The Biker and the Baby Wayne Hid

I didn’t reach for the brass key. I went for Brenda’s phone instead, catching her wrist and wrenching it aside. She gave a sharp, furious cry. The device flew from her polished fingers and struck the icy kitchen floor.

“Clara, move!” I shouted, driving Brenda back against the island.

Clara didn’t hesitate. She’d spent years learning how quickly our father’s temper could flare, and how carefully Brenda wielded her cruelty. She raced along the hall, bare feet pattering over the boards toward the basement entrance.

Brenda was moving again almost before I was. She ignored the phone on the floor and snatched up the broken baby bottle’s thick ceramic bottom from the counter.

“You smug, worthless child!” she shrieked. Her face twisted with a fury I’d never seen so naked.

I didn’t wait to see where she would strike. I tore after Clara, shoes skidding through soapy water spilled beside the wrecked front door. At the end of the hall, she reached the solid basement door.

“Leo, it won’t open!” Clara cried, tugging hard at its brass handle.

The industrial padlock Dad had put in place three days earlier hung from its steel bracket, keeping the door fastened.

“Get back!” I shouted, fumbling to fit the brass key into it.

My hands trembled. I missed the slot once. From behind me came the rapid, heavy slap of Brenda’s slippers closing in.

Then the lock gave a click.

The padlock dropped free with a clanging snap. I pulled it off, seized the handle, and shoved Clara through the doorway. I threw myself after her just as Brenda reached us.

She swung the ceramic base. I slammed the door shut between us, and the bottle piece burst against the wood. Chips scattered over the hall.

I slid the bolt into place on our side.

For a breath, all I could hear was Clara and me trying to catch air in the unlit stairwell. Then the door jolted beneath a kick from outside.

“You’re finished, Leo!” Brenda shouted through the wood, her voice thick with hate. “You’ve doomed both of you! You hear me?”

Her footsteps withdrew in a hurry. She was going to retrieve her phone.

“Leo,” Clara whispered. Her fingers clutched the back of my shirt. “I can’t see anything. What now?”

“We find out what Dad’s keeping down here,” I replied. I reached for the switch on the wall and flicked it.

The basement remained black. Maybe the bulb had burned out. Maybe someone had shut off the power.

I took my inexpensive phone from my pocket and switched on its light. A hard white beam cut across the darkness, revealing the steep wooden steps into the depths of our house.

The odor met us before we’d gone far.

It wasn’t the mildew stench Dad had described. There was a biting smell like ozone, underlaid by wet canvas and stale sweat. It had the weight of terror.

“Keep close behind me,” I murmured. I wrapped the brass padlock’s heavy loop around my right fingers. It could pass for a crude knuckle weapon, but it was all I had.

We descended carefully. Each step made the old boards complain beneath us. The basement opened out into a broad concrete space, its pillars breaking up the shadows, with forgotten boxes along the edges.

I moved the light from one dark corner to another. It passed over the water heater at the far end.

Beside it lay the bag, just where Brenda’s camera had shown it.

The olive canvas duffel was enormous, long enough to stretch six feet. A thick steel chain cinched it around the middle and ran to a metal ring sunk into the concrete. The ring looked new; pale drilling dust still lay around it on the floor.

The duffel lurched.

Clara sucked in a breath and backed into one of the pillars. “Leo, something’s in there. Please, don’t open it.”

“Brenda’s calling those people. We have to know what they want,” I said. My heart pounded as if it were trying to break out. “It may be the only thing we can use against them.”

I approached the bag. The smell of sweat grew stronger with every step. A thick plastic fastener held the zippers together at the top.

I crouched beside it. The canvas was coarse beneath my fingers. Through the fabric, I could make out a shoulder-shaped bulge pushing from within.

“Hello?” I whispered, tapping the bag lightly. “Can you hear me?”

The movement abruptly ceased. A weak, muffled groan came from inside.

I had no blade with me. I pulled out my house keys and worked the rough edge of my front-door key against the plastic tie holding the two zipper pulls shut. The seconds dragged; the jagged plastic scraped my fingers as I sawed.

At last, the fastener snapped. I pulled the zipper open, and the duffel shifted beneath my hands.