Meg Cabot - Safe House

"Imported," he said, reading the label by flashlight. Then he put the bottle down again. "Townies," he said, taking my hand again. "It figures."

The next room had apparently been a kitchen, but all of the fixtures were gone, except for a few rusted-out cabinets and a gas oven that looked beyond repair. There were less animal droppings in the kitchen, but more beer bottles, and, interestingly, a pair of pants. They were too big—and unstylish—to have belonged to Heather, so we continued our tour.

The kitchen led to the third and what I thought was the final room. This one had a fireplace, in which rested an empty keg.

"Someone," Rob said, "didn't care whether or not he got his deposit back."

That's when I noticed the stairs and tightened my grip on Rob's hand.

He followed the direction of my gaze, and sighed.

"Of course," he said. "Let's go."

The stairs were in only a little better condition than the porch steps. We climbed them slowly, taking care where we put each foot. One wrong step, and we'd have fallen through. As we climbed, the dripping sound grew steadily louder. Please, I prayed. Don't let that be blood.

The second floor consisted of three rooms. The first, to the left, had obviously been a bedroom at one time. There was still a mattress on the floor, though a mattress covered with so many stains and discolorations that I'd have only touched it with latex gloves on. A crunching noise beneath our feet revealed that my fears had not been ill-founded. There were condom wrappers everywhere.

"Well," Rob remarked, "at least they're practicing safe sex."

The second room was even worse. Here there was no mattress, just a couple of old blankets … but just as many condom wrappers.

I really thought I might be sick, and hoped the pizza Mark and I had consumed earlier had had time to digest.

Then there was just one last door, and I really, really didn't want Rob to open it, because I knew what we were going to find behind it. The dripping sound was coming from behind its closed door.

"Must be the bathroom," Rob said, and he let go of my hand to reach for the knob.

"No," I said, stepping forward. "No. Let me do it."

I couldn't see Rob's face in the darkness, but I could hear the concern in his voice as he said, "Sure … if you want to."

I gripped the doorknob. It felt cold beneath my palm.

Then the door flew open, and it was all exactly the way it had been in my vision. The dank, stained walls. The dark, windowless cell. The stained and ancient toilet, drip-drip-dripping.

And the figure curled up in the bathtub, her mouth stretched into a hideous grin by the dirty strip of material holding the gag in place, her hair unkempt, her arms and legs twisted at painful angles by matching strips of material around her wrists and ankles.

It was only because of the purple and white uniform that I knew who she was at all. Well, that, of course, and my dream.

"Oh, Heather," I said, in a voice that didn't sound at all like my own. "I'm so sorry."

C H A P T E R

12

"Jesus," Rob said, holding the flashlight so that it shined on Heather's tear-stained face . . . which wasn't actually much help, since I was trying to loosen a knot at the back of her head, the one holding her gag in place, and I could barely see what I was doing.

"Rob," I said. I had crawled into the bathtub with Heather. "Hold the light over here, will you?"

He did as I asked, but it was like he was in a trance or something. I couldn't blame him, really. I mean, I'd had a pretty good feeling what kind of shape Heather would be in when we found her. He'd had no warning. No warning at all.

And it was bad. It was really bad. Worse even than I'd seen in my vision, because of course what I had seen, I had seen through Heather's eyes. I had not been able to see her , because in my dream, I'd been her.

Which was how I'd known she'd been in pain. Only now was I able to see why.

"Heather," I said when I'd gotten the gag out of her mouth. "Are you all right?"

It was a lame question, of course. She wasn't all right. The way she looked, I was willing to bet she'd never be all right again.

But what else was I supposed to say?

Heather didn't say anything. Her head lolled. She wasn't unconscious, but she was as close to it as a person could be.

"Here," Rob said, when he saw the trouble I was having with the knots at her wrists. He dug into his pocket and came up with a Swiss Army knife. It only took a second for the bright blade to sever the thin strip of material holding her hands behind her back.

It was only when one of those arms dangled limply after it was freed that I realized it was broken.

Not that Heather seemed to care, or notice, even. She'd balled up into a fetal position, and though Rob took his denim jacket off and draped it over her, she was shivering as if it were winter.

"I think she's in shock," Rob said.

"Yeah," I said. I'd heard things about shock. Like how shock alone could kill someone after an accident, even someone who was not all that seriously injured.

And Heather, if you asked me, was very seriously injured.

"Heather?" I peered into her face. It was hard to tell whether or not she could hear me. "Heather, can you hear me? Listen, it's all right. Everything is going to be all right."

Rob gave it a try.

"Heather," he said. "You're safe now. Look, can you tell us who did this? Can you tell us who did this to you, Heather?"

That was when she finally opened her mouth. But what came out was not the name of her attacker.

"Go away," Heather wailed, pushing ineffectually at me with her one unbroken arm. "Go away before they come back . . . and find you here...."

Rob and I exchanged glances. In my concern over Heather, I had forgotten that there was a very strong possibility this could happen. You know, that they might actually come back and find us, I mean. I hoped Rob still had that wrench handy.

"It's all right, Heather," I said, trying to calm her. "Even if they do come back, they can't take on all three of us."

"Yes, they can," Heather insisted. "Yes, they can, yes, they can, yes, they can, yes …"

Okay, this was getting creepier by the minute. I had thought, you know, we'd find her, and that would be it.

But clearly, that was not it. There was a lot more to it. Like, for instance, how the hell we were going to get her out of there. No way was she going to be able to stay on the bike in her condition. I wasn't sure she could even sit up.

"Listen," I said to Rob. "You've got to go get that cop. The one by the turnoff? Tell him to call an ambulance."

Rob looked down at me like I was nuts. "Are you crazy?" he wanted to know. "You're the one who's going for the cop."

"Rob," I said, trying to keep my tone even and pleasant, so as not to alarm Heather, who seemed to have enough on her mind at the moment. "I am staying here with Heather. You are going for the cop."

"So you can get your arm broken like hers when they—whoever they are—come back?" Rob's tone was not even or pleasant. It was determined and grim-sounding. "Nuh-uh. I'm staying. You're going."

"Rob," I said. "No offense, but I think she'd be better off with someone she—"

But Rob didn't let me finish.

"And you'll be better off when you're miles away from here." Rob stood up and took me by the arm, half-lifting, half-dragging me out of the bathtub. "Come on."

I didn't want to go. Well, all right, I did want to go, but I didn't think I should go. I didn't want to leave Heather. I wasn't sure what, exactly, had happened to her, but whatever it had been, it had traumatized her to the point where I wasn't sure she even remembered her own name. How could I leave her alone with a guy she didn't know, especially since it was a fair guess that what had been done to her had been done by just that? Some random strange guy, I mean.