Driving River

Chapter Twenty-Six

Kendall

"HEY!" I bellow, slamming my fist into the door. "Help! Dad!"

I've never been claustrophobic before, but it's quick to set in now. I see flashbacks of a dark closet. I feel the shelves on one side of my body, and the wall on the other. My toes burrow into the carpet. I hear arguing, and a man yelling. There's a series of loud pops, and my abdomen tenses, remembering the pain.

"Calm down," I tell myself, fighting to stabilize my breathing. I focus on the present—the ladder beneath my feet, the iron door in front of my face. I trace the vault's seals with my palm, searching for a latch. There has to be a way out. Who would design a shelter without an escape? My finger catches on a groove in the metal, and I follow it to a larger indentation. "Here."

There's a space where a handle should be, but someone has removed it—probably Dominique. I study the hole where the piece would connect, feeling the threads with my fingertip. If I can find something of a similar size—like a screwdriver, but much bigger—I can try to twist the latch from this side.

I slide down the ladder, landing on the cement with a soft plop. I glance around the room, spotting an aluminum chair, a washing machine from the sixties, a stack of empty metal shelves, and River on the mattress. I cross the floor, tearing the shelves from the wall. They're made of stainless steel, but the material has rusted, making it easy to tear apart. I place my foot on the wiring, ripping a pole from its socket. It's slightly longer than my arm, and thinner than a baseball bat. There aren't any threads, but it's sturdy.

"We're getting out of here, River," I promise him, although he doesn't respond.

I stride to the ladder, and climb up the rungs, gripping the steel pole in one hand. I slide the tip into the notch on the door, but the angle is wrong. My tool is too long—it hits the side of the chute. Inhaling shakily, I try it again. Metal scrapes against metal, creating an awful screech. I lose my footing, and hit the back of the chute.

"HELP!" I scream, my voice cracking. I abandon my battle with the latch. Instead, I bang the pole against the vault door, shouting over and over. "DADDY! WE'RE DOWN HERE!"

To my utter astonishment and total relief, I hear the latch groan. The round door swings open, and my father is standing on the other side, eyes wide in shock.

"What are you doing in there?" he yells.

"Where is Dom? I think he's dangerous," I tell him, breathless. I inhale a gulp of fresh air, tossing the pole into the laundry room. It clatters to the floor, and I continue, speaking fast. "Call an ambulance. River is unconscious. I can't wake him. I need help getting him out."

"Take another breath, Ken. One thing at a time," Dad advises, holding a hand to help me through the opening. I step into the room, and Dad takes my place, barely fitting through the frame. He passes me his phone. "Dial 9-1-1 while I get River."

I snatch his phone, tapping the three numbers into the keypad. "Okay."

"There's obviously someone staying in a guest room on the second floor," Dad informs me, descending. "But I haven't seen anyone in the house."

The hairs on the nape of my neck rise. I glance behind me, expecting Dom to be right there, but the space is empty. Did he flee?

"What about Dobey?" I ask.

"I heard a yelp a while ago, but I haven't seen her either," Dad replies, his voice echoing off the walls of the chute.

Keeping my ears trained for movement at my back, I peer into the shelter, watching as my father disappears. In my hand, the phone begins to dial. I put it on speaker, setting the device on the floor.