.

Standing at the foot of the stairs, she gazed up toward the second floor landing, but heard no sound from above. She grasped the banister. It was oak, solid and reassuring. She began to climb, driven upward by pride, by grim determination not to be the butt of the latest town joke.

On the second floor, she turned on the light switch and confronted a narrow hallway, the walls dingy from little hands trailing smudges. She poked her head into the first room on the right.

It was Kitty’s bedroom. Ballerinas danced across the curtains. Scattered on the bed were girl things: plastic barrettes, a red sweater embroidered with snowflakes, a child’s backpack in pink and purple. On the floor was Kitty’s beloved Barbie doll collection. But these were not pampered recipients of a young girl’s love. These dolls had been viciously abused, their clothes ripped to shreds, their limbs splayed out as though in horror. A single doll’s head, torn from its body, stared up at her with bright blue eyes.

The chill was back in her spine.

She backed into the hail, and her gaze suddenly shifted to another doorway, to the unlit room beyond. Something shimmered in the darkness, a strange luminescence, like the green glow of a watch face. She stepped into the room and turned on the light. The green glow vanished. She was in a boy’s room, untidy, with books and dirty socks scattered on the bed and floor. A rubbish can overflowed with crumpled papers and Coke cans. It was the typical disarray left by a thirteen-year-old. She turned off the light.

And saw it again-the green glow. It came from the bed.

She stared down at the pillow, splashed with a bright luminescence, and touched the linen; it was cool, but not damp. Now she noticed the faint streaks of luminescence on the wall as well, just above the bed, and one brilliant emerald splash on the sheet.

Thump, thump, thump. Her gaze shot upward, and she heard a whimper, a child’s soft cry The attic. The children were in the attic.

She left the boy’s room, stumbling over a tennis shoe as she reemerged in the hallway. The attic stairs were steep and narrow; she had to grasp the flimsy handrail as she climbed. When she reached the top, she was standing in impenetrable darkness.

She took a step forward, and brushed past a hanging light chain. One tug, and the bare lightbulb came on, its dim glow illuminating only a small circle of the attic. In the shadowy periphery she could make out a jumble of old furniture and cardboard boxes. A coat rack, its prongs wide as elk’s antlers, cast a threatening shadow across the floor.

Next to one of the boxes, something moved.

Quickly she shoved aside the box. Behind it, curled up on a bundle of old coats, was seven-year-old Kitty The girl’s skin felt icy, but she was still alive, her throat issuing soft little moans with every breath. Claire reached down to pick her up, and realized the girl’s clothes were saturated. In horror she lifted her glistening hand to the light.

Blood.

The only warning she had was the creak of the floorboard. Someone is standing behind me.

Claire turned just as the shadow exploded toward her. The impact slammed hard against her chest and she flew backwards, pinned under the weight of her attacker. Claws grappled at her throat. She tried to tear them away, frantically thrashing left, then right, a dozen shadowy images swirling before her eyes. The coat rack slammed to the floor. Under the swaying light, she caught sight of her attacker’s face.

The boy He tightened his grip around her throat, and as her vision began to blacken, she saw his lips curl back, his eyes narrow to angry slits.

She clawed at his eye. Shrieking, the boy released her, stumbling away. She scrambled to her feet just as the boy lunged at her again. She dodged sideways and he flew past her and landed among the cardboard boxes, scattering books and tools across the floor.

They both spotted the screwdriver at the same time.

Simultaneously they sprang toward it, but he was closer. He snatched it up and brought it high over his head. As it came stabbing down, she raised both hands to catch the boy’s wrist. His strength shocked her. She was forced down to her knees. The blade of the screwdriver wavered closer, even as she fought to keep it at bay.

Then, through the roar of her own pulse, she heard a voice calling her name. She screamed out: “Help me!”

Footsteps thudded up the stairs. Suddenly the weapon was no longer stabbing toward her. The boy pivoted, his weapon redirected as Lincoln flew toward him.

She saw the boy fall backwards, sprawling to the floor. Saw the boy and Lincoln rolling over and over in a blur of thrashing limbs, furniture and boxes scattering around them. The screwdriver skittered off into the shadows. Lincoln pinned the boy facedown on the floorboards and Claire heard the metallic click of handcuffs snapping shut. Even then, the boy continued to struggle, kicking out blindly. Lincoln dragged him over to an attic support post and tightly lashed him there with his belt.

When at last he turned to Claire, he was breathing hard, and a bruise was swelling up on one cheek. For the first time he noticed the girl, lying among the boxes.

“She’s bleeding!” said Claire. “Help me get her downstairs, where there’s light!”

He scooped the girl into his arms.