Maggie remembered that the reason she had a rental car, now stuck in Scottsbluff, Nebraska, was because she refused to get on a twin-prop airplane. She understood it wasn’t an actual fear of flying so much as a fear of being without control, which was often the crux of most fears. If you had control over a situation, there was nothing to fear. That’s what Maggie kept telling herself as she crawled through the dirt underneath the floorboards of the Boshes’ house, using her elbows to pull forward.
There was, at most, two feet from top to bottom, which kept her on her stomach. Some areas were tighter. Cords and cobwebs hung from the two-by-fours, getting tangled in her hair. A loose nail had already bit into her shoulder, tearing away a piece of skin and fabric just as it probably had with Johnny.
They had tried to shine a high-powered flashlight through the opening but support beams blocked their view. Mrs. Bosh called to the boy but no one answered. When Maggie suggested one of them go in after him, she swore she could see the color drain completely from Skylar’s face. Now, as the smell of mold and dirt filled her nostrils and dust mites floated in the flashlight streams, she questioned her own judgment.
The tightness squeezed around her, support columns scraping against her shoulders. Memories of being trapped seeped into her consciousness. This was not so much a memory as a distinct feeling that suddenly washed over her body. She had to stop, catch her breath. She tried not to panic when that breath filled her lungs with musty particles that threatened to block her intake of air.
It had been several years ago when a killer threw her into an empty chest freezer. She could remember clawing at the inside door, her fingernails broken, the tips of her fingers raw and soon numb. Most times the only overpowering memory was the cold, so deep and unbearable that her mind had shut down. Eventually her body, too, had collapsed from hypothermia.
She closed her eyes for a minute. Told herself to slow down.
Breathe through the mouth. Deep, steady breaths.
She couldn’t start hyperventilating or she would be in trouble. She shoved the memory aside. It was cold down here but not freezer cold. This was different. She wasn’t trapped. She had control.
She crawled and wiggled her way ahead. As the passage began to narrow, she started wondering how she would turn around.
Stop thinking about it.
Mrs. Bosh’s voice became more and more muffled.
Skylar had set up the high-powered flashlight at the opening under the porch, but the shaft of light couldn’t bend around corners or through support columns. At this point all she had was her penlight.
Something skittered on her left. Fur brushed her hand. Maggie jerked and cracked the top of her head against a two-by-four. It was just a mouse, she told herself. Too small for a rat. But she still shivered.
Not a rat. Stop thinking about rats.
She stopped and readjusted, giving her elbows a rest.
“Johnny? It’s Agent Maggie O’Dell. Do you remember me? From last night?”
She paused. Listened. Nothing. Except now she thought she heard a voice. Garbled but definitely coming from somewhere in front of her.
“Johnny. We’re just worried about you. You’re not in any trouble.”
Her penlight couldn’t show her what was beyond the next support column, this one thicker, the width of two rows of cement blocks. She must be at the center of the house. The sound came from the other side of this column.
She palmed the penlight and held up her fist so that she could see the path ahead of her as she crawled. There was more space here, at least an additional foot higher. The narrow stream of light caught glimpses of objects in the dirt. On closer inspection Maggie recognized discarded toys, a Star Wars action figure, candy wrappers, and crumpled soda cans.
She pulled herself even with the support column and rolled to her side. She realized she could actually sit hunched over. She leaned against the cold cement blocks and took a few seconds to bat the cobwebs out of her face and hair. One swipe with the penlight and she saw him.
He was sitting with his back to her, less than ten feet away, slouched sideways and leaning against another column. She could hear him mumbling.
“Johnny?”
No response.
If he was tripping on OxyContin or more salvia, he might be incoherent.
“Johnny?” She tried calling to him again.
She could move on hands and knees here as long as she stayed low. Still, her back scraped against wires stapled to the floorboards. Her shirt caught on another stray nail. This time she ignored the rip of fabric and kept going. She came up beside him but he didn’t acknowledge her presence. She put a hand on his shoulder, trying not to startle him as she dragged herself around.
In the halo from the penlight she saw his eyes and she knew immediately. She could see the earbuds and the dangling cord. The mumblings she had heard came from his iPod, not from Johnny.
They were too late.