Another blaze of lightning, then more darkness. The light was gone from the building, which meant either we’d been detected, or we weren’t far behind Roman and Hiram. I signaled Clyde with a touch to his shoulder and we maneuvered past the SUV and pressed against the ancient bricks of the warehouse, watching for movement. When nothing stirred, we moved along the wall, looking for an opening.
Fifteen feet on, we reached a doorway, and I halted Clyde. The door itself was long gone. I snugged the night-vision goggles into place and peered around the concrete jamb.
Beyond the doorway, a vast, empty room—made green by the goggles—stretched ahead of us and to the right. A stone-paved floor and high windows gave the place the feel of an ancient prison. I signaled Clyde and we eased through the doorway and hunkered down just inside. I took another look around, straining my ears for any sound. In here, the rain was a muffled thrumming, like distant drums. Nothing moved.
Hoping that somewhere nearby lay an entrance to a mining shaft, I pulled out the necktie and gave Clyde a hit.
“Seek!” I said softly.
Clyde took off, with me right behind. Forty feet into the room, he slowed and then stopped, his nose to the floor where a slight disturbance turned it uneven—a stone slab lay askew from the others. Beneath it, the goggles revealed a darker shade of green, as if the stone concealed an opening. Clyde’s nostrils flared as he breathed in the scent, then he raised his head and looked to me for guidance.
I squatted next to him, listened for a moment, then knelt and pressed one eye to the crack. The goggles showed a long shaft that dropped into the ground before making a ninety-degree turn. An aluminum ladder, affixed to wooden rails, led downward. I rose back to a squat and lifted the thin slab away from the opening, careful not to let the stone scrape against the floor.
With the stone gone, cool, moist air wafted upward. It smelled of dirt and rotting vegetation and old roots. And another smell—the sludge and stir of the dark depths of the Platte River.
I closed my eyes. Darkness and cramped spaces and rising water. I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat and opened my eyes. I gave Clyde another hit on the tie. He drew in a deep breath and circled the opening, wagging his tail.
“Okay, boy,” I whispered. “Hold on.”
I removed the can of Silly String and sprayed a large cluster of brightly colored strands near the entrance to mark our passage. Then I unclipped Clyde’s lead, rolled onto my stomach, and lowered myself until my feet hit the first rung of the ladder. I went down two more rungs, then signaled for Clyde to follow. This was a routine he knew well. He dropped onto his own belly and shimmied his rear over the edge.
When I was a kid, my neighbor had a German shepherd that could climb up and down ladders. Going up was easy. Coming down, the dog always put me in mind of an old man, gingerly feeling his way back to earth, his rear paws sliding on the aluminum rungs, his head swiveling from side to side as he picked his way down.
Clyde was more sure-footed. He’d practiced this maneuver with his new trainer many times, starting with a nearly horizontal ladder that Avi had gradually made steeper. Now, as Clyde made his way down, I stayed right below him, guiding his feet, ready to catch him if he slipped.
The ladder ended in a cramped space. A man-height tunnel led off to the left and the right, in opposite directions. Clyde jumped from the final rung, and I clipped on his lead, then gave him another hit on Hiram’s tie.
In the dark, guided only by scent, Clyde turned into the western tunnel, heading away from the cement factory. I marked our path with more Silly String and followed.
The tunnel was an engineering marvel. Maybe it had begun as nothing more than a narrow passage carved out by Ennis Parker or another man in the search for gold. But at some point someone, presumably Roman, had improved upon it.
The tunnel was four feet wide, more than five feet high, and buttressed every ten feet by wooden support beams. The path was flat and well groomed. Lanterns hung at regular intervals, although none were lit. Despite the dark, Clyde walked fast, with confidence. The only sounds were his breathing and mine. And a faint, faraway whisper—the distant murmur of water.
My goggles picked out walls that shone with damp. Patches of moisture gleamed on the floor.
Three minutes deeper into the tunnel, Clyde stopped, his ears up, his posture rigid. Then he lay down. Behind him, I froze, my breath trapped as my heart tried to rise into my throat.
Only three things would make Clyde alert in this manner: contraband, trespassers, and explosives. Since we were alone in the tunnel and we weren’t searching a train for contraband, that left only one option.
A bomb.
I took an involuntary step backward as my mind ran down a list in a flash, like a flame licking along a fuse. Pipe bombs, suitcase bombs, barrel bombs, land mines. Bouncing bombs, pressure-cooker bombs, IEDs. All the different explosives that had torn humans apart since the invention of gunpowder.
A gibbering part of my brain begged me to turn and run. Away from bombs and water-weakened tunnels and a psychopathic killer. To get myself and my partner out of there and back up to solid ground and the sweet, life-giving rush of fresh air.
Behind me, the Six stirred, a rustling felt rather than heard. Here to witness my end.
Then a voice in my ear. The Sir.
Steady, he said. We’re still good.
I took a deep breath and forced myself to study the tunnel, looking for signs of explosives. Ten feet along, on the right-hand side of the path, a small heap of dirt and rock disrupted the otherwise clean space. The debris looked innocent—a normal by-product of clearing and maintaining the tunnel.
I swallowed. My mouth was dry and my heart felt like it was trying to flee without me.
But I’d expected this. More than expected it. I’d known Roman would protect his tunnels in the same way he’d guarded the kiln. And since bomb makers tend to specialize, I’d also known he’d probably use the same kind of detonator. I pulled the can of Silly String from my pocket and sprayed a long stream into the seemingly empty space ahead of us.
In Iraq, soldiers had come to rely on this child’s toy as an effective way to find a bomb’s trip wire. As it fell to the ground, the sticky material would cling to the wire and show its location. A perfect reveal without being heavy enough to trigger the bomb.
But now, the plastic strands fell uselessly to the ground. I inched forward and sprayed again. This time the ten-foot-long strands caught on an invisible wire a foot above the ground. The threads hung like Christmas tree tinsel, swaying gently in a faint draft.
I heard a moan, realized it was mine.
Beside me in the tunnel the Sir said, You’re scared. That’s okay. Keeps you sharp.
I stared at the trip wire then set my jaw and drew back my shoulders. In Iraq, I’d handled dead bodies until my fingers stopped working and my legs gave way and the stench of the dead stayed with me like my own skin. I’d been spit on, shot at, blown up. I’d brought the dead back with me from Iraq and added a few more. I’d done so because I’d sworn to protect my country.
And so what? Marines were tough. First in, last out. America’s conscience and its might.
“What do you say, partner?” I whispered.
Clyde lay still, waiting for a signal from me that he could rise. Waiting for me to get my act together.
His tail thumped. “Game on,” he was saying.
I signaled him to stand, then I squatted next to him, slid my hands under his belly like a forklift, and hugged him tight. Clyde stayed quiet. I lifted my right foot high over the trip wire, brought it down on the other side, followed through with my left.
Nothing went boom. The world stayed in place. The Silly String still swayed softly, a warning for anyone who followed.
I set Clyde back on the ground and released my breath.
“Seek,” I said softly, and off he went.
At some point, the tunnel narrowed and the ceiling lowered, reducing me to a hunc
hed walk. The patches of moisture on the ground turned into puddles; my boots became tacky with wet clay, and Clyde’s paws built up a scrim of mud. Whenever we passed other tunnels that yawned into the dark, I marked our route. As we went along, the trail we followed began to glow in my mind—I recalled one of the maps Roman had pinned in his room and recognized the route. The turns were leading us toward the river.
By now, up above, Cohen and other police would have arrived. They would have found my truck and the Mercedes, and were probably making their way into the building.
But down in this tomb, I could hear nothing except my own breath and Clyde’s, and the persistent murmur of water.
The tunnel made an almost-ninety-degree turn to the right. I halted Clyde, cleared the corner, then motioned him forward. As soon as we rounded the corner, the sound of voices drifted toward us from the tunnel ahead.
I halted Clyde again and lowered my goggles. Up ahead, a light shone. The tunnel widened before it made another ninety-degree turn, this one thirty feet ahead and to the left. Clyde and I were in a blind pocket between the two ninety-degree turns. I looked around for a camera or motion detector, but the passageway lay empty. The double-blind was a dubious defense strategy on Roman’s part. There was no way for us to see him—but also no way for him to see us. I signaled Clyde to sit, then hunkered down beside him, weapon drawn, working to sort out the voices.
Water pooled around our feet.
“I set up a trust for your expenses,” said a man. “And every month I sent enough money to your grandmother to take care of you. To pay for your college, to buy you whatever you needed.”
Hiram. His voice was steady—neither defeated nor defiant. The voice of a man negotiating a deal in the boardroom. “You had everything that you could—”
“Blood money!” The second voice came harsh. “She’s an addict. A junkie. We barely had enough to live on. It was like a fucking prison being out there with her. She snorted your blood money. Injected it. Swallowed it.”
Jack Hurley, aka Roman Quinn.
“All these years you’ve had to tell me,” he went on. “To claim me as your son. All these goddamn years, and you never once acknowledged me.”
Clyde and I crept closer. Two feet. Three feet. My boots made a splashing sound, and I looked down. There was an inch of water on the ground.
“Your grandmother didn’t want me to—”
“Shut up.”
Four feet. Six. Ten. Somewhere there was a faint clanging, like metal on metal. But I couldn’t tell if the sound came from ahead or behind.
“None of that matters,” Roman said. “I survived. But you murdered my mother.”
“No, Roman. I swear. I didn’t hurt her.”
Clyde stopped. His nose came up as he sampled the air. Then he alerted by sitting down.
Another bomb. Sweet Jesus.
“She was helping me,” Hiram said. “Why would I hurt her? She was—”
There came the ugly wet slap of something hard striking flesh, and Hiram went silent. Then another sound, both gut-wrenching and sweeter than anything I’d ever heard.
A child. Crying.
I reached with my left hand for the Silly String, my eyes flicking from the tunnel for an instant. I swore softly when the can caught against the pocket flap.
Clyde growled, and I whipped my head up.
“Freeze,” said Roman, “or I will blow out your fucking brains.”
I stopped. Clyde came half out of his alert.
“Stay,” I said to him. “Bleib.”
He sank back down.
Leaving my left hand on the can of spray, I raised my eyes.
Roman stood at the corner. He had his left eye closed and was watching me down the barrel of a .45.
“You are persistent,” he said.
“The cops are right behind me.”
He shrugged and lowered the pistol slightly. “It doesn’t matter. I’m almost done here.”
“Give me Lucy.”
“Move and I’ll shoot the dog first. Payback. Then you.”
My own weapon was pointed down and to the right, where I’d let my hand drift as I reached for the spray. And yet, I considered.
“Put your gun on the ground,” he said. “And let me see your hands.”
“Roman,” I said, softly. “I’m just here for the girl.”
“Now!” he shouted.
I dropped it. It made a small splash when it landed.
“Kick it toward me.” When I gave it a small nudge, he said, “Farther.”
The gun skidded along the ground and landed near Roman’s feet.
“Let me take Lucy,” I said.
He shook his head. “When I am finished, there will be nothing left in this world that is his.”
“Except you.”
“I’ll die with them. One big, unhappy family, finally all together. That’s why I took her. So Hiram can watch her die.”
“If that’s what you want, why didn’t you go back and finish the job with Ben? I can’t imagine you’d let a single cop stop you.”
“No need. If he survives, he’ll know what his family suffered.” Roman’s smile didn’t come within shouting distance of his eyes. “And by now, I suspect you know a little about Ben Davenport. He’ll finish the job himself. And then we’ll all be in hell together.”
Behind me, in the tunnel, came another faint noise. I coughed, hoping to cover the sound of any approaching cavalry. Clyde was wound as tight as a compressed spring, but he didn’t even twitch an ear.
“Hiram didn’t kill your mother, Roman. I have a confession from the murderer.”
He grinned at me. “Nice try.”
“Your mother was murdered by a railway cop,” I said. “Fred Zolner. You know Zolner. You paid him a visit, hoping he could tell you something about what happened that night. He was there at the start of the affair. He was the one who drove your mother to see your father. All those hours together in the car. He fell in love with her.”
“Not bad,” Roman said. “How long did it take you to think up that story?”
“The night she died was the night Zolner decided to tell her how he felt. He thought she’d give up your father for a man who truly loved her. But after he poured out his heart to her, she rejected him. Laughed at him. Called him Devil Eye. And he strangled her for it.”
Roman’s eyes flicked toward the room on his right, maybe looking to read something in Hiram’s face.
I dropped my hand to reach for the Silly String.
His gaze snapped back. “Don’t.”
I lifted my hand again. “I just talked to him an hour ago. He’s been hiding from you at the Royal Tavern. Do you remember him from when you were a child? He sent your mother love letters.”
The first glint of uncertainty showed in Roman’s eyes.
Far away, the earth groaned. Closer by, a wooden timber creaked. My heartbeat was so loud in my ears I was amazed I could hear anything else.
“Your mother and her friend used to laugh about that,” I said, my words racing out in a rapid staccato. “They called him Devil Eye because he has only one good eye.”
Roman shook his head. “Thin, Parnell.”
“He confessed.”
“So you say.”
“He drank Rebel Yell,” I went on. I inched to my left as if I were jittery, drawing his gaze, trying to leave room for whoever was coming up behind us. “He forced your mom to drink some that night. Hoping if she was drunk she’d change her mind. He left the bottle in her car. You can look at the autopsy report.”
“I read the page from Alfred Tate’s journal,” Roman said. “He saw Hiram there.”
I had him. He was listening because he wanted to believe. Needed to believe that his father hadn’t killed his mother.
“Alfred was suspicious,” I said. “But only that. He knew about the affair and he knew about you. He thought your father wanted your mother out of the way. But in fact, she was helping him. She was the one who gave him
what he needed to take away part of Alfred’s railroad. It was much more than an affair.” Just like when talking to the press, it was okay to lie to murderers. “They loved each other, Roman.”
From the tunnel behind me came a faint splash.
“You went after the wrong man,” I said. “The wrong family. Let’s get out of here before the tunnels collapse. Before you have more blood on your hands.”
A shadow loomed behind Roman. Hiram, pale and wide-eyed, blood pouring from a wound on his head. He held a hammer, and now he swung it at Roman.
I didn’t wait to see what happened. I jerked the can free of my pocket and sprayed, looking for the trip wire. Clyde was quivering in frustration.
Up ahead, there came sounds of a struggle, and someone shouted in rage. I didn’t know if it was Hiram or Roman.
The string caught on the wire, and it popped into view.
I looked up and saw that Roman was half-turned away from me, standing over a prone Hiram. Hiram’s face was slicked with blood and his lips were drawn back in a grimace.
I kept my gaze on the trip wire as I lifted Clyde and we stepped over. I was muttering, “Please God, please God,” under my breath, praying that Hiram would keep Roman’s attention long enough for Clyde and me to reach them.
But as I brought my second foot down, Roman spun in our direction, the .45 up.
“Bad mistake,” he said.
And then, behind me, Mac said, “Get down.”
I dropped, still clutching Clyde. Water soaked my clothes, his fur.
Mac’s shot caught Roman high in his left shoulder. He shrieked—a cry that rattled my eardrums—and dropped his gun. It skimmed away in the rising water and fetched up against the wall as Roman sank to one knee.
Dead Stop Page 34
