I grabbed one, breaking the seal on the cap, giving it a test sniff before gulping the whole thing down. Then I took another one and dumped it over my injured head, wincing as it reignited the pain. I found an old, stained hand towel, and spent a moment drying my head off, dabbing at the bloody water.

  The first aid box contained antibiotic cream, which I liberally applied, and some gauze pads and tape, which didn’t seem large enough to cover the gash in my scalp.

  I closed the trunk and moved on, following the gradual curve into a large, open area at least ten meters wide. And embedded in the walls…

  Photos. Photos of people.

  Thousands of them.

  Some old, in black and white, depicting young couples in dated outfits, cloth-diapered babies, children playing with antique toys. Framed and unframed, stuck into the dirt on an angle, like roof shingles.

  Some square pictures. Faded Kodachrome from the 50s and 60s. Beehive hairdos and eyeglasses with black plastic rims and bowling shirts.

  Some Polaroids from the 70s and 80s, snapshots of sideburns and tight jeans, smiling faces, birthday parties, Christmas present unwrappings.

  Some 8x10s and 11x14s, obviously taken at mall photography studios, kids with combed hair, families with posed expressions of happiness.

  Some digital photos, printed on crappy paper that had bled colors.

  Some annual postcards, proudly proclaiming Happy Holidays from the Johnsons. And the Coopers. And the Delrays. And dozens of others.

  It seemed like I’d just heard something about stealing photographs, but I couldn’t recall where.

  I walked past the hundreds of captured memories, keeping one hand on the wall to brace myself, passing a tattered easy chair next to a stick lamp and a bookcase overflowing with paperbacks, coming to another turn.

  A chandelier, resting on its side, only two bulbs lit. A ratty, stained mattress on the floor. More piles of human bones. And the discovery of thick wooden braces, shoring up the walls and ceiling.

  A mine. This place must have been a mine.

  I guessed part of the mine collapsed, causing a sinkhole underneath Larry’s house.

  I wonder if his sinkhole was somehow attached to—

  A gunshot shattered my thoughts.

  Big gun. Probably a Magnum. Again I followed the sound, coming to a wall that stretched up into the darkness. Hanging down the wall…

  A green garden hose.

  And an orange extension cord.

  I also stepped on something. A baggie with two cookies.

  I picked it up. Took a sniff.

  Chocolate chip. Larry’s delicious chocolate chip cookies.

  My mouth began to salivate. I considered devouring them both.

  Another gunshot. Smaller caliber.

  9mm?

  Was that Jack and Harry up there?

  “Jack!” I yelled.

  No answer.

  I gripped the garden hose, intent on pulling myself up, Batman-style. But just as it took my weight, the hose came down, slapping to the ground behind me.

  I gave the extension cord a test-tug. If it had been tied around some sort of pipe or support beam, maybe it would be strong enough.

  I pulled—

  —and it came down, turning the cave pitch-black as the lamps winked out.

  LARRY

  After using the stun gun on McGlade, Larry was able to wrestle his gigantic revolver away from him, just as Jaqueline fired into the ceiling.

  He went back to her, snatching her gun as she collapsed, and then hurried into the kitchen.

  Larry thought he heard Rita calling, but couldn’t be sure; his ears were ringing from the shots.

  He quickly stuck the confiscated guns in the freezer. Then he reached into a cabinet for his diatomaceous earth powder duster. Rather than powder meant to kill ants, Larry had filled it with ketamine.

  He caught McGlade trying to stand up, and gave him a big squirt of Vitamin K, enveloping the man in a cloud of it.

  When the dust settled, McGlade was sitting on the floor, grinning.

  “Ketamine. Good shit.” He wiped some blood off his face, his eyelids fluttering. “You gonna kill us?”

  No reason to lie. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “To feed my sister.”

  McGlade laughed. “Cannibals. Awesome.”

  Then he fell deep into the k-hole.

  That hadn’t gone exactly to plan. Would have been so much easier if they’d eaten the laced cookies. Larry scanned the ceiling, found one of the bullet holes, McGlade’s, which had blown out a hunk of plaster. The other hole, from Jacqueline’s gun, had gone into a wall, barely missing him.

  He’d underestimated the woman. That syringe should have been enough to knock her out within a few seconds. Jack had more fortitude than Larry expected.

  But as a true adversary, she’d come up woefully short.

  Icarus. Flying too close to the sun.

  Or Lot’s wife from Genesis 19:26. Staring into wickedness, and turning into a pillar of salt.

  But no time to gloat. There were still some things left to do. Lots of things.

  First, some old fashioned manual labor.

  The modern world could keep its technology and shortcuts and conveniences. Larry knew the best things in life were old fashioned. And nothing was more old fashioned than hard work.

  He went to the seasoning room, his name for the large kitchen pantry with the meat hooks hanging from the rafters on pulleys, and opened up the autoclave. This sterilizer, made of steel, was tube-shaped and resembled the iron lungs of the not-too-distant past.

  Built for sterilizing mushrooms, fruits, and vegetables, the autoclave used steam to kill bacteria, and was especially good at getting the stink out of the tenderizing bags.

  Larry removed one of the bags, which he’d made himself out of thick waxed canvas and heavy-duty camping tent zippers sewn on with marine thread. The bags were mostly leakproof, and did a good job muffling sound, but the meat could still breathe so it wouldn’t die immediately and go bad.

  He brought the bag to Jacqueline, then patted her down to make sure she wasn’t carrying any more weapons or knives. Larry took her house key—that will come in handy—and her cell phone, then spent a full minute trying to figure out how to turn it off. Then he put the bag over her head, tucked her completely inside, and zipped her up.

  Manual labor time. Larry dragged her across the hardwood floor, and the kitchen tile, to the seasoning room, and hoisted her up with a strap he’d attached to the top of the bag.

  He did the same thing with McGlade, removing from his pockets a cell phone, a folding knife, a wallet, and some kind of rubber plug that vibrated for some odd reason.

  When both were hung up, Larry used his landline to call the hospital, and waited until he was connected to the right department.

  “Yeah?”

  “You free? I got two.”

  “I can get away. I’ll be right over.”

  “If I’m not here, let yourself in.”

  “Thank you.” Blood hung up.

  Larry took his baseball bat from the kitchen pantry.

  Decades ago, Rita had discovered that the juiciest meat was bruised meat. Just as you can tenderize steak, you can also tenderize a human being.

  A bat worked best. Aluminum, of course. He’d learned his lesson, breaking far too many wooden bats over the years.

  Larry rolled his neck and loosened his shoulders up.

  Then he planted his feet and got to work.

  SAM

  Harry Junior and I were driving around in a stolen tank, blowing up water towers with a 125mm cannon, and then I began coughing.

  Coughing in real life, not in Gunface Death Warrior 3.

  “You got the COVID, mate?”

  I paused the game. “Can you keep a secret, Harry Junior?”

  He seemed to think it over. “Nope.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I always blab. I tell everybody. I even go on social media. Papa got a wart on his privates, and I put it on craigslist.”

  I judiciously elected not to tell him about my coronavirus concerns.

  We continued to play, racking up an impressive kill count. Harry Junior was good enough to have his own Twitch stream.

  “You on Twitch?” I knew that people could make money on the streaming video game service, where viewers paid to watch you play online.

  “Nope. Not interested.”

  “What do you want to do? When you grow up and get a job?”

  “I dunno. I was thinking of being a dinosaur surgeon.”

  I giggled. “There’s no such thing.”

  “Not yet. But by the time we grow up, science will bring back dinosaurs. And those dinosaurs will need surgery. Then I’ll be the only one who can do it.”

  In a weird kind of way, that made sense.

  “How ’bout you, Sam? What do you want to do?”

  “I think I want to do what your dad does. Be a private detective.”

  “That’s bloody well jolly good.”

  “I looked up foreign accent syndrome,” I told him. “People who have it adopt a different accent. But they don’t adopt the idioms. Like bloody well and jolly good. Are you making it up?”

  He nodded. “Yep.”

  “You are?”

  “I told you I can’t keep a secret. And good on you for figuring it out. You’d make a right brilliant private eye.”

  “Thanks. So why do you do it?”

  “I like the attention.”

  “You don’t have to do it around me,” I told him. “If you don’t want to.”

  Harry Junior paused the game and looked at me. “You’re a cool person, Sam.” He used his normal Midwest American accent. “Want to be friends forever?”

  I considered it, then grinned. “Sure. Let’s shake on it.”

  “Should we spit in our hands first? I saw that in a movie.”

  “Ick. No.”

  I stuck out my hand, free of spit. We shook.

  “Since we’re friends forever, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “We’re both eight,” I stated. “Do you think eight is too old to play battleships in the bathtub with your parents?”

  “I think battleships is okay until you hit puberty. That’s when you’re too old, and you have to start paying your mortgage.”

  “You have to buy a house when you hit puberty?”

  Harry Junior shrugged. “Probably.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Grown-ups don’t make sense.”

  “Good point.”

  “Can I ask you something, Sam?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  I shook my head. “No. Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence.”

  “True. But I still believe in them. I think if I ever died, I’d want to come back as a ghost.”

  “Well if you die and become a ghost, come and visit me so I can prove they exist.”

  “Okay. Do the same for me.”

  “Sure. We’re friends forever, right?”

  “Righto, gov’na,” Harry Junior said, slipping back into his English accent.

  “Righto, gov’na,” I said, imitating him.

  We went back to blowing up buildings.

  A few minutes later, Duffy barked, running to the front door. I figured one of my parents was home, and checked the doorbell app on my phone.

  It wasn’t Mom or Dad.

  It was Mr. Wintergarten. Bending over one of the bushes next to the door.

  Then he rang the bell.

  “Who’s that?”

  I frowned. “Our next-door neighbor.”

  “You going to answer it?”

  “I was told to never answer the door when my parents aren’t home.”

  “My dad tells me the same thing. He also says not to tell anyone when he isn’t home.”

  “That’s what my parents say, too.”

  So we waited, watching my screen. Waiting for Mr. Wintergarten to leave.

  I expected him to ring the bell again, then give up and walk away.

  I didn’t expect him to take out a key and open the door.

  Duffy began to growl, and Mr. Wintergarten stood there, holding up his palms. “Easy, doggy.” Then he saw me on the couch. “Sam, can you calm your dog down?”

  I was surprised, and a little scared. “Why are you in my house?”

  “Your mother told me to come and check on you. She gave me a key. Your father had an accident, I’m afraid. They’re at the hospital.”

  “Is my dad with them?” Harry Junior asked.

  “Your dad. Harry McGlade. Yes, he’s there too.”

  Harry Junior whipped out his cell phone and dialed his father. I stood up and told Duffy to come. The dog obeyed me, and I patted his head.

  “Did my mom say anything else?” I asked.

  SPAP training. Smart People Are Prepared.

  Mom and Dad told me that if anyone ever came over saying they sent him, that person would have a code word that only we knew.

  Our SPAP code word was one that just our family knew; SPAP.

  “That’s all she said, Samantha. Your mother was very upset, and in a hurry.”

  I wasn’t sure what to think. Mr. Wintergarten didn’t use the code word. But Mom could have forgotten to tell him.

  He did have our house key. He must have gotten it from her.

  “Is my dad okay?”

  “He was in a car accident. I’m sure your mother or father will call you as soon as they’re able to. The hospital is very busy, you know.”

  Harry Junior looked at me. “Papa’s not answering.”

  “IOS?” I asked Harry Junior.

  He nodded.

  “Track him. Find My iPhone.”

  Mr. Wintergarten closed the door and slowly walked over, standing behind the couch and peering over our shoulders. “You can track one another’s phones?”

  “It’s an app,” I told him, but his face remained blank. “An application. A program, used to geolocate phones signed in to the same account.”

  “What about privacy?” Mr. Wintergarten asked. “Does that even exist anymore?”

  “It’s for families,” I explained. “So you know where they are, and can make sure they’re safe.”

  I dialed Mom. It went to voice mail.

  Dad. Voice mail.

  Find Mom’s iPhone. No location found.

  Same with Dad’s.

  “His phone is off,” Harry Junior announced.

  “Sometimes hospitals make you turn your phone off.” Mr. Wintergarten reached out and gave us each a pat on the shoulder. “Your parents know you’re here. Here, and safe.”

  I got really uncomfortable. But I didn’t know what to do. There was a stranger in the house, but he wasn’t really a stranger, he was our neighbor. Mom and Dad told me that if something bad ever happened in the house, to run next door and ask a neighbor for help.

  Mr. Wintergarten didn’t know the code word, but code words could be forgotten during emergencies.

  I felt scared, but our family motto was everyone can be strong.

  I needed to be strong.

  To be strong, and to pay attention.

  Then Mr. Wintergarten reached into his pocket, pulling out—

  A bag of cookies.

  “Are you hungry?” Mr. Wintergarten asked. “I made my famous chocolate chip cookies. Do you like chocolate chip cookies, young man?”

  “Indeed I do, gov’na.”

  So did I. And Mr. Wintergarten’s chocolate chip cookies were really, really good.

  He opened the bag and took one out and held it up. After looking it over, he popped the entire thing into his mouth and chewed. “Mmm-mmm. I think this is my best batch yet. And look how lucky! I have exactly two left! One for each of you.”

  Mr. Wintergarten came over, and gave us each a cookie.

  Neither of us ate it.

  “My papa says I shouldn’t ever take food from strangers,” Harry Junior said.

  “Your papa is a smart fellow. But Sam has had my cookies before. Haven’t you, Sam?”

  I nodded.

  “Did you like them?”

  I nodded again.

  That was enough for Harry Junior. He gobbled his up.

  Mr. Wintergarten stared at me.

  I took a bite.

  He smiled.

  And for some reason, he reminded me of that TV show I watched with Mom and Dad.

  About the ant-mimicking spiders.

  PHIN

  I stood completely still in the darkness. Listening.

  Silence.

  Silence from above.

  Silence from all around.

  I practically tied my pounding brain in a knot, trying to figure out what to do.

  Rita was obviously trapped down here. Larry was somehow involved. He dropped down cookies for her.

  Feeding her.

  Maybe it was the lack of sensory input, but my mind went into overdrive, and I began to put the puzzle pieces together, thinking about the various things I knew, and the conversations I had with Jack.

  The Peeper. A neighborhood burglar, breaking into houses and stealing pictures.

  So maybe Larry was the Peeper. And besides stealing pictures, he was also holding people captive in a sinkhole under his house.

  All of those bones, prior victims. Like animals in a zoo. Imprisoned for so long they died here.

  But something didn’t make sense.

  Rita.

  Rita was the one who hit me over the head. I could remember seeing her dirty face right before she beaned me with the fire extinguisher.

  That meant Rita had a way out of here. An exit.

  I had to find that exit. I began to feel my way along the dirt wall, blind but going hand over hand, shuffling my feet so both were always on the ground and I kept my balance, making as little noise as possible so Rita wouldn’t know where I—

  In the distance, I heard giggling.

  Manic, hysterical giggling.

  A sadist’s taunt.

  A witch’s cackle.

  The uncontrolled laughter of someone absolutely, stark-raving mad.