by Debra Webb
As he stood in the spotlight of one of the few lights around the property, McBride’s gaze met hers and she knew instantly that he was on to something.
“We’ve spent all this time looking in every imaginable hiding place,” he said with a final survey around him. “She has to be someplace easy to access and in plain sight.”
Vivian had considered the whole “public” complex as being in plain sight. Time to reduce that focus. “You mean, like someplace more specific or … obvious?”
“Exactly.” He took another look at the map. “To pull this off”—he hesitated as if considering a theory—“he would need running water, not standing water like we’ve seen in a lot of these old boilers and containers.”
His renewed optimism was contagious, so was his theory. “He would need to control the flow of water into wherever he’s holding her—to facilitate the timing?”
“Yeah.” McBride nodded. “And it’s someplace right under our noses. ‘Plain sight.’”
He was right. Adrenaline bumped up her pulse rate. “Let’s find that site manager.” Vivian put through a call to Pratt.
The entire search team rendezvoused in front of the massive flywheel in the main blowing engine room.
McBride made eye contact with every member of the group. “We need quiet. Wherever she’s hidden, the water will be running.” He turned to the site manager. “Can you narrow down the locations where there’s running water access?”
He nodded and quickly pinpointed the spots on his map. McBride deferred to the search team leader for directing his people to the targeted areas. Then, he and Vivian methodically scanned each location, looking for anything the others might miss. Still they found nothing. Heard nothing but each other scrambling around in the dirt and gravel.
The odds for success looked bleak at best, but McBride refused to give up. Vivian had to admire that because she damned sure felt her optimism waning.
If Katherine Jones was here … somewhere … she would be terrified and she, too, would be losing hope.
3:00 a.m.
Seven hours remaining …
Vivian looked at the digital display on her cell phone. They were no closer than they had been two or four or even five hours ago.
McBride had ordered everyone back to his or her vehicle except her. They stood in the darkness on the ladle car tracks listening. She was pretty sure that she was the only one who still held out any hope for finding the woman at this location. On the other hand, with each minute that passed, McBride grew more certain that she was here.
For some totally irrational reason, Vivian couldn’t give up on him.
Slowly, painstakingly, he began a meticulous repeat search of a fifty-by-fifty perimeter around each accessible water source on the property. Vivian stopped when he stopped, and started when he started, mimicking his movements with a second look.
They had gone over their current location two or three times and still she noticed something new she had missed before. The darkness … the fatigue … both were playing tricks on her eyes.
This go-round, that something new was a narrow strip of disturbed earth. It was a miracle she had noticed it at all. Whoever had done the digging had smoothed it back over especially well. She crouched down and touched it. Loose dirt. Rock. Just beneath a shallow layer of those elements, something cool and smooth brushed against her fingertips. Aiming the flashlight for a closer inspection, she studied it, followed the path of the furrow for several inches … a water hose?
A water hose!
“McBride!”
Before she could even look up, he was crouched next to her. She held the light on the strip of hose she had uncovered. He pushed to his feet, followed the barely noticeable trail all the way to a small window in the old powerhouse.
But they had searched that area two or three times.
What had they missed?
Her heart pounding, Vivian hurried inside right behind him. They located the spot where the hose entered the room.
A dead end.
Dammit.
The hose hung limply down the wall, its ringed end going nowhere.
“Son of a bitch!” McBride snarled. He whipped out his pack of cigarettes and planted one in his mouth, then lit it.
Vivian hadn’t seen him smoke all night. The stress was getting to him. She felt the final remnants of hope draining out of her. Yet, something nagged at her, wouldn’t permit her to let it go completely.
Outside the water hose had felt cool. With the temps in the eighties and nineties by day and the sixties and seventies by night, there was no reason for the hose to be cool unless water was flowing through it.
Her gaze landed on the limp section of hose dangling from the window. She crossed back to it, touched it, room temperature, not cool like the other—no water running through it. She went back outside to where she had located the trench and knelt down to scan the area on either side with her flasblight.
And then she found what she was looking for.
Old fuel and oil cans had been arranged in a haphazard pile to camouflage a secondary path that branched off from the first. The first path had been a decoy. The unsub had counted on the idea that once they found that section of hose entering the window and going nowhere they would assume that was it and move on. Since their search had been focused on areas where water could be contained, a pile of leftover rust-eaten cans and crates wasn’t of interest.
“Over here, McBride!”
Together, she and McBride moved the cans and other junk aside to see where the path led. They had been in and around this building a dozen times. The site manager had said that mostly “junk” was kept in the old powerhouse. It had only taken a quick glance to know there was nothing of the size necessary for storing a body, but they had checked all the same. That there was no water source had eliminated the building’s potential altogether as the search had continued.
But their unsub was a smart guy; he had provided his own supply.
Vivian stalled, got a glimpse of a hose draped along the back of an old Reddy Ice freezer. Anticipation jolted her. “I think this is it.”
McBride moved around to where she stood on one end of the commercial container.
“It goes through there.” She pointed to the back of the freezer, up near the top. This had to be it. These old Reddy Ice freezers weren’t designed to make ice, only to keep it frozen. There wouldn’t be any need for a water supply.
A single metal door in the front was the only access. Jesus. If she had only been looking rather than visually eliminating possibilities, she would have recognized this thing’s potential all the times she had walked past before.
Plain sight.
She moved to the front of the container and pulled on the door handle. It didn’t budge. As she trailed the flashlight’s beam around the door, she could see no apparent reason for it to be that difficult to open.
McBride came around to the front. “The motor isn’t running, but the side is cool to the touch.”
Like the water hose.
“I tried pulling the hose out. He must have attached a nozzle from the inside and it’s too big to come through the hole.” He pulled at the door the way Vivian had. “Call Pratt,” he said as he pulled even harder. “Tell him we need a couple of pry bars and some more muscle over here. Maybe a saw that can cut through this thing.”
Stunned at the idea that it could have been this simple, Vivian made the call, reholstered her phone, then tucked her flashlight under her arm. Her heart thudding, she wrapped the fingers of both hands around the handle and pulled in unison with McBride. It still didn’t budge, “It’s …”—their eyes met—“like it’s sealed.” Her chest constricted. “Can she be getting any air in there?”
McBride roved his light over the front and sides of the dirty white container. Found nothing other than the occasional rusty spot in the paint. Knots formed in Vivian’s stomach. No holes … no air.
He shoved a bucket off the top of the old freezer,
leaned against the front to get a closer look. Vivian’s throat went dry as she watched the flashlight’s beam go back and forth over that surface.
The beam suddenly stopped, then moved more slowly. Her heart did the same.
“Air holes have been drilled into the top,” McBride said over his shoulder, “all the way across the back.” Relief weighed heavy in his voice. “We have to get this damned thing open.” He inspected the gasket around the door, then pitched his flashlight to the ground and grabbed the handle with both hands.
A new rush of fear poured through Vivian, sending her pulse back into a frantic rhythm. If Katherine Jones was in there, was she still alive?
Instinct, or maybe desperation, taking over, Vivian pounded on the side of the freezer while McBride pulled at the door. “Mrs. Jones, can you hear me?”
“I don’t know what kind of glue he used,” McBride said as he put his whole body weight behind the pull, “but it’s not coming loose.”
“Mrs. Jones,” Vivian shouted as she pounded some more, “answer me if you can!”
Vivian stilled, listened. She’d heard something. Had it come from inside the freezer?
Holding her breath, Vivian flattened her ear against the side and listened. Another sound reached out to her—soft like a moan, barely audible. Adrenaline ignited, rushing along her limbs and making her tremble. “We’re going to get you out of there,” Vivian shouted, hoping the sound would carry through the insulated wall. Don’t worry. She wasn’t sure if she had said that last part out loud. “She’s in there, McBride! I can hear her.”
They had found her.
They had found her!
How deep would the water be now?
“We have to hurry!”
Where was Pratt? Davis? Anyone?
She rejoined McBride’s efforts but the door just wouldn’t give.
Pratt, Davis, and the site manager arrived with the pry bars.
Thank God.
Pratt and McBride pried at the door.
Finally it gave way.
Vivian directed the flashlight’s beam inside.
The interior space was empty save for Katherine Jones and the slowly building water that had reached her shoulders. Bound and gagged, the woman sat, knees to chest. She lifted her gaze to Vivian’s and moaned pitifully. Her mouth was duct-taped closed. One word was written in black marker across her forehead: OBLIVIOUS.
“Let’s get an ambulance out here,” Vivian said, with a glance back at Pratt.
“On its way,” he assured her.
McBride ushered Vivian aside. “I’m going to try and pull her out of there.” He reached inside, lifted and tugged at the woman’s shoulders until her head and upper torso were out the door. Vivian pulled the cold, wet woman into her arms as McBride threaded her lower body free.
Too weak to stand, Katherine Jones crumpled to the ground, taking Vivian with her. McBride knelt down to get a better look at her condition. He slowly peeled the tape away from her mouth.
Vivian wanted to cry. She was so damned tired and relieved. Katherine Jones was alive!
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Jones,” she urged, “you’re going to be fine now.”
Mrs. Jones sobbed as McBride unbound her hands and feet. Vivian scrambled up onto her knees, peeled off her jacket and draped it around the poor woman’s trembling shoulders.
Vivian’s phone vibrated so she stepped aside to answer it. The drain of adrenaline had her sagging against the freezer for support. As she drew her phone from its holster, black lettering on the interior of the open door reached out and grabbed her attention. She peered at the letters, some of which were written very small while others were much larger.
T … W … O. Two. D … O … W … N. Down. H … O … W How. M … A … N … Y. Many. T … O. To. G … O. Go.
Two down … how many to go?
The world stopped for a moment, leaving Vivian’s mind reeling with disbelief.
He wasn’t nearly finished. Resignation dragged at her muscles … made her legs go rubbery again.
She turned slowly, her gaze landing on McBride where he sat on the ground speaking softly to Katherine Jones.
They had saved two … but would their luck hold out as the challenge intensified?
Vivian peered back at the innocuous words that added up to the promise of danger.
It only took one mistake … one failure … for someone to die.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Saturday, September 9, 8:15 A.M.
University of Alabama Birmingham (UAB) Hospital
Sixth Avenue
“I’m sorry.” Katherine Jones’s voice was a raw, raspy croak. “I just don’t know.”
“You focus on recovering, Mrs. Jones,” SAC Worth promised, “we’ll find the person responsible for this.”
Worth, Grace alongside him, paused at the foot of the patient’s bed to speak with the doctor.
McBride watched from the position he had taken next to the door. He wasn’t wasting his time, or the victim’s, with questions. The unsub they were dealing with was far too smart to have allowed her to see his face.
Considering what she had been through Mrs. Jones had been in damned good shape when they pulled her out of that freezer. Other than scared half to death and dehydrated, despite sitting shoulder deep in water, her stay in the hospital was for observation only. Feeling the water rise and knowing you couldn’t get away would shake anyone to the core, sedated or not. Poor woman. When she’d first heard Grace and McBride talking she had thought she was dreaming.
The best part of the whole ugly episode was that she had lived to tell about it.
Worth cut McBride one of those “this is your fault” looks as he exited the room.
Grace hesitated at the door, didn’t follow her boss. “You coming or did you have additional questions?” She craned her neck to see if Worth was out of hearing range.
He shook his head and pushed away from the wall. “Let’s go.”
In the sterile, endless corridor outside the room, he had to remind himself which way to go for the elevators. He was beat. He’d survived solely on coffee for the past twenty or so hours. Caffeine could only go so far.
Worth hadn’t waited, which suited McBride just fine. The SAC had already given his thoughts on the latest search-and-rescue endeavor. This whole charade was out of control, in his opinion. To his way of thinking, no former agent should have thousands of fan letters and some stalker fan kidnapping and terrorizing innocent people. Someone was going to end up dead and the Bureau would be blamed. Bottom line: McBride was an albatross. This whole mess was his fault.
What’s new? He hadn’t expected Worth to feel any other way. Frankly, McBride didn’t give one shit how Worth felt. But he wholeheartedly agreed with the theory that if this nutcase Devoted Fan kept at it—two down, how many to go?—someone was going to die.
And that would be McBride’s fault.
Grace pushed the call button for the elevators. “You okay?”
Hell no, he wasn’t okay.
He rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, attempted to block out the spots floating in front of his retinas. Bad sign. He knew the symptoms. Lack of sleep, alcohol, and nicotine. And a kind of fear he hadn’t felt in a long-ass-time bullying its way into the mix.
His hand shook as he lowered it back to his side.
He needed downtime.
No … What he needed was to get out of here before someone died on his watch.
The elevator doors slid open and he couldn’t move. Couldn’t walk into that cramped space.
Grace stepped into the waiting car and prepared to make the necessary floor selection. “You coming?”
“I’ll … ah … take the stairs.”
He didn’t explain, just headed for the end of the corridor with her shouting to him to watch out for the paparazzi in the lobby. The stairwell was empty so he took a moment to try and derail what he knew was coming. Deep breaths. Let them out slow. He wasn’t going down this
road. No way. Couldn’t.
He shouldn’t have come here . at all. Rescuing that kid had been so simple … but this last time hadn’t been quite so easy. If Grace hadn’t been there to back him up, he might have failed. What the hell would he do next time?
And there would be a next time.
What if he couldn’t fix it? Those old instincts might fail him entirely … and because of him someone would die.
Taking the stairs quickly, he kept one hand on the railing since the world seemed determined to tilt on him. Get outside. Get some air. Don’t slow down.
Sweat popped out on his skin. His gut clenched.
McBride ascended to the first floor in a near run and emerged into the lobby. Crews from dozens of news channels were hanging around, hoping to catch a break on whatever the hell was going on. He moved wide around where they had gathered near the elevators. The visiting hours crowd had filtered in, making forward movement a challenge. Ignoring the glares and remarks of the people he bumped into in his haste, he plowed through. Had to get outside. A half-ton weight had settled on his chest. He couldn’t breathe … couldn’t think. Damned sure couldn’t risk running into a reporter.
He hit the sidewalk. Air flooded his lungs.
Breathe.
Deep.
That was it. More deep gulps. Hold it. Release. The weight on his chest lessened. Finally, the knot in his gut relaxed.
He was not going to let anyone die—not this time.
He could still do this … he hoped.
“McBride?”
He closed his eyes, chased away the demons, and grabbed that fuck-you attitude that worked so well for him … most of the time. “What?”
Grace flinched at his growl. “You okay?”
He ignored her question, dredged up the control he’d allowed to slip. “How’d you avoid the reporters?” She had taken the elevator and the hordes of reporters had been waiting there like buzzards after roadkill. That was the thing about ambulances. Anytime one was called to a scene, the media was bound to show up.