by Gregory Ashe
Then, over the hammering of his heart, Somers heard, “Then get a fucking drill, dude.”
The Glock’s barrel dipped for a moment as Somers’s muscles slackened.
“Gray?” he asked.
“Oh my God, bro.” A fist pounded on the door. “John-Henry, are you in there? Are you all right? Can you hear me?”
Somers had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep that hysterical laughter from escaping. His first thought was of Hazard answering the question, with its obvious answer, and then the surge of relief was so strong that his eyes stung and he slumped against the wall.
“Yeah. Yeah, I can hear you. We’re ok.”
“Who is it?” Nico whispered from the bottom of the stairs.
“Gray,” Somers said. “And—I don’t know. Gray, who else is with you?”
“Uh, Sheriff Engels and Foley. Oh, and I brought that twat Yarmark—Foley made me. Hazard told us to bring the cavalry, but people are moving slow. Hold on; Foley’s getting a drill.”
Heat bloomed in Somers’s chest, and he squeezed his eyes shut.
“What if he’s—” Nico began.
“He’s not.” Somers could have said he knew, in his gut, that Dulac wasn’t lying. But he figured Nico might appreciate a more logical answer. “If it were just Dulac, maybe just Dulac and one other person, I’d be worried. But that’s too many people; they can’t all be involved in helping the Keeper.”
“What if it is, though?” Nico said, running hands through his shaggy hair. “What if this is one of those crazy, fucked up towns where everybody’s in on it, and they’re—they’re going to go take us and burn us at the stake or something.”
Somers raised an eyebrow.
“Ok,” Nico said, dragging fingers through his hair again. “Ok, I’m going to admit that I can hear how nutso that sounded.”
“Besides,” Somers said, “the sheriff wouldn’t be involved in the death of his own son.”
“In this town, you never know.”
The whine of an electric drill stopped their conversation, and then spats of argument interrupted the sound of the motor.
“No, dude,” Dulac was saying, “hold it like—”
“I know perfectly fucking well how to hold a drill, motherfucker,” Foley answered. “I built my own fucking deck, thanks very much.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been on that deck, and it’s got like a thirty-degree angle. You’re lucky you had so many goddamn kids because you’re probably going to lose one or two of them just sliding off the goddamn deck you built.”
“Fine. Fine. You think you’re so fucking good? You do it.”
“It’s easy, you just—” The motor strained. “I mean, you just have to get it in the right spot.”
“For the love of Jesus Christ.” That was Engels, and then came shuffling movement. The drill whined, and Somers heard a screw ting against the floor as it came loose.
“Well, yeah, if you do it like that,” Foley muttered. “Of course it’s going to work.”
Dulac grumbled something about angle and torque.
“Next time,” Engels said, “switch it to reverse.” A pop echoed through the stairwell, the sound of something being forced free, and then the door swung open. Engels stood there, his trim white mustache glowing in the fluorescents, the drill slung over one shoulder. Dulac’s head popped into view; a smile split the freckles.
“Hi, John-Henry. Did you see how I rescued you?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
JULY 6
SATURDAY
5:22 AM
SOMERS JOGGED THE PERIMETER of the Empire Fruit building. At Foley’s insistence, they had hurried away from the college campus while the sheriff was trying to call out his deputies, leaving the Engels to take care of Nico and secure the scene. As they drove across town, Dulac told Somers about the Keeper’s threat and challenge, although the younger detective was having a hard time sitting upright, much less speaking coherently. Somers knew what Hazard had done and why he had done it; it didn’t help the mixture of rage and fear inside him, but at least he understood. More of Wahredua PD had been waiting for them at the warehouse, responding to Foley’s and Dulac’s calls.
Somers ignored all of them as he made his circuit of the building. He spotted the service door at the back, shredded from buckshot, and he spotted the too-obvious trap of the front doors. He came to a stop at the coal chute; on the inside of the cast iron door, a plastic banner said CONGRATULATIONS. Below, pools of halogen light waited.
“He went through here,” Somers said.
“Duh,” Dulac said.
“Ok,” Somers said. “Make sure nobody leaves this building. Do you understand? Nobody.”
“Bro,” Dulac said. “You can’t go in there. The sheriff will be here in a few minutes, and we’ll lock this place down and . . .” Dulac trailed off. “Shit. Why am I even bothering?”
Somers shrugged. “He’s in there. And he can’t do this alone.”
Nodding, Dulac said, “Let’s go.”
“No.”
“I’m your partner.”
“You’re still halfway doped, and you can barely stand.”
“John-Henry, my bro, my mentor, my friend, shut the fuck up. We’ve got to hurry.”
Somers glanced at Foley. The redheaded cop shook his head. “Dulac, you’re going to slow him down.”
“Then you come too,” Dulac said. “Hazard would do it for you.”
For a moment, Somers felt a flicker of hope. Then Foley shook his head, his cheeks reddening. “I’ve got kids, John-Henry.”
“I know,” Somers said.
“So does he,” Dulac said. “He’s got a daughter.”
“Gray, let it go.”
“Come on,” Dulac said, staggering and bracing himself. “I can do this. We can do this.”
Somers glanced at the other cops. Nickels looked at the ground. Carlson met his eyes and whispered, “My baby.” Carmichael lasted only a moment before stalking off, her shoulders stiff. Moraes shrugged. Then he stood a little taller and opened his mouth.
Before he could speak, though, Yarmark pushed his way forward. He looked twelve years old, and he had his hands clenched at his sides, but he met Somers’s gaze. “I’ll go.”
Somers counted to ten, waiting, but Moraes didn’t speak.
“Come on,” Somers said.
He went first, lowering himself through the door of the coal chute. Hazard’s lights made it easy to gauge the drop—just three feet—and he let himself fall. Dulac came next, and he staggered when he landed; Somers had to catch him. Yarmark landed lightly.
“I’m gonna puke,” Yarmark whispered. “Oh God, I’m really gonna puke.”
“Then puke,” Somers said quietly. “But keep your head in the game.”
The basement of the Empire Fruit building had a low ceiling; all three men had to stoop. An ancient furnace stood to the right; to the left stood a rusted-out boiler as big as a sedan. Somers clicked on his flashlight, playing it back and forth, and spotted the first tripwire. He pointed to it.
“You two stay behind me,” Somers said. “And step exactly where I step.”
Dulac nodded, but he was clutching Somers’s shoulder, trying to stay upright.
“Gray—”
“I can do this. I need to do this.” He pulled himself upright and released Somers.
Yarmark bent at the knees and puked.
It was perhaps the worst set of reinforcements in history; it was going to have to do.
Somers started forward.
They moved through the basement first, stepping over tripwires, skirting debris—wet newspaper, an overturned filing cabinet, a tree branch that still had leaves on it. Then they came to ancient wooden crates that were stacked close together, forming a maze of narrow passages. Somers almost missed a wire at chest height. He spotted it at the last moment, jerked to a stop, and felt Dulac stumble into him. He stared into the muz
zle of a shotgun as he struggled to keep from falling forward. Then Yarmark yanked Dulac backward, and Somers let out a shuddering breath and closed his eyes.
“Wire,” he whispered,” and he ducked under it and kept going.
Sweat poured down his ribs and his back; he could smell it, a flop sweat of fear and adrenaline. The only sound was their harsh breathing, the scrape of their soles on the cement, and the creaks and protests of the old building. The shadows played tricks. Once, Somers was sure he had seen a man move in the darkness, and he drew the Glock and aimed. But nothing moved again.
At the stairs, Somers swore.
“The boards have been weakened,” Somers said, pointing to a hairline fracture on the lowest tread. “Keep your feet close to the wall.”
“This guy is some kind of fucking asshole,” Dulac grumbled. His face was gray, and dark hollows ringed his eyes. He was slumped against the wall. When he noticed Somers’s gaze, he straightened.
Somers started up the stairs. He was so busy watching his footing that he almost broke the tripwire laid halfway up. He froze, held out a hand behind him, and stepped carefully over. Then he adjusted his weight and took the next step.
“No,” Dulac shouted, “wait!”
Somers felt the second tripwire pull tight against his shin.
Hands grabbed him.
A gun fired.
He fell.
He connected with Dulac, and through the ringing in his ears, he heard Dulac scream. Then they fell together, the three of them, and came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. Somers scrambled upright, patting himself, checking for a gunshot wound. Nothing. That was a miracle; Dulac had managed to drag him clear of the shotgun blast. Dulac—
Dulac was on the ground, blood staining his shirt and pooling under him.
“He stepped into the first tripwire,” Yarmark was shouting. “He didn’t even think, he just rushed up and grabbed you.”
Squatting, Somers found the wound: a spear trap had caught Dulac in the arm, punching through his shirt and flesh. To judge by the amount of blood, Somers guessed it had nicked an artery.
Dulac was breathing through gritted teeth, his eyes wide and rolling up into his head.
“His arm—” Somers was saying.
But Yarmark was already stripping off his shirt.
“Find me a stick,” Yarmark said. “Anything.”
Somers grabbed a broken slat from one of the ancient crates and passed it to Yarmark.
“The artery,” Somers said.
“I know,” Yarmark said. He wrapped the shirt around Dulac’s arm, thrust the slat through it, and began tightening the tourniquet.
Dulac screamed.
“That’s right,” Yarmark said, the scrawny kid leaning into the slat, forcing the tourniquet tighter. “Tell me you’re alive.”
Dulac screamed again, and then his eyes got wide and he ran out of air.
“Jesus Christ,” Somers said.
“Go,” Yarmark said.
“Radio for help,” Somers said.
“For the love of God,” Yarmark said, flashing an irritated grin. “I got this.”
Somers nodded. He squeezed Dulac’s hand. Dulac was breathing harshly, and he didn’t seem to register the touch.
A voice boomed out above them, distorted by the echoes.
Dulac’s fingers tightened around Somers’s. His dark eyes moved blindly.
“Give the asshole enough rope to hang himself,” he whispered.
It took a moment for Somers to understand. Then he got out his phone, started the voice recorder, and loped up the stairs.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
JULY 6
SATURDAY
5:37 AM
HAZARD WAS ALMOST THERE. He paused in one of the cramped corridors, smelling brick dust and mold and a rotting stench he associated with wood and plaster that had suffered decades of water damage. Sweat stippled his face, coated his back, stuck his t-shirt to his chest. A cut on his right arm bled steadily in spite of the bandage; Hazard had misjudged a strand of concertina wire. Adrenaline still pumped steadily through him, clearing his head, souring his stomach. He knew he was close to reaching the Keeper. He also knew he was exhausted and, in spite of feeling clearheaded, more and more likely to make a mistake.
Ahead of him, a tripwire was strung low across the hallway. It was easy to spot—so simple and obvious that Hazard had stopped, looking for the secondary trap, the backup, the real threat. He wasn’t sure how long he’d stood there; time was starting to fragment, and those fragments slipped away no matter how hard he tried to hold on to them. One moment he’d be tracing the outline of the opening, studying the much larger space beyond, looking for pressure plates and tripwires, and then he’d be sucking in a wet breath, trying not to cough, dizzy and unsure of how much time had passed. He knew his brain was trying to protect him. He knew that this was too much—Somers had been right. It was the Haverford all over again, with Somers in danger, with Hazard helplessly snared in a web of traps and dead ends. It was his body flooded with stress hormones but without any way of effectively handling them: neither flight nor fight could help him now, only this slow, grinding crawl through a nightmare warren. And it was too much, too much, too—
He came back again, aware of the stinging in his arm, the hot drip-drip from his fingertips, the wobble in his posture. He was running out of time. Beyond the trip wire, where the opening connected to the warehouse, much of the room was lost in darkness. Hazard knew he could be missing something. He knew he could be making a mistake. But he also knew if he stayed here much longer, slowly dissociating under the weight of panic, he’d end up catatonic. He judged that the fallen CAUTION sign, a bright reflective orange just beyond the tripwire, concealed the true threat. He stepped over trip wire, skirted the CAUTION sign, and got his back to the wall just inside the warehouse proper.
Flood lights burst to life.
“I think you should stay right there for the moment,” an electronically distorted voice stated. “We might as well talk before we finish our game.”
The lights surrounded Hazard on three sides; he shaded his eyes, trying to peer past the glare, but all he could make out was a vague emptiness where the rest of the warehouse stretched off into darkness. He tried to locate the voice, even though part of his brain knew the effort was pointless—the words came through speakers mounted somewhere deeper in the warehouse. The speaker, if he were here at all, could be in a completely different part of the building.
Hazard knew he was here, though. Hazard knew he wouldn’t miss this chance.
“You’re not keeping your part of the deal,” Hazard said. “I made it here. You told me you’d be waiting, unarmed.” Hazard waited, and when nothing came back, he added, “Turn off the lights, walk out here, and I’ll put you under arrest.”
The hum of the lights answered him. The spots put off a staggering amount of heat, and Hazard wiped his forehead before trying again to shade his eyes. Then laughter broke the quiet—shrill, electronic laughter that echoed back from the brick at strange angles and raised the hair on the back of Hazard’s neck.
“You don’t want to arrest me. You want to kill me. You want to murder me. You want to brutalize me. You came here, alone, knowing you were walking into a trap, because you have fantasized about this moment for so long that you couldn’t refuse the bait. I’m the only thing left in your life that has meaning; I’m the only thing that you care about. Revenge. Emery Hazard, the hero, brought down to the same level as the murderers he hunts.”
“Turn off the lights,” Hazard said. “Let me see the little fucker who thinks he’s such a big deal.”
“Do you want me to tell you what I did to them? You saw the bodies, but you don’t know all of it. I’d strip a little bit of skin off Phil, and then I’d tell him I’d stop if he’d ask me to do it to Rory instead.”
“Shut up,” Hazard said.
“And when Phil wouldn’t p
lay because he was just so fucking loyal, I’d change the game. I’d break a finger in a couple of places, let him scream and scream, and then I’d tell him if he didn’t ask me to do it again, I’d do it to Rory.” A shadow moved higher up, crossing the path of one of the spots, and Hazard tried to track it without moving his head. “And do you know what? That ancient piece of shit did it. He asked me to break his fucking finger so his precious fucking Rory wouldn’t have to be hurt. So I switched. Again. I had this knife.” The shadow came to a stop, leaning on the rail of a catwalk high in the warehouse. “I gave Rory a few scratches with it, just nickel-and-dime stuff on his arms, and then I told him I’d cut off his eyelids if he didn’t ask me to do it to Phil instead.” More of that shrill laughter, distorted with feedback, ran through the emptiness. It was a wild noise; it passed through Hazard like an electric storm. “And that little faggot asked me right off. I didn’t even have to get near his face. He begged me to do it to Phil. He begged me to do it to Phil instead. You know what I did?”
“You’re lying,” Hazard shouted. “This is what you do. You want to play mind games instead of face someone head on. Turn off these fucking lights and walk out where I can see you.”
“I did it over and over again, and every time, that miserable little shit begged me to do it to Phil instead. I finally got sick of hearing him say that. So I started doing it to him anyway. And he just begged more and more. And when it got really bad, when that little faggot was squealing on my knife, he wanted Phil to help him. Can you believe that? He’d turned on Phil so many times I’d lost count, and he still wanted Phil to help him. Jesus fucking Christ. Talk about pathetic.”
“He loved him,” Hazard said; the lights swam between his fingers, and he blinked his eyes. “They loved each other. And you’re missing the whole fucking point. You’re right. I was there. And I heard Rory at the end. I talked to him. And Phil was the one who kept him alive. Phil was the one who gave him a lifeline. Phil loved Rory, and Rory loved Phil, and that was what mattered to both of them.”