Kelly, Sofie - Sleight of Paw

Owen was sitting on a discarded metal bedspring, probably from an old bunk bed. “This is what you wanted me to see? Why?” He pulled at one of the coiled metal springs with a paw. I could feel tendrils of panic creeping up the base of my skull.

I took a couple of deep breaths. “I’m going to have to drag this over to the stairs,” I said. “You think we need it, okay with me.”

The spring framework wasn’t as heavy as I’d thought. It wasn’t that difficult to pull it over to the bottom of the steps, where I felt more secure—relatively speaking.

I dropped onto the second step and wiped my hands on my snow pants. And then I saw it, above me in the cement-block wall: a small, grimy window almost completely boarded over. A window with just a small sliver of light showing. For a moment it felt like I had two Slinkys for knees.

I grabbed Owen and hugged him in relief, a tad too hard, and he squeaked his objection. “I’m sorry,” I said. “But there’s a window. We can get out of here.”

I scrambled up the steps and got the flashlight from where I’d left it and grabbed my jacket, too, because I was cold.

I shone the light on the window. The small bit of glass I could see was black with encrusted dirt. Weathered gray boards had been nailed over the top of the window into the frame.

When I stood on tiptoe I could get a grip on the top length of wood. I pulled with every bit of strength I had, but it didn’t so much as wiggle. I tried the board below it, but it was nailed tightly, as well. My right foot slid out from under me and I lost my balance and banged my leg against the steps.

I sank to the basement floor. Tears filled my eyes. I held on to my leg, rocking from side to side for comfort. Owen climbed onto my lap and licked away one tear that had gotten out and rolled down my face.

I stroked his fur with one hand. “We’re going to get out of here,” I told him. “All we have to do is find something to pull off those boards.”

I set him on the dirt, struggled to my feet and swiped away the tears. “Come on. There’s got to be something.”

Except there wasn’t.

We looked in discarded boxes that were full of moldy paperbacks and old issues of National Geographic . There was a broken toaster and a tangle of cutlery.

I don’t know when exactly I first smelled the smoke. It was faint, barely more than a hint, but as we got closer to the back corner of the basement the odor was stronger.

Justin had set the cabin on fire.

I jammed half my hand in my mouth so I wouldn’t scream, because I knew if I started I might not be able to stop. Owen went back to the stairs and I ran back, as well, trying to ignore how cold my feet were.

“We’ve got to get those boards off,” I told him. I pulled frantically at them, but nothing happened. I kept yanking, splinters slicing into my hands.

I beat on the wood in frustration, my eyes burning again with unshed tears. Then I couldn’t help it; I dropped to the dirt and let the tears run down my face. “I should’ve called Marcus,” I whispered. “I should’ve told Maggie or Lita or someone I was coming here.”

I kicked the bedsprings in anger and frustration. The frame slid across the dirt and one of the metal slats came loose from its spring, whipping into the air, the sound and movement sending me back against the stairs.

I looked at the window. I looked at the thin piece of metal. It was very flexible and very strong. Would it work? I had no other options.

I knelt on the cellar floor and grabbed the end of the slat. Twisting and pulling, I managed to get it free from the other spring. I took it over to the window. Stretching over my head, I eased the length of metal under the edge of the top board near where it was nailed and pulled up on the other end. The rough edge of the strip cut into my left hand.

This wasn’t going to work.

Breathing hard, I leaned my forehead against the cement block wall. Think, think. I remembered Roma saying chocolate or duct tape could fix just about anything.

Roma’s roll of duct tape was still in my jacket pocket. I pulled it out and tore off a long piece, winding it around the metal bar for a handgrip. Then I pulled with everything I had, Owen at my feet, seemingly cheering me on. The wood groaned. I ground my teeth together, braced one leg against the block wall and pulled. There was a splintering sound as the dry old wood gave way. I left it hanging by one nail and went to work on the second board.

“We are getting out of here,” I told Owen through clenched teeth. “And the next time I see Justin . . .”

I channeled my fury into pulling, the muscles in my arms shaking.

The smell of smoke was getting stronger. I coughed, shook my head and pushed in the edge of my makeshift pry bar just a little bit more.

It was enough. The wood cracked and I was able to pull it loose the rest of the way with my hands.

“Yes!” I shouted, nearly out of breath. I made a small shooing motion to Owen. “Get up there a little bit.” He moved up the stairs about halfway. I turned my head, put a forearm in front of my face and smashed the three small windowpanes with the metal bar, beating out the wooden dividers between the squares of glass.

There were needlelike slivers of glass everywhere. They cut into my feet through my heavy socks as I moved to the window. The icy air had never felt so good.

I used my sleeve to brush away the worst of the glass. Then I turned around and grabbed Owen. I reached through the window and set him in the snow outside, grateful that it had drifted away from the house on that side of the cabin.

“Go,” I said. I pointed toward the trees at the far end of the open yard. He crouched down and looked back through the window.

I coughed again. There was way more smoke coming down through the floorboards now. I put my face close to Owen’s. “Go. I’m right behind you, I swear. Please go.”

I think he heard the urgency in my voice. He started across the snow. I braced my palms on the window ledge and tried to pull myself up. Bits of glass cut into my hands and the gash in my left palm began to bleed. I didn’t have time to do anything about that. I had to get out while I could.

“Keep going,” I called to Owen, who looked back at me. “I’m coming.”

On the third try I got up on the window ledge. I stuck my head and shoulders out through the window. I could see Owen almost to the cleared parking area. At least he was safe. I stretched my arms out over the snow and try to move forward, but I couldn’t.

I couldn’t get through.

I clawed at the frozen snow, but I couldn’t get a grip on anything. I twisted and kicked my feet, but the window was just too narrow.

I pushed myself back in and dropped to the floor. I could see the smoke now, swirling in the basement. Panic warred with anger, and anger won.

“I am not going to die in this place,” I yelled.

I hauled off my coat and peeled away my snow pants, tearing the button at the waist. I folded the papers from Agatha’s envelope as small as I could and jammed them into my bra. Off came my sweater and my long underwear. I was down to tights, a T-shirt, underwear and my heavy socks.

I braced my hands on the windowsill and pushed myself up. I dug my hands into the frozen snow. My feet kicked. I blew out every last bit of air and sucked in my stomach, and I started to move.

I didn’t think about my hands or the cold. I pulled and I scrambled and I flailed, and in some miracle of physics my hips pulled loose from the window and I was free.

I half ran, half fell over the snow. The icy crust cut through my tights. I kept going, scrambling for purchase on the snow.

I was almost at the tree line when the propane tank blew up.