I smell the stale cool air of a closed-up space, and I shine the light through the arched opening to the left of us. The boom sounds again and the tunnel lights up as if a bomb has gone off. Troy Rosado’s shrieks are drowned out by the sound, and it’s not possible he could be heard anywhere else in the house. He’s underground, chained by his wrists to iron rings in the wall. Another boom and a flash of glaring light, and I see his crazed eyes, his short dyed blond hair. He’s naked except for a towel tied with rope around his narrow hips like a Tarzan loincloth.

Dangling barely within reach is a malignant mobile comprised of a small green teddy bear …

Mister Pickle.

And a Swiss Army knife …

The one from Lucy’s dorm room.

There’s also a silver key, a bottle of water and a candy bar. They’re connected by bare copper wires that have been rigged in such a way as to shock Troy if he grabs for a drink or food or a way to free himself. More bare wires dangle from the ceiling and touch his head, shoulders and back like jellyfish tentacles, and I can smell his foulness as we get closer. In the background a stainless steel industrial freezer has glass panels on the double doors, and I can make out the units of blood inside hanging from racks, scores of pint bags, dark red and frozen.

She’s been drawing her own blood.

I notice a work area set up. Tools. A food processor. Empty glass bottles. Draped over an old wooden worktable is a pair of black silk pajama bottoms. A naked dress form mannequin on a metal stand looks like a faceless torso, and I see the silvery glint of mirrors everywhere.

Troy makes a grunting noise as he suddenly lunges at the mobile. His spastic fingers graze the Swiss Army knife and it swings perilously as the thudding sounds and he screams and the light pops like a camera flash.

“Troy?” I call out to him, and his eyes widen and he looks around in deranged fear.

I know why we’ve been lured here. Carrie expects us to save him. But she will exact a price that I’m already deciding I won’t pay. He may be the only witness who can claim that Carrie is alive and responsible for what’s happening, and I feel certain that’s the choice I’m supposed to make. I need Troy for Lucy, and I can see Benton going into his mode like a fighter plane revving up for an air strike.

“Troy? Over here. Turn around and look behind you.” It’s Benton talking to him now, and I touch his arm.

“Benton, don’t.” The pressure in my grip communicates that he shouldn’t get any closer.