The Cove

She had to get help. She had to get to Thomas Shredder and Corey Harper. They were staying here, just down the hall. Not far, not far at all. Oh, God, they’d drunk the coffee too. And so had David, and he was driving. She had to see if Thomas and Corey were unconscious. She had to go to their rooms and see. She could make it.

She fell off the bed and rolled. She lay there a moment on her back, staring up at the beautiful molding that ran around the edge of the ceiling. There were even Victorian cherubs at each corner, naked, holding up harps and flowers.

She had to move. She got herself up on her hands and knees. What room was Corey Harper in? She’d told her, but she couldn’t remember. Well, it didn’t matter, she would find both of them. Their rooms had to be just down the hall. She crawled to the door. Not far at all. She managed to stretch up and turn the knob to open the door.

The hallway stretched forever to her left, the lighting dim and shadowy. What if the person who had drugged the coffee was waiting in those shadows, waiting to see if someone didn’t succumb to the drug, waiting to kill that person? She shook her head and managed to heave herself to her feet. She made her feet move, one step at a time, that was all she needed to do, just one foot in front of the other. She’d find Thomas and Corey. Finally, a door appeared on her left—number 114. She knocked.

There was no answer.

She called out, her voice only a miserable whisper, “Thomas? Corey?”

She knocked again. Still no answer. She turned the knob. To her surprise, the door opened. It opened quickly, and she stumbled into the room, her knees buckling under her. She fell on her side.

She called out, “Thomas? Corey?”

She managed to get onto her hands and knees. There was only a single lamp burning, on top of the bedside table. Thomas Shredder was lying on his back, his arms and legs sprawled out away from his body. He was unconscious. Or he was dead. She tried to scream. She wanted to scream, but only a small cry came out of her mouth.

She heard footsteps behind her. She managed to get herself turned around to face the open doorway. James? Was he all right now? But she didn’t call out his name. She was afraid it wasn’t him. James had drunk a whole cup of that coffee. It couldn’t be him. She was afraid of who it might be.

The light was dim. Shadows filled the room, filled her vision. There was a man standing in the doorway, his hands in his pockets.

“Hello, Sally.”

29

“NO,” SHE SAID, staring at that shadowy figure, knowing it was him, accepting it, but still she said again, “No, it can’t be you.”

“Of course it can, dear. You’d know your father anywhere, wouldn’t you?”

“No.” She was shaking her head back and forth.

“Why can’t you get up, Sally?”

“You drugged us. I just drank a little bit, but it must have been very strong.”

“Didn’t get enough, did you?” He was coming toward her now, quickly, too quickly.

“Doctor Beadermeyer got to try so many new drugs on you. Actually, I was surprised you survived with your brain intact. Well, I’ll take care of that.”

He leaned down, grabbed the hair at the back of her neck, and yanked her head back. “Here, Sally.” He poured liquid down her throat. Then he threw her away from him, and she fell hard onto her back.

She stared up at him, seeing him weave and fade in the dim light. She tried to focus on him, watching him closely, but his features blurred, his mouth moved and grew bigger. His neck stretched out, becoming longer and longer until she could no longer see his head. Surely this was the way Alice in Wonderland must have felt. Off with her head. “Oh, no,” she whispered. “Oh, no.”

She fell onto her side, the smooth oak boards of the floor cool against her cheek.

Her father was here. That was her first thought when she woke up.

Her father.

No doubt about it. Her father. He was here. He had drugged her. He would kill her now. She was helpless again, just as helpless as she’d been for days upon weeks, weeks upon months.

She couldn’t move, couldn’t even lift a single finger. She realized her hands were tied in front of her, not all that tightly, but tight enough. She shifted her weight a bit. Her ankles were tied, too. But her mind wasn’t fettered. Her mind was clear—thank God for that. If she’d been vague and blurry again, she would simply have folded up on herself and willed herself to die. But no, she could think. She could remember. She could also open her eyes. Did she want to?

James, she thought, and forced her eyes open.

She was lying on a bed. The springs squeaked when she shifted from one side to the other. She tried to make out more detail but couldn’t. There was only a dim light coming from a hallway. It looked to be a small bedroom, but she couldn’t tell anything more about it.