by Kathy Reichs
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 are 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.
Fresh adrenaline blasted through me.
I raised the gun.
Majerick closed in.
I sited on the white triangle.
Fired.
The explosion echoed brutally loud. The concussion knocked my hands up, but I held position.
Majerick dropped.
In the dimness I saw the triangle go dark. Knew crimson was spreading across it. A perfect hit. The Triangle of Death.
Silence, but for my own rasping breath.
Then my higher centers caught up with my brain stem.
I’d killed a man.
My hands shook. Bile filled my throat.
I swallowed. Steadied the gun and stole forward.
The girl lay motionless. I squatted and placed trembling fingers on her throat. Felt a pulse, faint but steady.
I swiveled. Gazed at Majerick’s mute, malevolent eyes. Did nothing.
Suddenly I was exhausted. Revolted by what I’d just done.
I wondered. In my state, could I make good decisions? Carry through? My phone was back at the house.
I wanted to sit, hold my head in my hands, and let the tears flow.
Instead I drew a few steadying breaths, rose, and crossed what seemed a thousand miles of darkness. Climbed the stairs on rubbery legs.
A single passage cut right at the top. I followed it to the only closed door.
Gun tight in one clammy hand, I reached out and turned the knob with the other.
The door swung in.
I stared into pure horror.
THE SCENE STILL HAUNTS ME. Will the rest of my life.
The room held four girls. Their hair was tangled and dirty. One wore only a long dirty sweatshirt. The others weren’t dressed like pastors’ wives.
Each had an ankle shackled to a pipe running the length of one wall. One was sitting with her arms up, wrists bound by a zip tie looping an overhead pipe. Her head hung between her upraised shoulders, snarled hair hiding her face.
Three pairs of empty handcuffs dangled from the lower pipe. A discarded zip tie lay below.
A half dozen filthy blankets were scattered across the floor. A bucket of urine and feces overflowed in one corner. The smell was unbelievable.
The girls stared at me with the same eyes I’d seen in online images. Blank, devoid of hope. Perhaps high on heroin.
I felt bile rise again. Fought it down.
“It’s all right,” I whispered. “I won’t hurt you.”
The zip-tied girl raised her head. Otherwise, no one moved or spoke.
What to do? I couldn’t leave to call the cops. The girls might be taken while I was gone. I couldn’t chance that.
Stupid! Stupid! How had I forgotten my phone?
As I stood, undecided, one of the girls whispered to another. I didn’t understand the words, but the cadence seemed familiar.
I was about to speak again when the hum of a car engine froze my lips. I darted down the hall, rose on my toes, and peeked over a windowsill.
The glass was frosted and coated with grime. All I could see were twin beams slashing the darkness below.
The engine cut off. The headlights. A door slammed. Boots rattled up the rusted loading-dock steps.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
I raced back up the hall, slipped into the room, and signaled to the girls with an index finger over my lips. They stared. Not understanding? Too numb to react?
Heart rate in the stratosphere, I pressed my back to the wall, gun barrel up and as steady as I could keep it. Mind racing. I’d used one bullet. Had Rockett fired? How many remained in the chamber?
Boots sloshed and crunched across the warehouse floor. Stopped abruptly.
“What the fuck? Ray?”
A moment, then the footsteps charged upstairs.
My finger tightened on the trigger.
The footsteps hurried toward the door, paused, then, to my shock, retreated. I held my breath. Were they moving back down the stairs?
Silence enveloped the warehouse.
Thinking back, I still have no sense of how long I waited.
Pigeons cooed.
My heart thumped.
The car engine did not start up.
Was he gone? Checking Majerick? The girl? Calling in backup?
I had to do something.
I pictured the targets at the Bagram range. Conjured an image of the Triangle of Death.
Palms tight on the grip, I peeked around the door frame.
The blow knocked me sideways. My head cracked brick. My vision swam as my ass hit the floor.
A boot stomped hard on my hand. As pain shot up my arm, my wrist was viciously hyperextended. Something popped. The gun jerked from my fingers.
I screamed and lashed out with a foot. Connected. Heard the gun hit, then skitter. An echoing clink marked its impact with the floor below.
Scrabbling on all fours, I circled to the top of the stairs. Either my opponent was armed or he wasn’t. I had no choice. Bent low, I pelted down, taking two treads at a time.
My pursuer thundered behind.
I ran past Majerick, out the door, and down the loading-dock steps. The Chevy pickup had been joined by a Porsche 911.
I cut left past the vehicles and fired toward the breach in the fence, my pursuer close on my heels.
I almost made it.
Two yards from the developer’s sign, a hand clamped down on my shoulder. I twisted and raked my nails over the skin. Saw parallel trails darken the word RIPPER.
The clamp relaxed a micron. I tore free, lurched forward, and ducked behind the sign.
The man shook the injured hand, clutched a gun in the other.
I hunkered low, pulse throbbing in my temples, my throat, my chest. Why didn’t he pull the trigger?
Then I heard a click.
No bullet pinged metal. Or tore through my flesh.
Another click. Still nothing.
Cursing, the man pocketed his weapon and started toward me.
I bolted for the fence. He was on me with breathtaking speed.
We went down and rolled. Scrap metal and rock jabbed my belly and ribs. Oily water splashed my face and soaked my clothing. Our frantic breathing obliterated all other sound.
Knowing nothing of hand-to-hand combat, I thrashed wildly, stoked on adrenaline and driven by panic.
A miracle. I broke free and began to scrabble toward the opening.
A hand clawed my foot. As my body jerked backward over the ground, my fingers closed on a rusty metal object. The thing was long and cylindrical, I guessed a section of pipe.
With a visceral snarl, I pivoted my torso and swung like a batter going for the upper deck.
And hit a homer.
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br /> The force of the impact dropped my attacker to his knees. His hands flew to his head.
I clambered to my feet, pipe gripped so tightly rust particles showered my arms.
My enemy’s face stood out pale in the moonlight. It didn’t surprise me.
“It’s over, lieutenant.”
Gross looked up, eyes unfocused, expression equidistant between rage and pain.
But I was in a bind. If I went through the fence, he would be gone, maybe first dispatching the girls. Could I hold him at bay? I had to. Had to stall. Had to keep the bastard there until Slidell arrived. Whack him again? No, that could be murder!
“You had me fooled.” Between panting breaths.
Gross swayed on his knees, but said nothing.
“How’s it work?” I asked. “You buy the girls then fly them stateside using fake passports? Or do you skip the niceties and just ship them like cargo?”
Still no response.
“Semper fi, eh, John-Henry?”
Gross’s chin cocked up in surprise. His hands detached from his temples, slowly drifted down.
“The middle initial ‘H’ on the Article 32 charge sheet. Didn’t take a genius to tie you to Uncle John-Henry. You two should make his sister proud. She’s your mother, right? Marianna Story Gross?” I had Pete to thank for that puzzle piece.
“Leave my mother out of this.” Slurred.
I rolled on, desperate for the sound of sirens.
“How’s it feel to dishonor the Corps?” Images flashed in my brain. Tattoos. Badges. “And Ripper. I assume you and Rockett hooked up during Desert Storm. Was the scheme his idea?”
“Rockett couldn’t scheme his way off a toilet seat.” Still woolly, but stronger.
“Was Rockett about to blow the whistle on his old task-force buddy? That why he had to go?”
Gross’s shoulders hitched. For a moment I thought he might laugh.
“What was Candy’s sin? She try to escape? Threaten to talk? Pain in the ass, so just run her down? Was Majerick your muscle on that one, too?”
“Aren’t you the fucking hotshot. Got all the answers.”
I kept talking, and, though my wrist was on fire, tightened my grip on the pipe.
“That why you killed the kid at Sheyn Bagh?”
“Collateral damage.”
“Aqsaee came at you, all right. But not as an insurgent. He wanted to confront you about Ara. That’s what he yelled, right? Ara, not Allah. I guess Eggers’s hearing it wrong helped you with your story.”
