by Kathy Reichs
My mind was on fire now, spitting data forgotten since the time it was stored.
I raced upstairs and snatched a photo from the bureau. Sat on the bed. Placed the bureau photo on my knees beside the morgue shot of Candy. Looked from one to the other, forcing the lens steady in my hand.
Holy shit.
I flipped the bureau photo. Read the handwritten list on the back.
Holy free-flying shit.
I grabbed the phone and dialed.
Got Slidell’s voicemail.
“Jesus H. Christ!”
My eyes flew to the clock. 10:40. Slidell was probably at the massage parlor in NoDa.
I left a message. Call me ASAP. It’s urgent.
I disconnected. Tossed the handset onto the bed. Got up and paced.
Everyone carries a mobile. Why couldn’t Slidell keep his turned on?
10:45.
Come on. Come on.
More pacing.
10:50.
Keep busy.
I double-stepped down the stairs and made myself more coffee, knowing caffeine was the last thing I needed. To keep my mind occupied, I returned to the papers covering the dining room table.
Verified.
Thought about the implications.
Of course. That had to be it.
11:05.
Where the hell was Slidell?
I ran to the study. Punched speed dial on that handset.
“‘Lo.” Pete sounded groggy.
“It’s Tempe.”
“Yes.” Pete yawned. “I know that.”
“I need a favor.”
A woman spoke in the background, words also sleepy thick.
“You’re up late. Partying?”
“Does it sound like there’s a party here?” I snapped.
“Whoa. Bad day?”
“I have a question for you.”
“Bring it on.”
I asked.
“Maria … no, Marianna. Mariette? No, definitely Marianna.”
“What was her maiden name?”
“Is it important to know this now?”
“Yes.”
“Hold on.”
I heard bed linens swish. A whiny protest from Summer. Then the ambient sound changed, as though Pete had moved to another room.
In moments I had my answer.
“Thanks, Pete. I have to …”
“You okay? You sound strange.”
“I’m fine. I’ve got to go. Thanks.”
11:10.
I disconnected and called Slidell again. Left the same message.
It all made sense. Terrible, improbable sense.
I returned to the lineup on the mantel. Stared at the photo from John-Henry’s Tavern. At the man hidden by the camera flash.
“You vile sonofabitch,” I whispered under my breath.
But now what? It was nearing midnight.
Wait to hear from Slidell? Wait until morning?
Other girls were in danger. I knew it in my gut. If they weren’t dead already. Like Candy.
Or had they been taken to another town, another state? To disappear forever into the pipeline.
No. They were still in Charlotte. I was certain.
A million places to hold girls prisoner.
Two million to bury their bodies.
Slidell had talked to Rockett, to Tarzec. These animals knew the knot was tightening. And had zero respect for human life.
If alive, would the girls survive to see daylight?
Where the hell was Slidell?
Where the hell was Birdie?
I dashed outside for another look. Another round of shouting. No cat.
I pictured e-mails. Citizenjustice. A tongue in a box.
An icy hand clutched my chest.
Had these bastards taken my cat?
I slammed inside. Paced the parlor, frantic what to do.
Breathe.
Breathe.
To keep from going crazy, I opened the bright yellow file lying on the desk in the study.
I began with the crime-scene shots. A lonely road. A vinyl boot. A pathetic little mound under a red wool blanket.
I moved to the autopsy photos. X-rays showing a fractured chin and crushed hand. White cotton panties with pale blue dots. A shoulder, bruised in a pattern of dashes.
The last half dozen photos were new to me. Larabee or Hawkins had taken the close-ups from different angles. They showed a skull peeled bare of its face and hair. A blood-coated object shaped like a long, slender triangle.
I stared at the sliver Larabee had removed from Candy’s scalp.
Ivory, not bone.
How had Candy ended up with ivory in her head?
I’d seen a carved tusk in Dominick Rockett’s home. Did ivory often pass through his hands?
I got my laptop and Googled the phrase “ivory uses.”
Statuary, carvings, decorative embellishments, billiard balls, bathroom handles, piano keys, signature seals, radar and airplane guidance components.
Useless.
I decided to try another tack.
Where had Candy been seen? The Taquería Mixcoatl. The Passion Fruit Club. The Yum-Tum convenience store. They all clustered in a fairly tight radius not far from the Rountree–Old Pineville intersection where her body had been found.
Were the missing girls being held in that area?
I clicked over to Google Maps and zoomed in on the Passion Fruit. Around it spread a warren of roofs and empty lots.
The roofs varied in size and shape but revealed nothing of what lay below them. Most properties were fenced. Some fences were topped with razor wire.
Pausing the cursor generated labels on a few of the buildings. A storage facility. A warehouse. The Bronco Club.
It was the kind of district that exists in most cities. A place where things are manufactured, stashed, or left to rust.
Had the girls been taken to a location somewhere in that maze?
Frustrated, I returned to the file.
Gran’s clock ticked softly as I worked through the pages.
Ten minutes later, I heard a soft noise, like scratching. Elated, I flew to the front door. No feline sat on the porch.
I tried the kitchen door. Empty stoop.
I was on the patio, calling Bird’s name, when headlights swept the drive. Seconds later, a cruiser passed. I waved. The cop waved. Dejected, and frightened for my cat, I went back inside.
The amber light on the landline was flashing.
Sonofabitch!
Slidell’s message was short. The massage parlor in NoDa was closed and padlocked. That was it. Nothing else.
I hit redial. Got his goddamn voicemail.
Dismayed and exhausted, I forced myself to read the last printout in the yellow file. An FBI report.
I was skimming through jargon about solvents and binders and pigments and additives when I remembered something Slidell had said.
Methyl this and hydrofluoro that.
Hydrofluorocarbons?
I took a closer look at the list of components found in the smear on Candy’s purse.
Difluoroethane.
The dispatcher in my subconscious sat up and took notice.
Sudden flash. Pete on the phone in his Beemer. Summer, fixing up antique bottles for the tables at her wedding.
Difluoroethane.
In vehicular paint?
I Googled the term. Pulled out the relevant and dismissed the background noise.
… propellant necessary … initially chlorofluorocarbons, banned in 1978 … propane and butane abandoned in the ’80s … since 2011, hydrofluorocarbons such as difluoroethane and tetrafluororethane …
My pulse kicked up a notch.
I closed my eyes. Saw a building. A NO TRESPASSING sign in the rain.
Facts toggled.
Images cascaded.
My lids flew open.
I shot to my feet. Raced for the phone.
Again, my call rolled to Slidell’s voicemail.
Mother of God!
“I know where the trafficked girls have been taken. I’m going there.” I left the address and disconnected.
Adrenaline pounding, I grabbed a jacket, shoved a flashlight into one pocket, snatched up keys, and bolted for my car.
I PEERED THROUGH rusty chain linking. A fingernail moon crisscrossed by pewter tendrils revealed the scene beyond the fence in charcoal and black.
The warehouse loomed dark and menacing. Though shadowed, I recognized the loading dock and its motley collection of rusty kegs, rickety table, and defaced piano.
A truck was parked at the base of the dock.
At my back, across the street, the small bungalow brooded silent and empty.
Stepping gingerly, I worked my way around the perimeter of the property, searching for an opening in the fence. It didn’t take long. Opposite the building’s south side, the chain linking had been cut and bent inward.
Thanking the vagrants so disparaged by Slidell, I slipped through the breach. Six feet inside, a rusted sign kinked up from the ground on bent metal legs. Carefully shielding the bulb with my palm, I thumbed on my flashlight.
The sign announced the coming of thirty-six luxury lofts. I crouched behind it to listen.
The night was alive with sound. Leaves skittering across gravel-coated concrete. The muted whistle of a distant train. My own terrified breathing.
No one shouted at me to show myself or get lost.
I didn’t really have a plan. In a fever to rescue the girls, I’d simply raced here.
I stared at the building. It stared back, yielding none of its secrets.
My breath caught. Had a shadow crossed one of the upper-floor windows? I studied the broken, dirt-caked glass. Detected no movement.
Ten yards of concrete yawned between the fence and the building. Here and there a puddle gleamed darkly iridescent. Rocks and objects of indeterminate function dotted the expanse. Nothing big enough to provide cover.
I waited out a count of thirty, then fired forward.
Reaching the murky dimness below the dock, I pressed my back to the brick and listened again.
Dripping water. The cooing of startled pigeons.
I eyeballed the pickup, a Chevy with deeply tinted windows. Like the one I’d seen outside the Mixcoatl.
Citizenjustice? The man who’d left a severed tongue at my home? Was he here? Had he been at the taquería, watching? Already planning D’Ostillo’s murder?
I tiptoed up the rusty metal stairs. A door stood open at the far end of the dock. I crossed to it and slipped inside.
The smell hit me like a roundhouse punch. Stagnant water, urine, mold, pigeon droppings.
I desperately wanted to relight the flash. Decided it was too risky until I’d established who was present.
Heart yammering, I crept forward. Liquid sloshed beneath my sneakers. Between the pooled water, bird shit crunched.
Slowly, my pupils adjusted. I took in details made visible by patchy moonlight oozing through gaps in the windows high above.
The warehouse was cavernous. One brick wall was scorched with long black serpentine tongues. One was painted with graffiti. A bird, an Egyptian ankh, the words WORTH THE WAIT on a bright pink heart.
I looked up. Nests lined the rafters, some topped by billed silhouettes. I sensed a thousand avian eyes on my back.
Something rustled by my right foot. Claws skittered.
I fought the impulse to scream. Imagined more eyes, beady and red. Yellowed teeth and long naked tails.
Palms slick, I moved deeper into the gloom. Dust coated my tongue. Or atomized guano. I swallowed, immediately regretted it.
I’d gone maybe thirty feet when an unmistakable sound touched my ears.
I froze.
The first footfall was followed by another.
From above? Behind? Outside? Echoes distorted the soft scraping, making it impossible to pinpoint the source.
Blood racing, I ducked into a recess and dropped to a squat, praying the shadows were thick enough to conceal me.
I strained for the faintest indication of a human presence. Heard nothing but intermittent cooing.
Time passed. How much? Enough for my pulse to slow somewhat.
I started to get to my feet. My knees buckled from lack of circulation. I pitched forward.
My hands impacted something firm yet yielding, molded hardness beneath.
Fingertip memories triggered an image.
I jumped back in horror.
The man sat propped against a wall, head angled toward but not touching his left shoulder. One shoe was off, and a tube sock winked white in the gloom.
Between the tuque on his head and the darkness in the alcove, I couldn’t make out the man’s features.
But I could make out that he was no threat.
Blood trickled from below the hat to pool in the recess of his right eye. As I stared, a drop broke free from the bridge of his nose.
Pulse galloping anew, I took a shaky step closer. A Beretta 9mm lay beside the man’s hip. Still, I couldn’t see his face clearly.
A few inches more and, with trembling fingers, I Braille-read the man’s features. Rutted oatmeal channels. Rubbery smooth bands. A bulging brow. A mangled nostril.
Cognitive liftoff.
My hand recoiled in shock.
Without thinking, I plucked the man’s cap from his head and shined my light on his face.
Dom Rockett’s good eye stared into a future he would never enjoy. Blood snaked from a hole above his right temple.
I felt, what? Pity? Anger? Yeah, anger. I’d wanted Rockett alive to face justice. Fear? Yeah, a boatload of fear.
Mostly, I felt confusion.
Before I could ponder the implications of Rockett’s death, another footstep snapped my head up. I killed the beam and dove deeper into the alcove.
Other footsteps followed. Grew louder.
Heart pounding, I crawled toward the brick angling down to form the edge of the recess. Craned out.
More footfalls. Then boots appeared at the top of the stairs, beside them a pair of small feet, one bare, the other in a platform pump.
The feet started to descend, the small ones wobbly, their owner somehow impaired. The lower legs angled oddly, suggesting the knees bore little weight.
Anger burned hot in my chest. The woman was drugged. The bastard was dragging her.
Four treads lower, the man and woman crossed an arrow of moonlight. Not a woman, a girl. Her hair was long, her arms and legs refugee thin. I could see a triangle of white tee below the man’s chin. A pistol grip jutting from his waistband.
The pair again passed into darkness. Their tightly pressed bodies formed a two-headed black silhouette.
Stepping from the bottom tread, the man started muscling the girl toward the loading-dock door, pushing her with a one-handed neck hold. She stumbled. He yanked her up. Her head flopped like a Bobblehead doll’s.
The girl took a few more staggering steps. Then her chin lifted and her body bucked. A cry broke the stillness.
The man’s free arm shot out. The silhouette recongealed. I heard a scream of pain, then the girl pitched forward onto the concrete.
The man dropped to one knee. His elbow pumped as he pummeled the inert little body.
“Fight me, you little bitch?”
The man punched and punched until his breath grew ragged.
Rage flamed white-hot in my brain, overriding any instinct for personal safety.
I scuttled over and grabbed the gun. Checked the safety, thankful for the practice I’d put in at the range.
Satisfied, I reached for my phone. It wasn’t with the flashlight.
I searched my other pocket. No phone.
Had I dropped it? In my frenzied dash, had I left it at home?
The panic was almost overwhelming. I was off the grid. What to do?
A tiny voice advised caution. Remain hidden. Wait. Slidell knows where you are.
“You a
re so dead.” The voice boomed, cruel and malicious.
I whipped around.
The man was wrenching the girl up by her hair.
Holding the Beretta two-handed in front of me, I darted from the alcove. The man froze at the sound of movement. I stopped five yards from him. Using a pillar for cover, I spread my feet and leveled the barrel.
“Let her go.” My shout reverberated off brick and concrete.
The man maintained his grasp on the girl’s hair. His back was to me.
“Hands up.”
The man let go and straightened. His palms rose to the level of his ears.
“Turn around.”
As the man rotated, another fragment of light caught him. For a second I saw his face with total clarity.
The face in the mug shot.
Ray Majerick.
On spotting his foe, Majerick’s hands dipped slightly. Sensing he could see me better than I could see him, I squeezed further behind the pillar.
“The fucking slut lives.”
You’ll die, too, fucking slut.
“Lose the gun.”
Majerick didn’t move.
“Now!” I racked back the slide on the Beretta.
Majerick pulled the gun from his waistband and tossed it. I heard it hit somewhere near the loading-dock door.
“Takes balls to send threats by e-mail.” My voice sounded much more confident than I felt. “To bully defenseless little girls.”
“Debt to pay? You know the rules.”
“Your debt-collecting days are over, you sick sonofabitch.”
“Says who?”
“Says a dozen cops racing here now.”
Majerick cupped an upraised hand to one ear. “I don’t hear no sirens.”
“Move away from the girl,” I ordered.
He took a token step.
“Move,” I snarled. Majerick’s fuck-you attitude was making me want to smash the Beretta across his skull.
“Or what? You’re gonna shoot me?”
“Yeah.” Cold steel. “I’m gonna shoot you.”
Would I? I’d never fired at a human being.
Where the hell was Slidell? I knew my bluff was being sustained by coffee and adrenaline. Knew both would eventually wear off.
The girl groaned.
In that split second I lost the advantage that might have allowed Majerick to live.
I looked down.
He lunged.
