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Two men had held Sam down as the safe house blew apart around them. She had heard their grunts as debris rained down upon them, their backs shielding her from the blast. And she hated them for it. She had fought like a rabid dog, barely holding back from biting as she thrashed beneath their weight. She should have been looking for Michael, protecting him, getting him help if he was injured.
If he was still alive.
But they had kept her pinned, their combined weight too much for her. They would pay for it, she would make sure of that. And if her boy died because they’d kept her from him, she swore to God she would—
“Help me!” Frank had shouted. “We need to get her out of here.”
She at first had slapped away their hands as they’d tried to help her up. She didn’t want their help, didn’t need it, but she’d eventually relented and let them escort her to cover behind a parked vehicle.
Hysterics no longer controlled her mind. Anger had pushed it out, cleared away the clutter. She sat stewing, waiting for her anger to implode. No one was going to stop her from looking for Michael. She would pull her gun if she had to.
“Well, at least no one appears to be shooting at us,” Frank said, his levity working its way under her skin. “Yet.”
Cursing, Sam leapt to her feet, dumbstruck by wreckage before her. Hand over her mouth, she hurried toward the desolation.
No more than fourteen feet or so away stood a bowl-shaped opening where the front of their building had been. It was as some giant monster had opened its maw and chomped down on the safe house, leaving only its corners rising like bedposts.
Sam walked on shaky legs toward the basement cavity that remained. A hand touched her elbow, but she swatted it away, gaining momentum and strength as she staggered clumsily toward the hole.
“Sam, the shooters may still be...” Frank had started to say behind her, then apparently gave up.
Down below, piles of smashed wood, concrete, and plaster speckled the remains of the building. Sam cried out as she approached. Amid the upturned sofas, dismantled chairs, sections of cabinets, and other somewhat intact or obliterated furniture and personal belongings, a hand jutted from the rubble. She stepped onto the remnants of the floor, no more than broken up wood stabbing at the air like fence pickets. She walked cautiously across it to its end as if being forced to walk the plank.
“Sam!” Bruce shouted from behind. “It’s not safe!”
“Is it safer than when you went into that church, Bruce?” She spat, her anger and fear for Michael getting the better of her. “At least this one’s already in pieces.” She crouched, sat down, then scooted toward the drop. Only about four feet of space hung between her and the pile of debris below. Without knowing how sturdy the pile might be, she lowered herself down gently.
The pile held firm. As she edged toward the hand in the rubble, her arms out by her sides for balance, the smaller debris shifted underfoot, slowing her progress.
Labored breathing came from somewhere above her.
“You, too, Frank?” Bruce’s voice called into the sinkhole. “You’ve both lost your freaking minds. The person who did this, who’s responsible for all of this, is probably getting away as we speak.”
Sam didn’t respond. She heard Frank drop down behind her.
“Forget you, then.” Bruce groaned in frustration. “I’m going after them.”
Frank delicately rested his hand under her elbow. “Here, let me help you.”
Sam flinched at his touch, but this time, she didn’t bat him away. His strength supporting hers helped her to move faster, and only two seconds later, she was falling on her knees beside the hand.
Tears of joy exploded from her eyes as hope welled inside her. Sniffling, yet almost giddy, she said, “It’s not him.” She grabbed the hand as if she were going to arm wrestle with it. “See? It’s old, veiny... white hairs on the knuckles. Not Michael’s.”
Frank smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s good, Sam.”
She knew what he thought, that Michael was just somewhere else under the rubble. But she wouldn’t believe that, couldn’t believe that, until all hope was confirmed lost.
The hand twitched. Sam gasped and fell backward. Frank caught her in his arms. As the rubble shifted below them, he held her close, Sam allowing the embrace. The ground moved like tectonic plates, destroying and reforming the land around them. When it settled again, they were about a foot lower. The face and upper torso of the hand’s owner had shimmied to the surface.
Sam broke free of Frank and leaned forward for a closer look. The body looked like a tire that had been popped, left to droop on a warped frame. One of his teeth was poking out of his nostrils. The top of his head looked like a plate of nachos with chili and salsa. And the rest of him wasn’t any prettier. He was clearly dead, the twitch probably the result of gas leaving his body or some other deathly function.
Sam would have thought the man unidentifiable, but Frank knew. “Jordan Rockefeller—a patient at Brentworth, and by all accounts, a kind and peaceful man.” He rubbed his hand down his face then roared out his frustration. “This case, that man! So many lost. Even those we are trying to stop are victims in all of this.”
He fixed Sam with a watery gaze, an unusual display of emotion for the usually robotic agent. “We have to stop him, Sam.”
She looked at him then and knew he’d been trying to stay calm for her sake. Thinking she would offer some words of comfort or encouragement if she could find them, she faced him straight on and spotted blood on his cheek. “Frank, you’re bleeding.” She checked him all over for injuries.
“Huh?” He checked his palm and wiped the blood away to reveal no wounds. Then he looked where he had touched her, and her eyes followed his. “Your elbow.”
She turned her arm inward to view the gash in her shirt and deep into her forearm. In her frenzy to locate Michael, she hadn’t even felt the injury. She must have caught it on the jagged floor as she’d dropped into the basement.
“We need to get that looked at.”
She clenched her jaw and fixed him with the coldest stare she could muster. “We need to find Michael.”
“Sam! Frank!” Bruce’s voice bellowed from above. “Get up here quick! It’s about the boy!”
Frank slapped his sides. “And how do you suppose we do that?”
“There’s a dresser along the back wall. If you can make your way over there, you should be able to climb out the other side.” Bruce’s shadow briefly disappeared before returning. “I’ll meet you over there.”
Frank shrugged. Sam nodded. Arm in arm, they carefully navigated their way over the rubble. Aside from Frank slipping into a knee-deep hole and Sam having to pull him out, the two made it to the dresser with little hardship. They climbed up onto the street behind the building. There, a throng of spectators stood gawking at them as they dusted themselves off.
Bruce led one of them over by the arm—an older lady with thick gray curls and a sleeveless floral shirt. “Please, Mrs. Canto, tell them what you told me.”
In a heavy Portuguese accent, the woman said, “I saw a boy run away from here after the building fell. Then a man, a police officer, came running after him. I think he was chasing him.”
“Which way did they head?” Bruce prompted.
The woman raised a finger and pointed it directly away from the building. “There.”
“It’s Michael!” Bruce bounced on his toes. “He’s in trouble. We need to go after them!”
“Michael?” Sam was slow to process the information, and Bruce’s sudden concern for him rankled her suspicion. Still, a boy being chased by a police officer... Who else could it be? Though she’d hoped Michael could still be alive, that cynical part of her that made up so much of who she was continuously chimed in to tell her she was dreaming.
“He’s alive?” She laughed and more tears of joy sprang from the corners of her eyes.
“He is for now,” Bruce said. “But we need to move if we want to keep him that way.”
“Sir,” a man standing with a woman and a dog called from across the street, apparently having eavesdropped on the conversation. “My wife and I saw a boy, and—”
Sam started to turn, but Bruce grabbed her arms and shook her. “Sam, we have to go now! Your boy is in trouble!”
Sam couldn’t think, but after a moment trying to straighten out her thoughts, she nodded. “Right. Michael.” She took a deep breath. “Let’s go.”
The three sprinted after the boy and the cop, Sam hoping they would catch up before they vanished into Fall River’s many dark places.