The shed was mid-way between the tree line and the Brockway Apartments. The maroon paint had mostly flaked off, leaving the wood siding exposed. I froze when a pair of blue jays startled me as they took flight from a nearby oak tree. The roll-up door facing me was large enough for a riding mower. I tried pulling it up by the handle, but it was firmly bolted inside.
I walked around the perimeter and found a door secured with a padlock. It looked recently oiled. A crowbar from my backpack made short work of prying off the hasp and lock. As the door creaked open, a wave of hot air carrying the stench of gasoline and chemicals assailed my nostrils. Just inside, I found a light switch, and a double fluorescent blinked into life, casting a green glow on a riding mower and a tractor. The shed was about twenty feet square. Dust covered everything, making it seem like I was stepping back in time. I swept my flashlight along shelves of abandoned gardening and rodent control supplies. The rusty cans hadn't been touched in a long while, but there were no suspicious leaks. In places, the dust was smudged, showing more recent human activity.
At the far end of the shed, someone had pushed a workbench against the back of the roll-up door. When my flashlight beam hit it, a chill ran through me. Three cans of lacquer thinner and a coil of pyrotechnic fuse sat next to two plastic water bottles filled with a clear liquid. The type of container you might take on a picnic. A short length of fuse protruded from the straw-hole in the lid of each one. All readily available materials. I carefully unscrewed one of the caps and smelled the contents. The noxious smell confirmed they were filled with the lacquer thinner, a highly flammable solvent. It was an amateurish way to start a fire, as the plastic bottle would leave a residue. But the result would be as damaging as anything a professional could do.
It was imperative that I call it in before the arsonist went to work.
I reached in my pocket for my prepaid phone. Nothing. Damn, it must have fallen out in the Jeep.
Hurrying, I stepped out of the shed door and into the gathering darkness. The first blow glanced off the side of my head. I bent sideways to absorb the impact, as another blow hit me hard in the midriff, doubling me over. Pain radiated throughout my body, and shooting stars shot across my vision. How had I been stupid enough to walk into a trap?
There were two of them. The short one in front of me looked a lot like Pascoe.
"Stupid bitch couldn't mind her own business," a voice from behind said, as his fingers encircled my throat and squeezed. I tried to pull them away, but my assailant was too powerful.
My vision blurred as I tried in vain to breathe while my hand searched for my pistol.
Then my knees buckled, my legs gave way, and everything went black.
CHAPTER 48
PRENTISS PARKED HIS TOYOTA behind three police cruisers and a Highway Patrol car blocking Brickman's car from leaving. The security chief's black Honda sat on a lawn, twenty feet from the entrance to the pediatric building at Abbey Mount Hospital. All four doors were wide open after responding officers searched it for weapons.
It was a curious end to a pursuit that had begun in the downtown area, thirty-five minutes earlier. Officer McAdams had spotted the wanted vehicle and tried to stop it. But Brickman sped away and led her on a meandering chase through city streets, often doubling back on himself. The area was built up, and there were too many pedestrians to employ a pit maneuver to stop the fleeing vehicle. Brickman was not driving excessively fast, though he was blowing through red lights and stop signs, causing several fender benders.
Other officers had joined in the pursuit, and their radio traffic buzzed with guesses as to where the fugitive might be heading. But they were all proved wrong when Brickman's car turned into the hospital entrance. The Honda came to a halt on the lawn, and the driver jumped out. McAdams chased him on foot into the nearby pediatric building, but he blended into a crowd of parents and children in the foyer. No one was able to tell her where her quarry had gone. She'd stood on tiptoe scanning for his oversized head and shiny pate, but Brickman had vanished.
Prentiss was met in the foyer by Doctor Paul Walker who was in a heated exchange with Officer Smith. Walker turned and jabbed his finger on the detective's chest. "This is outrageous. We can't have you people racing around. There are some very sick children here, and they need peace and quiet."
"There's an armed fugitive in the building. You need to gather everyone you can find and lock yourselves in a room while we search for him," Prentiss said. Without waiting for a response, he addressed Smith. "Where are the other officers?"
"We have four—one searching each level, but there's no sign of him. They are all we have for now, but more are on the way. I've shut down the elevators, and I'm watching the stairs, so he can't escape from the floor he's on."
"Are there any other ways out of here?"
"The fire exits are alarmed, so we'll hear if he tries to leave that way. We are spread thin in a building this size until reinforcements arrive."
"What's in the basement?"
"It's just storage rooms. I've searched the open ones, but we need a key for the others."
"Who has keys to the basement rooms?" Prentiss turned to Walker.
The doctor led him to a janitor's room, which he opened with his key. On a wall inside, a board with room numbers held corresponding keys on cup hooks. Great, thought Prentiss, a different key for every room. He pocketed all the keys for the basement, and hurried down the broad staircase, leaving Smith to guard the entrance.
The lower level had fewer rooms than the floors above. Prentiss unlocked the first door and flicked on the lights. They revealed a storage area of about twenty-five feet square. Floor-standing pieces of medical equipment, organized in rows with aisles between, filled the room. Much of it was new, and still in its original plastic wrapping. The contents of the second room were similar but included rows of file cabinets, numbered alphabetically. The remaining six rooms were smaller, each holding an assortment of dusty furniture which clearly had not been used in a long while.
He climbed the stairs and entered the lobby where the rest of the search team had assembled. Smith shook his head—somehow Brickman had slipped out of the building unnoticed.
Prentiss called Andrews and asked him to trace Brickman's phone. After receiving a reply, he disconnected and said, "Our guy's phone is still in the building. They can't say any more accurately than that, but it's here somewhere. It's possible he left it behind to throw us off, but I want you to repeat the search making sure to look in every nook and cranny he could hide in."
"With respect, sir, without tossing the place, it's quite possible we could miss a concealed phone, but no way could we miss a grown man." Smith's comment was met with murmurs of agreement from the rest of the team. "Brickman must have skipped out of a back door. If we hang around inside, we'll lose him again."
Prentiss was reluctant to admit they were right, but he finally said, "Okay, Smith. Take your team and search the grounds while I have another look around inside." As they left, he checked the fire escape doors and opened one. A shrill alarm sounded, and it didn't shut off when he closed the door. Next, he checked the ground floor windows and saw they were all tightly closed with sensors that would trigger the same alarm.
Brickman had to still be here. But where?
Prentiss stepped outside and walked around the brick building, looking for an exit they might have missed. There had to be a reason Brickman fled here after the chase. He saw it on his third lap around the perimeter. The land sloped down at the west end of the building, and the first-floor windows there were higher off the ground. He could see there had once been a row of smaller windows beneath them. The openings were bricked up, but at one time they would have let light into an area below the ground floor. He remembered the basement ended a good fifty feet short of the wall where he now stood.
A sizable room had been sealed up.
Prentiss gave Smith a shout. When the officer appeared from behind an adjacent building, Prentiss explained hi
s discovery. Together they strode into the foyer and found Dr. Walker pacing like a caged animal.
"Do you realize what you did when you set the alarm off?" The doctor fumed. "A surgery was in progress. If they had evacuated due to your thoughtlessness, the life of their patient could have been jeopardized. I had to rush to the operating room and tell them the alarm was the idiot police playing around. Otherwise, they would have ended the procedure early.
"What used to be in the basement at the west end, before it was boarded up?" Prentiss was in no mood to debate Walker.
"What are you talking about?" He glared.
"It's a simple question, doctor."
"I've heard that the cancer therapy center used to be down there, but the area was abandoned and sealed up twenty years ago—long before my time here."
Prentiss called Andrews again. "Is Brickman's phone still in the building?"
After a pause, Andrews replied, "Yes. It moves a few feet now and then. If I were a guessing man, which I'm not, I'd say it's closer to the west end of the building. But there's no way to tell which floor it's on."
Prentiss disconnected and took the stairs two at a time, with Smith following.
"There must once have been a way into the area from the far end of the corridor, or from one of the end rooms at either side." The prospect of capturing Brickman himself excited Prentiss—perhaps then people would start to take him more seriously.
The wall at the end of the corridor felt solid. But in one of the two large storage rooms, a line of filing cabinets backed up against the wall separating Prentiss and Smith from the disused treatment center.
"Look there." Smith was pointing to his feet. Marks on the concrete floor showed where the middle two cabinets had in the past been moved away from the wall. When he gave them a pull, they rolled out on casters revealing a hidden door.
"Dollars to doughnuts Brickman is in there, but we'll be sitting ducks if we go through the door," Prentiss said. "He could pick us off one by one."
Thirty minutes later, reinforcements in the form of Sergeant Patterson and his SWAT team were poised in front of the four-foot-high door. He motioned for everyone to stand to the sides. As the door creaked open, Prentiss saw a black void illuminated by distant lights. Patterson raised a bullhorn to his mouth and said, "this is Stockbridge SWAT. Come out with your hands raised, Brickman. We know you're in there." After a short pause, he continued, "You have five seconds to show yourself before we fill the area with tear gas. Rest assured, you will end up complying. It's up to you how uncomfortable it gets."
A brighter light clicked on, and moments later, Brickman appeared. His large frame was stooped for him to see through the opening. "Okay, I'm coming out. Don't shoot." He ducked under the low lintel, then stood with his hands raised, nervously scanning the array of weapons aimed at him. Patterson pulled the security chief's arms roughly behind his back and handcuffed them.
"What's this about? I've done nothing wrong," Brickman spluttered.
"We need to have a conversation downtown about the death of Matt Baker," Prentiss told him.
Brickman shrugged and was led away by two uniformed officers. The SWAT leader insisted on his team first inspecting the hideaway for booby traps and explosives.
When they were done, Prentiss and Smith stepped through the low door and into the disused therapy treatment center. It was a single large room. The only light came from an office area in a far corner. A cot with blankets and a cabinet full of hanging clothes stood next to a desk covered with an array of computer monitors. The rest of the room was empty save for a couple of pieces of what Prentiss took to be old medical equipment. Faded inspirational posters on the walls were a hangover from the room's former use.
The real-time surveillance images displayed on the four monitors drew their attention. They appeared to be views from other parts of the hospital. Unlike a typical CCTV system which might show corridors and lunchrooms, they cycled through close-ups of employees' desks, and nurses' stations. As the images flashed from camera to camera, Prentiss caught sight of Whitehead making out with Tracy in his home.
"Look at this." Smith had pulled out a shallow drawer. A black ski mask lay next to a laptop and several pistols and revolvers.
Prentiss lifted out the laptop and powered it up. The Windows login screen was for Patrick Whitehead. "Looks like we also have him for the home invasion."
CHAPTER 49
I DRAGGED MYSELF TO MY FEET, but the dingy room gyrated around me, and I had to lean against a wall to keep my balance. The only light came from a narrow window some ten-inches tall set close to the ceiling.
What was I doing here? My memories were fragmented and missing.
Feeling my way around the walls, I found a switch. It brought on overhead fluorescents. The room was bigger than I had first thought—maybe fifteen feet square, with discolored white walls. A few full and opened boxes lay below the window.
My feet felt like lead as I stumbled to the door and tried the handle.
Locked.
The door was sturdy and unyielding—throwing my weight against it did nothing more than bruise my shoulder. The narrow window wasn't a possibility either. I'm slim, but there was no way I could squeeze through it. I was trapped in a basement storeroom. How had I let Beth and Ashley's killers lure me here?
After nine days, I was no closer to uncovering their identity. I didn't doubt they intended for me to die in that room—but how?
I felt my hair, and my hand came away covered in bright red blood, explaining my throbbing headache and amnesia. My clothing was filthy and wrinkled, but still intact—bra and panties on, jeans zipped, T-shirt tucked in. The men had the opportunity to do whatever they wanted with me, but I told myself I'd know if they had. My trusty Sig Sauer pistol was missing along with the silver revolver Andrews lent me. My radio and cell phone were also gone. In the pocket of my jeans was a piece of equipment that looked vaguely familiar—my attackers must have overlooked it.
Frustrated, I tore into several boxes but found nothing more useful than cleaning supplies. The delivery labels said Brockway Apartments—the scene of Beth's murder. Was there a connection? Peeling my way through layers of fuzzy thoughts, it proved impossible to make sense of what had brought me to the grounds of the apartment building.
Who would know to look for me here? Chris Andrews for one. I had worked with him for years. When I needed help to continue to investigate the case after Townsend took my badge and weapon, Andrews had been there for me. Was it for show, until I got too close for comfort? And where were the tools, he'd just lent me? I remembered the backpack I was carrying, but my captors had taken it.
The killers had been one step ahead throughout the investigation, and I was forced to ask myself how they'd been able to keep tabs on me. Scott Prentiss, my partner, was relaying details of our inquiry to his new girlfriend.
Who could I trust?
My hand found a more urgent problem—the door felt unduly hot, and smoke was curling up from the gap at the threshold.
So that was how my captors intended for me to die—they had torched the building.
AT 8:30 A.M. ON THE DAY after his visit to Patrick Whitehead with Megan Riley, Prentiss used his lights and siren to weave the Police Ford Explorer Interceptor through the congested traffic. His passenger, Chris Andrews, had received an alert saying a fire at the Brockway Apartment Complex had gone to three alarms.
"Tell me again why Riley went to Brockway yesterday," Prentiss asked.
"Remember the list of children's names she found. She believes it's linked to the apartments in some way." As they rounded a corner, Andrews saw a thick pall of smoke rising above the trees a mile ahead.
"The reporter was using the list for a story on child cancer victims. It's not complicated, but she always imagines some big conspiracy," Prentiss snapped, his voice edgy. "Damn her for putting herself in danger. All she had to do was stay home, and not work on the case."
Cars and trucks coming the othe
r way were filled with hastily collected possessions—televisions, mattresses, and suitcases. Prentiss braked hard, as the traffic in both directions slowed to a standstill.
"Only emergency vehicles should be driving toward the fire." Prentiss blipped the siren, but nobody moved.
"Go around them, man." Andrews' voice was urgent, nervy.
When the car in front inched forward and stopped, Prentiss yanked the wheel to the right and jolted the Explorer over the curb. The wheels straddled the sidewalk and the grassy verge as they passed the hold-up. Andrews saw that cars in both directions had rear-ended one another. He grabbed the PA system's microphone and announced:
"If your cars are drivable, get them off the road. Do not block emergency vehicles." Andrews repeated his message until they were past the holdup.
Prentiss steered back onto the highway and spurred the car forward. He looked in his rearview. "Some vehicles are complying."
"Main Street is sealed off a quarter mile ahead," Andrews warned.
When they reached the roadblock, a uniformed officer flagged them down and directed Prentiss to park off the street, so as not to block emergency vehicle access. Andrews counted five ladder engines and three water tankers. Two more were just arriving from the opposite direction.
They exited the vehicle and jogged toward the seat of the fire. In the parking lot, they passed a line of waiting ambulances.
"It's the block where Ananda lives." In the distance, Prentiss saw flames licking out of many first-floor windows.
As they neared the conflagration, Andrews recognized the Fire Chief's red helmet and hurried toward him. "Did everyone get out? We're looking for an officer who may still be inside."
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