by Mia Marlowe
Where could she be?
“A subbasement,” Ryan answered himself aloud. “Lots of these old buildings have subbasements that get closed off from above. They could search the building a dozen times and not know if someone was down there.”
Matthew checked his watch. “We’ve got 20 minutes. There’s no way to get through security and into the Chandler Building. And no time to find our way into a subbasement, even if one exists.”
“Maybe not from street level. There’s got to be a tunnel.” Ryan took a knee beside Roscoe. “Can you show me the way to Hell?”
The homeless man chuckled mirthlessly. “Ever’body know the way. Just follow they own nose.”
Ryan frowned. What had the man called it before? “How about the bottom of the world? Can you take me there?”
“Devil say don’t go there.”
“We won’t tell him we’re there,” Ryan promised. “What the devil doesn’t know won’t hurt us.”
Roscoe cast a skeptical eye at him. “He know.”
“What’s your drink, man?” Ryan asked.
A smile lifted the fellow’s mouth. “Everclear.”
Ryan nodded. The cheap, nearly 100 proof liquor was so potent, backpackers used it to fuel their camp stoves. No wonder Roscoe was short several million brain cells.
“I’ll make you a deal, friend.” He extended his hand to the homeless man and pulled him to his feet. “Take me to the bottom of the world quick as you can and I’ll buy you enough Everclear to take a bath in.”
“Ok,” Roscoe said as he tottered toward the entrance to the State Street T. “But I ain’t goin’ to waste good shit takin’ no bath in it.”
~
Neville shined his pen light on his watch. Twenty minutes. His heart pounded. Extreme sports enthusiasts were right. Danger made a man’s blood pulse. Sharpened his senses.
His nose twitched. The debris-strewn bowels of the building reeked of decades of dust laced with asbestos fibers and the mouse droppings behind the old oil-fired boiler.
Pity he couldn’t smell Sara Kelley’s fear.
He’d never use drugs on a subject again. She muttered and giggled. She groaned with discomfort and shivered with cold, but she wouldn’t cry out in terror.
All he was getting for his trouble was a decent sketch. He looked down at the drawing in his journal again. The way Sara Kelley’s form floated in space was reminiscent of Marc Chagall and the raw sensuality of the lines in Neville’s work was easily the equal of an early Picasso.
Pity there was none of Edvard Munch’s The Scream.
Neville would have to add the terror later. He looked back up at Sara Kelley. She shifted and tossed her head from one shoulder to the other, trying to ease the ache in her arms. Pain spoke louder to her than fear. It wouldn’t do any good to strip her. If she wasn’t afraid, he’d only embarrass himself with his impotency. He resigned himself to not knowing her as deeply as he’d planned.
Later, when this new sketch was a completed work, when he’d contorted her features in horror, his own warm palm would become her trembling flesh. Then he’d hear her screams as the world exploded in his hand.
Exploded. He shook himself out of his reverie. There would be time later to plumb the depths of fantasy with the delectable Miss Kelley. For now, he needed to stay sharp. He’d never done two guys in such quick succession as this plan called for.
Neville sent a message to Sara’s TTY gifting her ex and her boyfriend her present location. Since they’d left her apartment, they must have made some arrangements to retrieve messages remotely. He was certainly counting on it. He just wished he could see them scrambling to head back in this direction from the Prudential.
Running headlong to their deaths.
Then he checked to make sure the safety was off his Browning. He adjusted the lantern so the light was focused on Sara, leaving him in total darkness.
He’d baited the trap. He’d lured the prey. He would give them fifteen minutes.
Any longer and he ran the risk of not making it out of the building himself. He wondered if Sara Kelley would be aware enough of her surroundings to realize that both her old lover and her new lover were dead at her feet before the ceiling crushed her.
Maybe as Neville made his way back down the long dark tunnel to the T station, he’d finally hear her scream.
~
The light trained on her grew in intensity, but it did nothing to ease the chill leeching into her bones. Sara shifted her head, looking for her captor. She couldn’t pick him out of the blackness.
But she knew he was there.
The same way she’d felt his malignant glare on her in the T station that first time. Her flesh prickled, and not entirely with the cold. He was like a cat before a mouse hole. Waiting to pounce.
For what, she didn’t know.
She let her head fall forward again, not only because she was tired of holding it up. The drug he’d injected her with still warped her senses, but her mind was clearing with each passing minute. If he thought she was still impaired, he might not be as inclined to do anything else to her.
Some things were too horrific to contemplate. She tried not to go there.
She remembered vaguely that he liked it when she screamed in the limo. She held back the shriek fighting to get out now. If she once started, she suspected she’d never stop. She noticed he seemed to step back from her each time hysteria made her giggle. She could use that.
It wasn’t hard to feel hysterical.
Pain danced in stilettos along each nerve. Muscles in her outstretched arms ticked and she had to push herself up to draw a deep breath. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, but she couldn’t help an occasional groan.
He’d put one of her hearing aids in, so she picked up a few things, but none of the sounds gave her comfort. Sara had no idea where she was. She only knew she was in the grip of a madman who wanted to kill her.
She wondered what he was waiting for.
~
“This be the way,” Roscoe said as he fiddled with the old black door marked ‘Authorized Personnel Only.’ “Go through there and ever chance you get, you go down. Straight shot to bottom of the world. Now you be on your own.”
Roscoe kicked the base of the door and it popped open.“How ‘bout you take care o’ me like you say?”
Ryan pulled out his wallet and gave him all the bills he had. “Don’t drink it all in one place. Get out of here now.”
Matthew was already headed down the dark tunnel, the light of his small flashlight jerking ahead of him. Ryan trailed him into the abandoned passageway. The hands on his Luminox dive watch glowed in the dark.
Ten minutes.
“There’s a light ahead,” Matthew said and he ran forward. “It’s gotta be Sara.”
Over Matthew’s shoulder, Ryan saw her, too. His heart dropped to his toes. She was trussed and taped to the tumbled down beams, her arms spread-eagle, her head and torso sagging forward. A light was trained on her form.
“It’s a trap,” he said, clapping a palm on Matthew’s shoulder to stop him from running headlong into the light. They stood still and listened to the silence interspersed with pops and creaks as the old building continued to settle. Vermin made small rustling noises in the debris around them. Sara’s ribs shuddered.
“She’s alive,” he said in relief.
“Yes, she is,” a disembodied voice answered. “But not for long. I’m going to count to ten and then I’ll put a bullet in her heart.”
The way the sound bounced around the chopped up space, it was impossible to pinpoint Rede’s location.
“Now if one of you heroes wants to step up and take it for her, it’s no skin off my nose,” Rede’s voice continued. “One…two…”
Matthew started forward, but Ryan held him back. “No, man,” he whispered. “We go together from opposite sides. Odds are he won’t hit us both and the one left standing has to take him out.”
Matt nodded as he unholstered his
Glock. “Hurry.”
“On 7. Lucky number.” Ryan pulled the Beretta from his belt. He moved quickly and stealthily beyond the reach of the lantern’s light, as Rede continued to count.
“4…5…Look at that, Sara Kelley,” the killer shouted. “No one wants to save you.”
She raised her head and squinted at the light. The expression of puzzlement on her bruised face told Ryan she hadn’t been able to hear all of what Rede said, but she was trying to figure it out. Then her eyes flew wide open and her right hand started finger-spelling.
11 o’clock. She was trying to tell them where Rede was.
“He’s got a gun!” she shouted in warning.
“Damn right I do. I may get impatient and fire early, you know,” he warned. “6!”
Ryan tried orient himself to Sara’s 11 o’clock.
“7!”
He and Matthew exploded from the darkness at the same instant, running flat out toward Sara. In Ryan’s peripheral vision, there was a bloom of flashes as Rede squeezed off a three round burst. Matthew pitched forward, his Glock firing wide.
“Matthew!” Sara wailed.
Ryan bolted toward Sara. A bullet hummed by his ear like an angry hornet. Once he positioned himself to shield Sara with his body, he raised the Beretta and fired at the source of the flashes, Sara’s 11 o’clock. He didn’t stop until he’d emptied the entire clip.
At last, there was a high-pitched scream, followed by a dull thud.
He waited for an instant, unwilling to leave Sara until he was sure Rede was down. Then he sprinted toward the lantern and shined its light on the assassin.
Rede’s legs were crumpled beneath him. One of his kneecaps was shattered. A red stain was spreading at his shoulder. Blood streamed down Rede’s right wrist. His thumb was gone.
“I can’t move my fingers,” he kept repeating as he cradled the ruined hand. “I’ll never paint again.”
He’d never walk without a limp again either, but Ryan was mostly concerned about disarming him. He picked up Rede’s piece and gave it a toss. Then he sprinted back to Sara.
He drew his Swiss Army knife and slashed the duct tape binding her. Stiffly, she lowered her arms, white-lipped with pain.
How much time did they have? Five minutes? Two? Ryan had lost track.
He held her head steady between his palms and made her face him so she could read his lips. “We have to get out of here. Can you walk?”
“Yes, but Matthew…” As soon as Ryan released her, she stumbled to the prone form of her ex-husband. She cradled his head against her chest, chanting his name.
The detective was still alive, but Ryan counted at least two wounds and the pool of red around him was spreading. Matthew met his gaze.
“You get him?” Matthew asked.
“Yeah.”
“Good plan, you lucky bastard,” he croaked. “Now get her the hell out of here.”
“We’re all getting out of here.” Ryan reached down and lifted Matthew in a fireman carry over his shoulder. He steadied Matt’s deadweight with one hand and grabbed Sara’s hand with the other. “Come on.”
She jerked away and ran to snatch the lantern and a small notebook. Then she bolted after Ryan, leaving Rede whimpering in the dark.
Chapter 36
“Don’t leave me,” Neville screamed after them. He tried to stand, but his knee canted backward and threw him to the cold concrete. He reached with his good hand and dragged himself forward, but the blackness was so complete, he was soon disoriented. He didn’t know which way would lead him to the world of light.
He was running out of time.
Tears scalded his cheeks. He’d miss his flight. He’d never lie on the beach and watch the teenage tourists parading past in their string bikinis. He wouldn’t watch the light fade from another pair of terrified eyes.
He wasn’t weeping for himself. Not really. He was weeping for the world. When he thought of all the paintings he had welled up inside him that would never see the light of day, he wanted to scream at the injustice of it all.
So he did.
He shrieked his frickin’ head off.
Then in the slice of a moment between screams when he dragged in a ragged breath, he thought he heard something. Neville held his breath.
It was gentle laughter, very soft. If he hadn’t paused for a breath right then, he might very well have missed it.
“Sol? Is that you?” he asked the blackness. A reply came back to him, barely on the edge of sound. Neville couldn’t quite make it out.
But it comforted him beyond knowing.
In his time of need, it was good of his old mentor to come. He stifled a sob.
It wouldn’t be long now.
~
“Leave me, Knight,” Matthew slurred as Ryan trudged doggedly up the rusted, derelict stairs. The blood was probably rushing to his head and making him woozy.
Go down ever chance you get, Roscoe had said. Ryan hadn’t counted on his way down. How many flights below the surface were they?
“I’d leave you,” Matthew assured him.
“I bet you would.”
“Damn straight.”
“Shut up, you’re wasting your breath,” Ryan said. “And more important, you’re wasting mine.”
Sara skittered along beside him, stumbling occasionally, but slogging on. She clung to his hand when the way was wide enough. She followed behind him with her palm pressed against his ribs when the going was narrow. He didn’t know if she understood the full extent of their danger. Judging from her wild-eyed expressions, he suspected she’d been drugged. He knew she couldn’t hear much. But his urgency must have telegraphed through their linked fingers.
They just reached the level of the abandoned tunnel when Ryan heard the first detonation behind them. It was like a distant thunder, but a second clap followed close on its heels and a third. Dust began to drop from the ceiling.
‘Run!’ he signed and shoved Sara ahead of him. Her bare feet slapped the concrete and the light of the lantern swung wildly with each long stride. Ryan jogged behind her, willing them to reach the door before the choking dust of the implosion filled the tunnel.
And their lungs.
~
Neville waited for the initial detonation. He’d arranged himself, as nearly as he could, in the same pose as the Christ figure in Michelangelo’s Pieta. Knees flexed, one of them anyway, arms limp, head lolling back, his own body was the last bit of art he would leave the world. He only hoped whoever found him was smart enough to recognize what he’d done, but he doubted it.
He’d never been appreciated. Not by his family. Certainly not by the art world. Only old Solomon Veach really understood him.
There was a distant bang. Then another, like a string of giant firecrackers exploding. As the world around him began to shudder violently, he actually thought for a moment he saw Sol’s face shining in the blackness.
His mentor turned a benevolent smile on him. Then Neville realized in horror that Sol’s teeth were all filed to sharp points. Serpents in Technicolor writhed about Sol’s disembodied head and his tongue snaked forward, split into two independent halves, like Satan in a medieval altarpiece.
“You see, Neville,” Sol said, “if there’s no body found. There’s no murder.”
Neville opened his mouth to scream, but dust filled his lungs even before his body was ground to powder by tons of concrete.
~
Just as the billowing clouds of dust caught up to them, Sara and Ryan pushed through the black door marked “Authorized Personnel Only.” Ryan slammed it behind them. Streams of particulate shot out through the crack under the door.
They turned as one and jogged toward the active portion of the State Street T.
“Officer down,” Ryan shouted as he pushed through the turnstile to head up the steps to the street level. “Call 911.”
Sara trotted to keep up with him. “Hurry, Ryan. He’s unconscious.”
Ryan hoped that was all Matthew
was.
Someone must have called 911 in response to his bellowing because an ambulance was waiting for them as soon as Ryan burst out of the T station carrying Matt Kelley. The EMT’s strapped Sara’s ex to a gurney and loaded him into the waiting van. Sara climbed in with Matthew and signed for Ryan to join her.
“Sorry, pal,” one of the paramedics closed the rear door. “Not enough room. He’s going to Mass Gen. You can meet up with your friends there. You ok? We can send another unit if you’re injured.”
“No, I’m fine. Just go.” Ryan waved them away.
He stood with his hands fisted at his waist, watching the ambulance part the downtown traffic until it turned a corner and disappeared from his sight. He already knew he wouldn’t follow Sara and Matt to Massachusetts General.
It would only make things more difficult. He’d seen the way she fell over his body in the subbasement. Ryan could still hear her wailing Matthew’s name.
She loved him.
Besides, Ryan was no longer his own man. Uncle Nick held his marker. After years of resistance, Ryan was finally in. There was no leaving the Garibaldi crime family once you were made. Even if she’d come willingly, he wouldn’t drag Sara into that world.
He turned around and disappeared back into the T station. He’d catch a train home. It would take half an hour to shower off all this cement dust.
But no matter how many showers he took, now that he was owned by Uncle Nicky, he’d never be clean again.
He trudged toward the outbound platform, praying with every step for the life and soul of Matt Kelley.
~
Sara bit off the white tip on the nail of her pinky finger. At least now, she had a matched set. In the two hours Matt had been in emergency surgery, she’d gnawed every nail to the quick without realizing she was doing it.
She glanced up at the large institutional-style clock hanging in the waiting room. No one had been able to tell her much. With only one hearing aid, she was relying mostly on speechreading. The doctor spoke quickly and with an Indian accent, so she missed most of what he told her. But she knew that Matthew had at least two gunshot wounds and he’d lost a lot of blood. He hadn’t regained consciousness in the ambulance.
