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A sudden eerie silence proved more frightening than the storm's violence, but September refused to move. She kept her eyes squeezed shut. She held Melinda circled tight in her arms, and the girl's trembling form in turn crouched protectively over Nikki and Steven. All remained silent, except for Kinsler, who keened and shivered.
September wanted to cry, too, but not in front of the kids. She couldn't think about Shadow, or would dissolve into a useless puddle. She had to be the adult. September cautiously opened her eyes and released her grip on Melinda. "Everyone okay?"
Melinda lifted her head. She turned loose of the kids and hugged herself. "Is it over? Will it come back?"
"Nikki, how's your head? Steven, you all right?" September waited impatiently for a response.
Steven remained silent, but Nikki nodded, then winced, and gingerly touched her blood-soaked hair. September pasted on a cheerful expression to hide her concern. Head wounds bled a lot, even when not serious. She hoped it wasn’t serious.
Kinsler squirmed from beneath their feet, shook himself hard, and sniffed the bloodstained ground. The 18-foot square dogfight pit offered an ideal storm shelter. Three-foot-high plywood walls framed the space on two sides, reinforced by stair-step stacks of straw bales piled halfway to the loft.
Ironically, the same space had meant death or worse for the dogs forced to compete within its walls. The Pit Bulls she and Nikki had freed stood a better chance fighting the tornado than surviving this arena. September prayed they'd evaded the storm.
And God, please let Shadow be all right.
Any hope of finding Shadow hinged on escaping the barn. September scrambled to her feet to assess the damage.
Her SUV blocked the main entrance but the wall had collapsed around the vehicle. The car had taken out the loft ladder, too. Overhead, steady rain fell through where the metal roof peeled back like a pop-top lid.
The small loft above and three remaining cement block walls retained most of their integrity. A pushed-in section marred the back wall, where a small door and three shuttered windows suggested another way out.
"Melinda, watch the kids." The older girl had already begun to clean up Nikki's cut brow. Steven's attention remained glued to his tablet, probably playing a video game. Maybe her phone reception had returned. She checked, but had no bars.
September noted the scratch line in a corner of the square pen as she vaulted over the plywood wall. She tripped on a washtub positioned nearby, empty now but used to bathe fighting dogs before they entered the ring to be sure nobody "cheated" by putting poison on the fur. The opposite corner would have the same diagonal scratch mark, she knew, where the so-called "dog men" held their canine contenders at the ready before the "referee" gave the signal to release them and begin the fight. She shuddered.
Once past the divider, she saw more dogfight paraphernalia. A modified spring pole hung from an overhead beam, consisting of a length of rope and rubber tubing dogs were encouraged to grab and hang from to condition neck and jaw muscles. September knew BeeBo also provided a spring pole for his dogs to have fun, but she found nothing innocent about the contraption in this context. Out of place in the rustic surroundings, a modern electric-powered treadmill stood against one wall. The attached logging chain, similar to the ones she'd cut from the dogs’ collars, made it clear the treadmill served as one more tool for conditioning the canine athletes for the blood sport.
The machine's presence meant power, if she could find a switch. Daylight faded early in February. With the SUV totaled, and storm still lurking, September had no intention of hiking out with a bunch of kids. Best to hunker down and wait for help. Lights would shine a welcome beacon to speed rescuers to find them, especially once the sun set. Only gray light filtered through the gash in the roof, but even as she watched, it grew dim.
On the wall behind the treadmill, September found a power bar with a bright orange weatherproof cord that trailed up the wall and disappeared through the ceiling into the loft. She toggled the switch, and floodlights blazed from the rafters, spotlighting the dog-fighting pit bright enough for an ESPN special.
Melinda stood up and cheered, and September turned back with a smile and a thumb's up. Nikki wobbled, though she kept a firm grip on Kinsler's collar. If she had a concussion, Nikki needed a doctor sooner rather than later.
"Let me see if I can get the back door open." September hurried to the far end of the barn.
The lights revealed the cat mill and she cringed. Designed like a miniature horse walker, trainers harnessed the dog to the long spoke projecting from a turn-style and lured him to chase the living bait held in a cage beyond his reach. This built up the dog's conditioning as well as increasing prey drive.
September hurried past, averting her eyes from the sad mound of fur trapped inside the cage. She gasped and stopped short when the fur moved. "Hey, there's a cat." And still alive, despite being cramped inside a space too small for it to stand.
"A kitty? Where?" Nikki finally roused, and stood up woozily.
September motioned to Nikki to stay put. "Keep hold of Kinsler or he'll scare it." She didn't want to explain to the kids about the cat, or God help her, the rape-stand over there used to keep breeding pairs of fighting dogs from killing each other.
The cat mewed and cheek-rubbed the side of its cage as she struggled to get the door open. He hadn't been inside long. She saw no waste in the cage or dropped beneath in the dirt of the barn floor. September knew that bait animals, often rabbits or cats, didn't last long, so this cat won the lottery. Otherwise, after the "training" session, the bait became the dog’s reward. She'd like to "reward" the sickos with some of their own medicine.
The striking green-eyed cat sported a brown tabby "cap" on his head, tabby coat covering his back and tail, and underneath, snowy legs, chest, muzzle and tummy. His friendly demeanor had enabled the catnapping. The thieves hadn't even bothered removing his collar or nametag that clearly spelled out, “Boris Kitty.”
She feared he'd run away—hell, she wouldn't blame him—but September couldn't bear to leave him inside the wire contraption. "Stay close, big guy." She crooned soothingly as she messed with the opening, hoping he wouldn't spook and zoom away. "When we get out of here, I'll do my best to get you back home."
As soon as the confinement opened, the cat leaped out of the wire basket, and scaled September's shoulder to nuzzle her cheek. He draped himself around her neck like a sack of potatoes, and the vibration of his purr made her smile for the first time in hours. "Guess that's as good a place as any. Hang on, Boris Kitty."
September fought the déjà vu sensation. Only eight weeks ago, she'd nearly died while trapped inside another barn when it caught fire. With the wooden loft drowned by the storm, not even a direct lightning strike would ignite this barn. Still, she didn't want to stay inside any longer than necessary. That the storm had abated didn't mean it couldn't return with renewed violence. As if in agreement, thunder boomed.
Keeping one hand on the cat as much to calm herself as to balance the perching animal, September hurried to the far wall. She tried the door, but it jammed from something wedged outside, and wouldn't budge. Long metal bars secured shutters covering each of the windows, effectively keeping any inside light contained. Scheduled fights likely took place at night. Whoever ran the show didn't want light leaking out and giving them away.
After removing the rebar brace, she swung open the first set of shutters. Glass had shattered from the outside in, and fell with a music box crinkling sound. A blue metal surface butted up solid against the opening, with no way through.
September moved to the next window, pulled away the brace, and found a repeat of the broken glass and blue wall. She banged on the metal with frustration, before moving to the third, final window.
Startled, the cat dug nervous claws into her coat collar. "Sorry, Boris Kitty. My bad. You're right, nothing gained by getting angry." She pulled and tugged the final rebar until it released. September lost her balance and fell backward on the ground. She heard an answering thump from the blue metal.
The cat scrambled to keep his perch on her shoulders, and then abandoned her and ran. Wet soaked through her pants, and September put down a hand to brace herself. Where moments before the floor had been dry, now she sat in a wet spot that slowly grew as she watched, pooling from cracks in the cement blocks at the foundation level.
The banging came again, followed by faint shouts. September scrambled to her feet, and wrenched open the final set of shutters. The opening revealed the passenger side glass of a blue van pressed against the barn's shattered window. Willie Combs thumped and yelled from the front passenger seat, a dark haired younger girl peeking from behind him while a teenaged boy slumped behind the steering wheel, motionless.
