Chapter 15 - The Children in the BasementVincent fired at the lock until the magazine emptied.
The metal door did not move.
Gas thickened near the ceiling, pale and bitter-smelling.
Children began coughing.
Dr. Harper shouted, “Cover their faces! Now!”
Grace tore off her outer apron and pressed it over the little girl’s nose and mouth. Mason kicked at the door. One guard searched for a panel. The other smashed a rusted pipe against the hinges.
Vincent looked at the vents.
Then at the children.
For one terrible second, Grace saw him doing calculations no parent should ever make.
Time.
Air.
Bodies.
Escape.
He had been trained by violence to solve problems through force. But there were eight sick children, Grace, Dr. Harper, Mason, two guards, and one locked door.
Force was losing.
Grace coughed hard.
“Vincent!”
He turned.
“Where does air leave?”
“What?”
“This building is old. Gas comes in, air goes out. Where?”
Dr. Harper pointed toward the back wall.
“There may be a furnace shaft.”
Mason ripped away a sheet of plywood and found a narrow maintenance crawlspace.
Too small for most adults.
Large enough for children.
And Grace.
Vincent saw it at the same moment.
“No.”
Grace was already moving.
“Yes.”
“You’ll get trapped.”
“The children won’t fit through alone. They’re scared.”
Vincent grabbed her arm.
His voice dropped.
“Grace.”
There was something in the way he said her name that stopped her.
Not an order.
A plea disguised as one.
She looked at him.
“Ruby died in a room where I couldn’t save her,” she said. “Do not ask me to stand here and watch these children breathe poison.”
His hand loosened.
Pain crossed his face.
Then he nodded.
Mason helped tear the opening wider. Grace crawled in first, dragging the smallest child behind her. The crawlspace scraped her shoulders and knees. Dust filled her mouth. Behind her, children sobbed and coughed.
“Follow my voice,” she called. “One at a time. You’re doing so well. Just keep coming.”
Vincent lifted each child to the opening.
His hands, which had broken men, became impossibly gentle.
Mateo refused to go before the younger ones.
“Move,” Mason snapped.
Mateo shook his head.
“I know what happens when older kids leave little ones.”
Vincent looked at him.
Something passed between them.
Recognition, perhaps.
Of damage.
Of responsibility learned too young.
“Fine,” Vincent said. “You’re last before me.”
Grace pulled children through the shaft one by one. The tunnel angled upward, then left, then downward so sharply she nearly fell. Her palms bled. Her lungs burned.
At last, she kicked open a loose grate and tumbled into the snow outside.
The first child followed.
Then another.
Then another.
Dr. Harper emerged coughing.
Mason came next.
Then Mateo.
Vincent did not appear.
Grace crawled back toward the grate.
“Vincent!”
Smoke and gas rolled from the opening.
Mason grabbed her.
“No!”
Grace fought him.
“Vincent!”
Inside, Vincent had stayed behind for the last guard, whose leg was pinned beneath a collapsed shelf after the frantic escape. He lifted the man with a strength born of fury, shoved him into the crawlspace, and fired once at the gas pipe control unit to slow the flow.
The spark was small.
The explosion was not.
The basement windows blew outward.
Grace screamed.
Fire burst from the lower level.
Mason dragged her back as flames rolled through the snow.
For three seconds, there was only roaring heat.
Then Vincent came through the broken basement window carrying the injured guard over his shoulder.
His coat was burning.
Mason tackled him into the snow.
Grace ran to him, beating flames from his sleeve with her bare hands.
“Are you insane?” she shouted, crying.
Vincent coughed, face streaked with soot.
“I’ve been told.”
She wanted to hit him.
Instead, she grabbed his face between both hands and checked for burns.
He went very still.
So did she.
For one breath, the burning orphanage, the crying children, the armed guards, and the ghosts between them disappeared.
Then Mateo coughed.
Grace pulled away.
Dr. Harper treated the children in the van while Mason called in safe transport. Vincent stood in the snow watching St. Agnes burn.
Grace came beside him.
“You saved that guard.”
“He has two daughters.”
“You knew that?”
Vincent nodded.
Grace looked at him differently.
He noticed.
“Do not make me noble,” he said.
“I wasn’t.”
“Good.”
“I was making you complicated.”
His mouth almost curved.
Then Mason approached with a phone.
“You need to hear this.”
Vincent took it.
Patrick’s recorded voice played through the speaker.
“Well done, little brother. You saved the basement children. Very moving. Unfortunately, while you were busy choosing mercy, I visited your house.”
Vincent’s blood stopped.
Grace whispered, “No.”
Patrick continued.
“The twins are alive. For now. But I took something else.”
The recording clicked.
A small voice came on.
Eleanor Shaw.
“Vincent, I’m sorry.”
Then Patrick again.
“Bring Grace to the old Callahan steel mill by midnight, or Mrs. Shaw tells Chicago everything before I remove her tongue.”
The message ended.
Grace stared at the phone.
Vincent’s hand closed around it.
Mason said, “It’s a trap.”
Vincent looked at Grace.
May you like
She lifted her chin.
“Then let’s set a better one.”
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