Bloodletting

by Michael McBride

  Unfortunately, no one would ever know.

  Marshall sat on the hood of his silver Audi in the parking lot at Denver General, watching as the agents in their blue windbreakers with FBI in gold on the back carried case after case of the vaccine out through the emergency room doors and loaded them into the matching black trucks illegally parked in the ambulance bay. They'd already been doing so for nearly twenty minutes, and there seemed to be no end in sight. The story all of the agents had been given, and in turn purveyed to the hospitals and its employees, was that several samples of the vaccine had been found to have dysfunctional nasal applicators, causing increased inhalant pressure that could prove hazardous to the sensitive nasal membranes and sinuses. That was all anyone would ever know about why nearly fifty million flu vaccines had been recalled at the last minute. And few people would give it a second thought outside of the inconvenience. After all, rumor had it that forty million units were recalled in 2003 following a string of allergic reactions.

  Marshall wondered what had really happened then.

  There would be plenty of angry people in the morning, people who had planned their entire weekend around waiting in line for a flu shot, but they'd get over it. People always needed to have something to complain about anyway.

  He watched the agents stack the last crates of the vaccine into the trucks and pull down the doors of the cargo holds, locking them with two loud thunks that made him smile. The engines rumbled to life and the trucks pulled back out onto the street as the air filled with the sound of ambulance sirens. Life resumed again, none the worse for wear, unaltered.

  Unchanged.

  VII

  Verlot, Washington

  A three mile hike through dense forest and over countless rocky crags led them to the hilltop upon which they now crouched, clinging to the edge of cover behind a wall of junipers. They were soaked to the bone, shivering, but none of them felt it. The adrenaline was pumping way too hard to notice anything other than the vast property spread out before them at the bottom of the slope. Lush grass that would have made any golf course groundskeeper jealous surrounded a two-story Beaux Arts-style house. From their vantage point they could squarely see the southern wing and just the row of columns lining the front of the gray stone structure. A wrap around patio lined the second level from behind. It dipped inward around the back to make way for a small courtyard, from which the faint smell of chlorine originated. The waterfall feeding the swimming pool made a chuckling sound, strengthened by the distant stream in the forest beyond. A boxwood hedge-rimmed driveway led from the trees to the east to a turnaround in front of the house, in the center of which countless flowers bloomed in violets and blues. There were no cars parked at the foot of the rounded stone porch, and no movement anywhere on the property, though with the blinds drawn over the tinted windows, they wouldn't have been able to tell anyway.

  Carver was confident there were people inside, and that Ellie was one of them. He couldn't explain why. It was just a gut feeling, but so powerful it couldn't be ignored.

  The plan was for Hawthorne and Wolfe to enter from the rear courtyard, while he and Jack went right through the front doors. It would be impossible to tell if there was an alarm system until they were within feet of the entrance, but it wouldn't matter anyway. They were going in regardless.

  He had never seen Jack look so intense, and he only hoped he looked the same. Inside, he was a mess of nerves.

  On Jack's mark, they separated. Hawthorne and Wolfe struck off through the trees to the left, circling around the perimeter, while he and Jack did the same to the right. They knelt where the forest met the hedge and waited for the appointed moment to arrive. At the prearranged time, they sprinted low along the hedge, darting out into the open twenty yards from the house at the edge of the circular driveway. No gunfire erupted as they hurdled the stairs and reached the front doors.

  Carver turned and guarded their rear while Jack used an electric pick gun to bypass the lock. At the sound of the opening door, Carver backed all the way across the threshold until he could close the door behind them. Turning, he found himself surveying a vast foyer. None of the lights were on, but the skylights and windows cast a weak pall over everything. Half-circle staircases led to the top level from either side of the room, in the middle of which was a small decorative marble fountain. Both men directed their pistols up to the landing above, then right back down to the main level when Hawthorne emerged from a darkened corridor, aiming right back at them. Jack signaled for Hawthorne to go right, and then for Wolfe to go left. He inclined his head toward the stairs and Carver eased up one side of the stairs while Jack followed the other. At the top, Carver turned right into the north wing. He heard the soft squeak of Jack's shoes on the hardwood floor behind him, heading south.

  There were two doorways to either side and one at the end, all of which stood wide open.

  Carver's pulse pounded in his ears, now the only sound he could hear. He focused on regulating his breathing. In through his nose, out through his mouth. Silently. Arms steady and flexed, prepared to take the kick of the Beretta. His finger tightened on the trigger until it reached the sweet spot.

  He swung the pistol through the doorway to the left--frosted-glass shower stall; toilet beside a bidet; racks of towels in his and hers colors--and then immediately through the doorway to the right--frilly canopy bed; antique oak dressers and hutch; china dolls in a curio; closed closet door to the left of the bed. A quick glance back behind him confirmed no one was hiding in the shower. He darted across the hallway, opened the walk-in closet door. Lines of dresses still under dry cleaner's plastic; several pair of shoes; nothing else but shadows. A quick peek under the bed-skirt and he was back in the hallway moving north. Doorway to the left: study. Computer on a desk; leather couches, flat-screen television on the wall. He spun again to the right. Linen closet: towels and bed sheets on the shelf to the left, comforters and blankets to the right; vacuum cleaner at the rear. Back to the left. Nobody hiding underneath the desk; closet full of various texts from computer programming to genetics. He stepped back out into the hallway, and could barely see Jack at the far end, preparing to enter the lone remaining room as he was about to himself. Through the doorway and into what he assumed to be the second master or guest bedroom. Floral patterned, four poster bed heaped with artfully arranged pillows; sitting chair; plasma TV on the wall; dresser and hutch; glass doorway leading out onto the balcony, lock engaged; bathroom to the left, same as the last only slightly larger. One final look under the bed and he was heading back toward the stairs. Jack descended one side, Carver the other.

  Back in the marble-tiled foyer, they walked deeper into the house, encountering Hawthorne and Wolfe outside a recessed family room with a stone hearth and uncomfortable-looking furniture under plastic. The wall of glass at the back of the house overlooked a rock waterfall and blue-tinted pool.

  Hawthorne shook his head to signify he had found nothing. Wolfe did the same, but gestured toward a doorway to the right off the living room. Jack nodded and positioned himself facing the door, weapon readied. Wolfe's eyes met Jack's, then he opened the door onto a darkened staircase leading downward. They descended single-file, Wolfe bringing up the rear. The smell was of cold and dank, and something like rotten apples and dust.

  Jack clicked on his flashlight and aligned it with his pistol, spotlighting a bare concrete floor.

  Carver did the same.

  Jack ducked around the corner to the right when he reached the bottom. Carver went left. His light cast strange purple refractions on the far wall through hundreds of bottles of wine on tall racks, their labels obscured by dust. Four rows of them, all terminating against the concrete wall. He cleared the narrow aisles and turned back to the room.

  Wolfe had reached the bottom and stood guard, watching the top of the staircase.

  Hawthorne was exploring a roughly framed storage area filled with crates and boxes at the back of the room. Jack cleared the right side, which was
stocked with row after row of preserves, canned goods, and liquor.

  Carver joined Hawthorne and shined the light around the partial enclosure. Exposed wiring ran between the vertical joists to either side, the back wall solid foundation. They were below the level of the ground outside, but still there were no small windows or window wells. Definitely not up to code. Why? He directed the beam at the floor: bare cement, but bereft of the dust he had seen on the wine bottles. There were several parallel gouges in the floor, as though something heavy had been repeatedly dragged across it. He went straight for the crate at the edge of the scrapes. It was roughly large enough to hold a kitchen stove on its side. The upper edges were free from dust, the lower edges smooth and beveled under.

  He caught Hawthorne's eye and drew it to the crate, playing his light along the floor and then the rounded wooden edges. Hawthorne nodded his understanding and positioned himself to the left side of the crate. Carver took the other side, and together they scooted the heavy crate away from the wall to reveal an iron hatch set into the concrete floor.

  Jack joined them and all three stared at the rectangle of metal, then at each other. It was barely wider than a grown man's shoulders. Carver was reminded of the door he had found under the straw back in the barn near Wren, Colorado, though this one was smaller and certainly incapable of hiding a staircase. That felt like a lifetime ago now.

  The hatch was hinged in the rear so it would open to lean against the wall. Hawthorne knelt to the side and slipped his fingers under the front edges. Jack stood right in front of it, directing his gun at the lid and into what they would find beneath when Hawthorne opened it.

  Jack nodded without looking away from the iron rectangle. Carver positioned himself to the right of the hatch and directed both his flashlight and his weapon at the ground.

  They could always throw back the lid and find a spider web-filled hole designed to house a sump pump. Carver was certain that wasn't the case, but he didn't know exactly what they would find.

  Hawthorne pried back the hatch and a gust of trapped air billowed out: the earthy scents of soil and mildew, dry hay and stagnant water. The trace stench of ammonia.

  The flashlight beams barely reached the ground, a good ten feet below. An iron ladder was bolted to the wall under the hatch, black rungs leading down into even blacker depths.

  If someone were waiting at the bottom, it would be easy to pick them off one by one as they climbed down the ladder.

  Jack didn't give them the opportunity. He crossed his arms over his chest, dropped over the edge, and plummeted down into the darkness.

  VIII

  Carver saw Jack hit the ground on his feet, a flash of his silver hair, and then he was gone.

  "Damn it," Carver whispered, similarly drawing his arms to his torso and plunging into the hole.

  The sensation of weightlessness lasted only a moment before his feet struck cement. He barely had time to flex his knees to absorb the impact, and then he was stumbling away from the ladder. Raising his weapon and light, he sighted down the corridor leading away from him. It was barely wide enough to accommodate two men side-by-side, but extended well beyond the reach of the light. Darkened fixtures dangled from the groined roof hardly a foot above his head, the plaster walls smooth and reflective. It reminded him of a Spanish style, though more like the fortresses they had built down in Mexico and South America. There were no doorways, only walls that glistened as though polished.

  Jack was a dozen steps ahead of him, faintly silhouetted by his flashlight.

  The smells intensified, conjuring the mental image of dead things rotting inside the walls. What the hell was this place anyway? His footsteps made no sound on the floor, at least that he could hear over the hum of pipes and gentle buzz of electrical current under the plaster.

  Jack's beam grew brighter as it focused on a shiny wall directly ahead, and then faded to a candle's glow as Jack rounded the bend.

  Carver hurried to catch up, glancing back over his shoulder just long enough to count two weak streams of light behind him. He took the curve at a jog and nearly rammed right into Jack, who was standing in the middle of the hallway, staring down the long corridor ahead of them. There were four large wooden doors to either side, great heavy things constructed of coarse timber. Built into each was a sliding metal window only big enough to accommodate a pair of eyes. The deadbolts were on the outside, enormous units that required two hands to slide into the wall. Three of them on the left side of each door above an iron handle. The massive hinges appeared capable of withstanding a battering ram.

  The corridor was completely silent. Were it not for the lack of dust and overall cleanliness, it appeared as though it could have been abandoned for hundreds of years. That was why Jack had stopped. Everything was too quiet, too still.

  Jack crouched and shined his light straight across the floor. There were no tripwires or irregularities in the floor. He rose and directed the beam up to the ceiling. No motion detectors, surveillance cameras, or any other electronic devices.

  Wolfe and Hawthorne caught up, and together they scrutinized the hallway, the only sound their suppressed breathing. It appeared to terminate against a solid wall ahead, surely a door as there was no way anyone could have come down through the basement of the house, closed the hatch, and slid the heavy crate back over it. Carver supposed it was always possible that there was no one down there, that they had arrived too late and their adversary had already left, but the air felt electric, alive with potential, contrary to the emptiness of the corridor. It was like catching the first whiff of smoke through ductwork and knowing something outside of their direct control was about to happen, something terrible and life-altering.

  Jack turned to the others, shrouded by shadows. He faced Hawthorne and Wolfe in turn, and nodded his head to the door on the left. Carver felt the heat of Jack's stare on him, then saw the nod to the right. He approached the door and steadied himself, aligning his gun and penlight with the solid wood in preparation of finding out what was behind it.

  Jack stood slightly off to the side. He checked to ensure the deadbolts were disengaged, then looked at Carver, who confirmed his readiness with a curt nod. Jack stepped in front of him, gave the door a solid shove, and ducked back out of the way. The door swung halfway open, revealing only darkness and a scent better suited to a barn. Carver eased forward and swept the darkness with the light. Piles of hay had been spread across the floor. It smelled as though some dying animal had once bedded down in it. Details slowly took shape as he shouldered the door all the way open. The walls had once been smooth like those in the hallway, but appeared to have been attacked, though not recently as evidenced by the discoloration at the edges of the gouges in the plaster. The parallel grooves gave the impression that something had tried to claw its way out. The exposed copper pipe bracketed to the wall hummed. A single spigot had been attached, from which one droplet at a time dripped into a small drain in the floor. The overhead bulb had been shattered; the glass crunched softly underfoot as Carver entered. He checked behind the door. Nothing. Jack's light shined around him to the left, which only served to highlight more of the empty room. Carver studied the spigot. No matter which way he cranked the handle, it only ever released one drop at a time. The drain issued the faint, nauseating stench of excrement.

  What was this place? He looked more closely at the walls. The grooves appeared to have been carved by fingers, sets of four linear marks, the bottoms of which were the color of rust.

  Carver was about to follow Jack back out into the hall when the revelation struck. This was where they had kept them. The twins they had abducted. This was where they had been raised. On beds of straw, in their own filth. What manner of cruelties had been inflicted upon them in these cages through the years? He thought of Jasmine Rivers, a small girl in a cramped cellar, subjected to beatings and starvation, dehydration and the isolation of darkness, in an effort to force her genes to express themselves as a survival mechanism. She had been one
of the lucky ones. Her torture had lasted less than two weeks and they had put her out of her misery. These children had been abused here for their entire lives and then thrust out into the world. It was no wonder they had become monsters.

  He imagined Ross in his basement, surrounded by darkness and butchered body parts, and wondered how different that had been from his childhood. Or a young Grady in one of these small chambers peeling the skin off his meals and saving it should more food be a long time in coming. And he saw a child with his face trying to carve through the walls of his prison, a child with the DNA of a bat forced to battle dehydration with the blood of the things they either fed him or made him kill so he could live.

  A coin toss and that could have been him. A fifty-fifty crapshoot where the winner gets a life and the loser goes to hell. He felt a pang of sympathy for them. They had never stood a chance of becoming anything other than what they had.

  The men converged in the corridor. The room across from the one Carver had investigated had yielded nothing more. At the next set of doors, they readied themselves for the same process. Carver felt Hawthorne at his back, and watched down the barrel of the Beretta as Jack shoved the door inward. The coppery smell hit him first, and then he was charging into the room. A shadowed body hung from the ceiling, a diffuse black shape against the shadows. The circle of light passed over the body in rapid jerks: dirty blue jeans, flannel shirt, ankles pinned together and harnessed to an exposed rafter by a leather strap. Chunks of plaster littered the hay on the floor. The back of the body was to him, the dark hair draped on the straw.