Chapter 7 - The Room of Names
Rick lunged toward the sound.
His claws scraped across the concrete floor.
I swung the flashlight through the darkness, but the beam revealed only cables, dusty monitors, and empty metal shelves.
The speaker crackled again.
"Animals notice patterns people ignore."
I shouted into the room.
"Where are you?"
The voice gave a soft laugh.
"Closer than the police."
My phone showed no signal.
The basement walls were too thick.
I tried the steel door.
Locked.
Rick suddenly stopped near the far wall.
He sniffed along the concrete, then pressed his nose against a narrow seam.
Another hidden door.
I searched for a handle but found only a keypad.
Beside it, hundreds of names had been carved into the wall.
Some were followed by dates.
Others by symbols.
I recognized Harold Bennett.
Daniel Cross.
Then I saw my own name.
Written near the bottom.
The date beside it was the day I moved into the house.
Rick's name appeared beneath mine.
But his name was different.
"R-17."
I stepped closer.
More animals were listed in the same format.
R-3.
R-8.
R-12.
Several names had been crossed out.
Rick's had not.
The speaker clicked on again.
"He was trained well."
I looked up.
"What are you talking about?"
"He was never meant to be yours."
My stomach tightened.
I had adopted Rick from a rescue shelter three years earlier. They told me he had been found wandering near an abandoned warehouse.
The voice continued.
"That dog was placed with several families. Each time, he found the passages."
A panel above the keypad slid open.
Inside was a photograph of Rick as a puppy.
He wore a black training harness.
Behind him stood three men whose faces had been cut from the picture.
On the back, someone had written:
SUBJECT DETECTS OCCUPIED WALLS.
Rick began whining.
Not at the photograph.
At the hidden door.
Something moved behind it.
Then came the sound of chains.
The keypad lit up.
Four digits appeared by themselves.
1-7-0-4.
I entered them.
The hidden door unlocked.
A narrow chamber opened beyond the wall.
Inside sat a woman tied to a chair.
Her face was pale.
Her wrists were bruised.
When the flashlight touched her eyes, she lifted her head.
I recognized her immediately.
She was the realtor who had sold me the house.
Before I could speak, she whispered:
May you like
"Don't trust Daniel Cross."
Behind us, the steel door began to open.
