Feet set apart, he swept the Blood Room with his light, the beam shining off the polished steel, the circular drain in the middle of the floor, the gleaming tile walls.
Empty. He walked into the middle of the room and stood there, the smell of bleach washing over him.
There was a rattle overhead, and Tad quickly angled his light upward. A sudden furious sound, a clashing of metal. The hooks dangling from the conveyor line began to bounce and swing wildly, and his light just caught a dark shape scuttling along the line, disappearing out the porthole above the door.
“Hey! You!” Tad ran back to the door, stopped. Flashed his light. Nothing but the swinging and creaking of the line as it moved away into blackness.
No leniency, no soft touch, this time: Tad was going to lock these kids up, teach them a lesson.
He let the beam of his light linger on the line. It was still swinging and creaking, and it looked as if the kids had climbed along it through a curtain of plastic flaps into the next structure, an oversized stainless steel box. The Scalder.
Tad moved forward as silently as he could. The plastic flaps covering the entrance to the Scalder were still swinging slightly.
Bingo.
Tad circled around to the other end of the Scalder. The thin black shape of the line emerged here, but the plastic flaps on this end weren’t swinging.
He had trapped the kids inside.
Tad stepped back, bobbing his light back and forth between the Scalder’s entrance and exit points. He spoke, not loudly, but firmly. “Listen: you’re already in big trouble for breaking and entering. But if you don’t come out of there right now, you’re going to be charged with resisting arrest and a lot more besides. No probation or community service, you’ll do time. You understand?”
For a moment, silence. And then, a low murmur came from inside the Scalder.
Tad leaned forward to listen. “What’s that?”
More murmuring, turning into a kind of singsong sound. There was a strange wet lisping to it all, as if of a tongue being razzed against protruding lips.
The kids were mocking him.
In a burst of anger and humiliation, Tad kicked the side of the Scalder. The steel wall let out a hollow boom that rolled and echoed back into the unseen vastness of the plant.
“Get out here!”
Tad took one breath, then another. And then, quickly, he ducked through the plastic flaps covering the entrance to the Scalder, careful not to bang his skull on the hooks that dangled from the line overhead. As he licked his flashlight around the insides of the metal box, he got a peripheral glimpse of a figure scrambling along the conveyor belt and out the slot in the far wall. It looked surprisingly big and ungainly: probably the overlapping image of two running boys. But there was nothing ungainly about the speed at which the image scurried away from him. In the blackness just beyond vision, the shape leapt from the line; there was a thump, then the quick patter of feet running toward the rear of the plant.
“Stop!” Tad cried.
He ran around the Scalder and took up the pursuit, the yellow pool of his flashlight bobbing ahead of him. The dark form bypassed the Plucker and went shooting up an emergency ladder toward the Evisceration Area, running along the elevated platform and disappearing behind a thick cluster of hydraulic hoses.
“Stop, damn you!” Tad yelled into the darkness. He climbed the ladder, gun now drawn, and charged down the metal catwalk.
As he passed the cluster of hoses something flashed in his field of vision and he felt a terrific blow to his forearm. He yelled out in surprise and pain. The flashlight flew out of his hand and went crashing to the floor, skidding and rolling off the elevated platform. There was a loud clunk as it hit the concrete floor, a rattle of glass, and then darkness.
From outside came the wail of wind, the patter of hailstones against the roof.
Tad crouched, service piece pointed into the darkness, a pain shooting up and down his left forearm. Christ, his arm hurt. He couldn’t clench his fist or move his fingers, and the pain just seemed to grow and grow, until his whole arm felt like it was on fire.
The son of a bitch had broken his arm. Broken it badly. With a single blow. Tad stifled a sob, clenched his jaw.
He listened intently, but there was no sound except the storm raging beyond the cinderblock walls.
This is no fucking kid.
The anger he’d felt, the humiliation, was gone. The pain and the sudden darkness had taken care of that. Now all Tad wanted to do was get out.
He strained to see in the blackness, tried to remember which way to go. The plant was huge, and without light it would be very difficult to find the exit. Maybe he should stay here, silent and unmoving, until the power returned?
No. He couldn’t stay here. He had to move, to run, somewhere. Anywhere.
Get away. Just get away.
He rose to his feet and, gun drawn, his broken arm dangling, tried to feel his way with his feet back to the ladder, scarcely daring to breathe, terrified that at any moment another blow might come out of the darkness. One step, three, five . . .
In the blackness, his elbow bumped into something.
With his gun hand, he reached out gingerly, touched a surface that felt rough and scaly. Was it the high-pressure hoses? But it didn’t feel like a hose. It felt like something else.
But there was nothing else that should feel like that; not up here in the Evisceration Area.
He bit his lip, suppressed a sob of terror.
It was the blackness that was making him act this way. He wasn’t used to utter blackness. If he fired his gun, maybe he could see long enough to orient himself. One shot toward the roof wouldn’t hurt anything.
He raised his piece and fired upward.
The brief flash revealed a figure, standing next to him, looking at him, smiling. The image was so unexpected, so strange and horrifying, that Tad could not even scream.
But the figure screamed for him: a hoarse, guttural ululation of surprise and anger at the gunshot.
Tad ran. He found the ladder and half fell, half scrambled down it, banging his knees cruelly against the metal rungs. He got tangled near the bottom and fell crashing to the floor, on top of his broken arm. And now he found he could scream, in both pain and terror. But at least he was back on the main floor of the plant. He scrambled to his feet, nauseous from pain and sobbing with terror, ran, tripped again, scrambled back to his feet. And that was when he realized his piece was still clutched desperately in his hand. He could use it, and hewould use it. He reached back and fired, once, twice, blindly—and each time, the muzzle flashes revealing that thething was scuttling toward him, pink mouth yawning wide, arms outstretched.
Muh!
He had to aim the gun,aim it, not just fire wildly. Two more rounds, and each flash showed it coming closer, closer. Tad scrambled backwards, still screaming, and fired twice more, his hand shaking wildly.
Muh! Muh!
It was almost on him. He couldn’t miss now. He aimed point-blank, pulled.
The hammer fell on an empty cylinder. He fumbled for his extra clip, but a second terrible blow struck him in the gut and he fell, unable to breathe, the gun skittering away across the floor. A third blow, this one to his gun arm. He found his wind, thrashing desperately, screaming and kicking, trying to slide himself backwards, but it was impossible with both his arms unusable.
Muh! Muh! Muh!
Tad shrieked again and twisted wildly away, sliding on his back, kicking in the direction of the sound.
And then the thing caught his flailing leg. Tad felt a terrible pressure on his ankle, then a sudden give, accompanied by the snap of bone.His bone.
A moment later, a huge weight pressed down on his chest and something rough and hard gripped his face. There was a smell of earth, and mold, and something fainter but far worse. For a moment it seemed as if the grasp would be gentle, comforting, reassuring.
But then it tightened with a terrible, unforgiving pressure. And
then, with ferocious speed, his entire face was twisted in the direction of the floor.
There was a grinding click; a burst of fire at the base of his neck; and then the terrible darkness became bright, so very, very bright . . .
Fifty-Three
Corrie lay in the putrid dark. In this terrible and disorienting blackness, it was impossible to tell how much time had passed sincehe had left. An hour? A day? It seemed like forever. Her whole body ached, and her neck was sore from where he had squeezed it.
And yet he had not killed her. No: he’d meant to torture her instead. And yet torture didn’t seem to be quite the right word. It was almost as if he was toying with her,playing with her, in some horrible, inexplicable way . . .
But guessing about the killer was pointless. There was no way she could understand something so alien, so broken, so foreign to her own experience. She reminded herself that nobody was going to rescue her way back in this cave system. Nobody knew she was there. If she were to live, she had to do something herself. She had to do it before he came back.
She struggled once again to loosen the cords, succeeding only in chafing and tearing her wrists. The ropes had been tied wet and the knots were as hard as walnuts.
. . . When wouldhe come back? The thought sent a wave of panic through her.
Corrie, get a grip.
She lay still a moment, focusing on her breathing. Then, slowly, with her hands tied behind her, she half crawled, half rolled over the sloping floor of the cave, exploring. The floor was relatively smooth here, but now and then she noticed rough rocks projecting in clusters from the floor of the cave. She stopped to feel one formation more closely with her fingers. Crystals, maybe.
She positioned herself and kicked hard at them with her feet. There was a sharp snapping sound as they broke away.
Now she explored with numb fingers until she found a fresh, sharp edge. Positioning herself laboriously over it, she placed her hands against the edge and began rubbing the ropes, back and forth, back and forth.
God, it hurt. Her wrists were raw circles of flesh where the ropes bound her, and she could feel the blood trickling down the insides of her palms as she worked. There was barely any feeling left in her fingers.
But she kept rubbing, pressing harder. The wet rope slipped, the sharp stone cut her hands.
She stifled a cry and kept rubbing. Better to lose her hands than her life. At least the rope was beginning to fray. If she could only get it off, she could . . .
She could what?
. . . When wouldhe come back?
Corrie shivered; a shiver that threatened to become uncontrollable. She had never been so cold and numb and wet in her life. The stench seemed to permeate everything, and she could taste it on her tongue, in her nose.
Focus on the rope.
She rubbed, slipped, cut herself again, and, sobbing aloud, kept scraping and chafing, harder and harder. There was no longer any feeling at all in her fingers, but this just made her rub the harder.
Even if she got free, what would she do without light? She didn’t have a match or a lighter. Even if she had a light,he had taken her so far back into the cave that she wondered if she could ever find her way out.
Sobbing, she jammed the rope against the sharp rock again and again. Perversely, the very hopelessness of her situation brought new strength to her limbs.
Suddenly her hands were free.
She lay back, gasping, sucking in air. Pain rushed in like a thousand needles pricking at her palms and fingers. She could feel blood flowing more freely now along her skin.
She tried to move her fingers, without success. With a groan, she leaned to one side, gently rubbing her palms together. She tried moving her fingers a second time and got a little response. They were coming back to life.
Slowly, painfully, she sat up. Propping her legs behind her, she reached down and felt the cords around her ankles. They seemed to be tied in the craziest way, wrapped around and around, with half a dozen crude but effective knots. She tried to pick at them, gasped at the pain, and let her hands drop away. Maybe she could saw them off on the sharp rock she’d used for her hands. She felt around for the edge—
A sound interrupted her. She paused, dread clutching at her.
He was coming back.
She could hear grunting, huffing noises echoing off the cavern walls not far away. It sounded like he was lugging something. Something heavy.
Hnuff!
Quickly she hid her hands behind her back, lay down on the cold floor, and fell still. Even though it was pitch black, she wasn’t going to take the chance that he could see she was no longer tied.
The shuffle of footsteps grew near. New smells, sour smells, were suddenly introduced into the darkness: fresh blood, bile, vomit.
She lay perfectly still. It was so dark, maybe he had forgotten about her.
There was a dragging sound, then the jangling of what sounded like keys. And then something heavy hit the floor of the cave next to her. The stench abruptly grew worse.
She stifled the scream that rose in her throat.
Nowhe began humming and talking to himself once again. There was a rattle of metal, the scratch of a match, and suddenly there was light: almost indiscernibly faint, but light just the same. For a moment, Corrie forgot everything—her pain, her desperate condition—as she felt her soul rise toward the dim yellow glow. It seemed to be coming from between the chinks of a strange-looking lantern, very old, with sliding sides of rusted metal. The light was placed in a way that lefthim in shadow—just a dark shape moving, gray against black. He disappeared around a corner, doing something in an alcove, humming and talking to himself.
So he did need light, after all, if only a little bit.
But if he’d managed to do so much in utter darkness—bring her here, tie her up—what kind of work would he need light for?
Corrie did not want to follow this train of thought. It was easy to let it go: the instinctual relief of the light made her feel sluggish, torpid. Part of her just wanted to give up, resign herself. She looked around. Dim as it was, the light seemed to reflect back at her in a million crystallike points, coming from everywhere and nowhere.
She waited, motionless, her eyes adjusting to the gloom.
She was in a smallish cavern. Its walls were covered with feathery white crystals that gleamed in the faint glow of the dark-lantern, and countless stalactites hung from the ceiling. From each stalactite hung a bizarre little ornament of sticks and bones, lashed together with twine. For a long time, her eyes traveled back and forth across them, uncomprehending. Eventually her eyes moved to the walls, scanned slowly across them, and then at last fell to the surrounding floor.
A body lay beside her.
She stifled a cry. Horror and fear surged through her again. How could the mere relief of vision, of the lack of blackness, have allowed her to forget, even for a moment . . . ?
She shut her eyes. But the renewed dark was even worse. Shehad to know.
At first, there was so much blood on the face that she couldn’t make it out. And then, slowly, the outlines seemed to resolve themselves. It was the ruined face of Tad Franklin: staring back at her, open-mouthed.
She turned her head violently away; heard herself scream, then scream again.
There was a grunt and she now sawhim for the first time, coming around the corner and advancing toward her, a long, bloody knife in one hand, something wet and red in the other.
He was smiling and singing to himself.
The scream died as her throat closed involuntarily at the sight.
That face—!
Fifty-Four
Hazen stood before the assembled law enforcement officers. What he had to say wouldn’t take long: it was a good crew, and they had a good plan. McFelty wouldn’t stand a chance.
There was only one problem. Tad hadn’t yet returned from the plant, and radio communications were down. Hazen would have preferred to hand off control directly before leaving, but
he could wait no longer. Medicine Creek was well secured and properly hunkered down: Tad had clearly seen to that already. It was already a few minutes to ten. He didn’t want McFelty slipping away under cover of the storm. They had to go. Tad would know what to do.
“Where’s the dogs?” he asked.
Hank Larssen spoke up. “They’re bringing them straight to the Kraus place. Meeting us there.”
“I hope to hell they got us some real dogs this time. Did you ask for that special breed they’ve been training up in Dodge, those Spanish dogs, what are they called?”
“Presa canarios,” Larssen said. “I did. They said their training wasn’t complete, but I insisted.”
“Good. I’m through playing around with lap dogs. Who’s the handler?”
“Same as last time. Lefty Weeks. He’s their best.”
Hazen scowled, shucked out a cigarette, lit it.
Now he raked the group with his gaze. “You all know the drill, so I’ll be brief. The dogs go first, then the handler—Lefty—then me and Raskovich.” He pointed at the KSU security chief with his cigarette.
Raskovich nodded, his jaw tightening with the gravity of the situation.
“Raskovich, you know how to use a twelve-gauge?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I’ll issue you one. Behind us, as backup, there’ll be Cole, Brast, and Sheriff Larssen.” He nodded to two state troopers dressed in full raid wear: black BDU pants bloused over Hi-Tec boots, blacked-out bulletproof vests. No more Boy Scout hats—this was going to be the real thing. Then he turned back to Larssen. “That okay with you, Hank?”
The Deeper sheriff nodded.
Hazen knew it was important to play the political game, keep Hank in the loop, make sure he was part of the team. Hank clearly wasn’t happy about it, but there wasn’t much he could do: this was Hazen’s turf, and until the operation was finished and outside communication was restored, it was completely his show. In the end Hazen would make sure Larssen looked good. They’d all share credit—Raskovich, too—and there wouldn’t be any backstabbing when it came to trial.
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