on the kitchen radio. She would not think of any of these things; the future would come, and there was nothing she could do about it but pray and try to hang on. She would not think of him , wondering if he was still out there, in the woods, watching her home.
"State police have called in the FBI to help them in their search for nineteen-year-old Jillian Keats, whose abandoned car was found along I-81. Allentown Police are asking that anyone who may have seen..."
Libby changed the station, praying that things worked out for this Jillian girl but doubting it.
She emptied blue plastic bags, dealing boxes of TV dinners out like cards. Poultry, beef, pasta, fish and small side dishes went in neat piles on the floor in front of the freezer. When she was sure she was done, she took the one she'd bought for tonight, put in it the microwave and put the rest away in an order she hoped would stay somewhat neat.
She felt eyes on the back of her neck, although everything was shut tight, every blind drawn. This is the worst time to check it, she thought. It would be best to wait until full daylight. She put away some cans, but the thought became an unbearable itch, and it might just drive her mad if she didn't go check.
She opened her closet and took out box after box. Old clothes, kid's books, some family stuff she didn't want to part with but didn't want to use. The floorboards were painted brown and, to the casual eye, looked solid. Libby had sealed off this part of the cellar completely and the only way to get to it was through this trapdoor made of boards whose edges were staggered just like a regular floor so no one would see telltale neat, square lines. It made the trapdoor singularly hard to open, but she managed, getting her fingernails under the edge and lifting.
She backed down the ladder and let the door shut behind her; it was easy to open pushing up. In the dark, she felt around. Mud walls, mostly, except where a slab of limestone, cold, clammy and dusty, jutted out into the room, and the smooth surface of a section of concrete blocks held together by rough, sloppy mortar. Ah, well, it had been her first and only mortaring job, and she hadn't needed it to look pretty.
She could see the room clearly when she reluctantly opened her eyes. The trowel she kept down there reflected dimly in the light where use had not destroyed the finish, and she picked it up from the shelf the limestone slab made. She pressed against the outcropping so that the rounded edge was against the small of her back, and from that point she counted paces. She turned left once and counted a few more. There she knelt, and scraped off an inch of dirt from around an iron plate.
She didn't need to lift it, for the glow in the room grew brighter, and she knew the stone was still there because her eyes reacted to its presence. She lifted the plate anyway and looked at the box. She touched it, and the blue light around her became white. She closed the hiding place quickly, relieved when the glow died down and she was able to see more clearly again.
She sighed and began putting things back the way they belonged. The dirt of the floor was loose, so if she was careful, it wouldn't look any more disturbed than it had before. She walked all over, packing the dirt down. She put the trowel back exactly were she'd found it and climbed the ladder. She washed up then packed the closet again. The inspection had made her feel better, relieved. As long as she did her job and watched after the box, everything would be fine.
* * * *
Grave-digging was hard work, especially since the grave was a few years old and the earth had become packed down to near rock-hardness.
Sabin put his shovel down and leaned against the ornate stone.
"Keep going,” he said to the man working beside him.
"I'm tired, too,” Tark said.
"Tough. So, do you think he made you?"
Tark looked up. “No, I don't think he knew I was watching him,” he said.
Sabin knew he was lying.
"He's been
"State police have called in the FBI to help them in their search for nineteen-year-old Jillian Keats, whose abandoned car was found along I-81. Allentown Police are asking that anyone who may have seen..."
Libby changed the station, praying that things worked out for this Jillian girl but doubting it.
She emptied blue plastic bags, dealing boxes of TV dinners out like cards. Poultry, beef, pasta, fish and small side dishes went in neat piles on the floor in front of the freezer. When she was sure she was done, she took the one she'd bought for tonight, put in it the microwave and put the rest away in an order she hoped would stay somewhat neat.
She felt eyes on the back of her neck, although everything was shut tight, every blind drawn. This is the worst time to check it, she thought. It would be best to wait until full daylight. She put away some cans, but the thought became an unbearable itch, and it might just drive her mad if she didn't go check.
She opened her closet and took out box after box. Old clothes, kid's books, some family stuff she didn't want to part with but didn't want to use. The floorboards were painted brown and, to the casual eye, looked solid. Libby had sealed off this part of the cellar completely and the only way to get to it was through this trapdoor made of boards whose edges were staggered just like a regular floor so no one would see telltale neat, square lines. It made the trapdoor singularly hard to open, but she managed, getting her fingernails under the edge and lifting.
She backed down the ladder and let the door shut behind her; it was easy to open pushing up. In the dark, she felt around. Mud walls, mostly, except where a slab of limestone, cold, clammy and dusty, jutted out into the room, and the smooth surface of a section of concrete blocks held together by rough, sloppy mortar. Ah, well, it had been her first and only mortaring job, and she hadn't needed it to look pretty.
She could see the room clearly when she reluctantly opened her eyes. The trowel she kept down there reflected dimly in the light where use had not destroyed the finish, and she picked it up from the shelf the limestone slab made. She pressed against the outcropping so that the rounded edge was against the small of her back, and from that point she counted paces. She turned left once and counted a few more. There she knelt, and scraped off an inch of dirt from around an iron plate.
She didn't need to lift it, for the glow in the room grew brighter, and she knew the stone was still there because her eyes reacted to its presence. She lifted the plate anyway and looked at the box. She touched it, and the blue light around her became white. She closed the hiding place quickly, relieved when the glow died down and she was able to see more clearly again.
She sighed and began putting things back the way they belonged. The dirt of the floor was loose, so if she was careful, it wouldn't look any more disturbed than it had before. She walked all over, packing the dirt down. She put the trowel back exactly were she'd found it and climbed the ladder. She washed up then packed the closet again. The inspection had made her feel better, relieved. As long as she did her job and watched after the box, everything would be fine.
* * * *
Grave-digging was hard work, especially since the grave was a few years old and the earth had become packed down to near rock-hardness.
Sabin put his shovel down and leaned against the ornate stone.
"Keep going,” he said to the man working beside him.
"I'm tired, too,” Tark said.
"Tough. So, do you think he made you?"
Tark looked up. “No, I don't think he knew I was watching him,” he said.
Sabin knew he was lying.
"He's been
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