Instinctively she curled in and down, crouching over the beam, her left knee coming down onto broken glass beside her right boot. Half stifling another cry, this time of pain as fire lanced through her knee, she leaned forward and grasped the edges of the I-beam. She rested her forehead on her right knee and let her breath come hard through gritted teeth as she held on for dear life. Her gaze fell on the room below, over barrels, engines, and a maze of pipes, all so small, so distant at this height, and she snapped her eyes shut. She raised her head to look forward and only then opened her eyes, staring unblinkingly at the far end of the I-beam.
Pull it together, Jennings. Finish it.
She could do this. She would do this.
Ensuring she had her balance, she grasped the edges of the I-beam tighter and then straightened her back knee. Sliding her hands toward her boots, she held a forward fold position for a moment and then slowly straightened, extending her arms.
One foot in front of the other. Go.
She took the first slow step, testing the footing of each boot before trusting her weight to it. Step by step, she inched across the beam.
The roof loomed close now. One more step and you’re there. She took the step and then launched herself at the roof, not able to stand another second suspended over the drop. She scrambled for the edge, pushing up onto the rough surface, throwing herself forward onto the roof. She hit the gravel with enough force to knock the wind out of her, then just lay there, her fingers clutching handfuls of grit and stones as she tried to pull air into lungs that had forgotten how to function.
It’s over. It’s over. It’s over.
Thank you, Mr. Wilmont.
She pushed herself onto hands and knees and crawled forward a few feet, not wanting to be anywhere near that skylight again. Sitting back on her haunches, she raised a hand to Hawk, reinforcing the command to stay but also letting him know she wasn’t hurt.
She pressed her loosened earbuds more firmly into her ears. “McCord.” Her voice was hoarse with strain, so she swallowed and tried again. “McCord, I made it.”
“Oh, thank God. That took forever. And I thought you ran into trouble.”
“That’s an understatement. And it can’t have been more than a few minutes, but it sure felt like forever.” She struggled to her feet on legs that shook and winced as pain shot through her knee, but her attention was already fixed on the body lying no more than twenty feet away. “Going for Mrs. Devar now.” Not trusting the roof, she crossed it as fast as she dared and hopped up the short brick wall. Scrubby trees and shrubs sprouted in clumps wherever they could take hold in cracked stone and between bricks. And nestled among the greenery was a petite, white-haired woman with South Asian coloring. She was curled on her side, her eyes closed and her face slack.
Meg fell to her knees beside her and tipped the older woman’s chin up so she could slide two fingers along her neck, searching for a pulse. The woman’s skin was only slightly chilled, and Meg hoped that was simply from exposure here on the windy roof in cooling November temperatures.
“She’s still warm. If we’ve lost her, I’ve just . . . wait . . . wait! She has a pulse. McCord, she’s still with us. You found her and saved her.”
“Glory hallelujah, finally. What can I do?”
“Call and cancel the EMS request. I’m going to call Craig now and have him arrange for an air ambulance to get her off this roof. I’ll call you back when I can, but it may not be for a while.”
“When you can. Go.” McCord hung up, ending the call.
Meg speed-dialed Craig. “I found her. But I need medical assistance. I’m on the roof of the old Bowie Meat Packing Plant, just off I-895 in south Baltimore. I need you to get me an air ambulance.”
“For her or both of you?”
“I’m a bit scraped up but don’t need air rescue. I’ll get it looked at later. Craig, I need them here now. I’m not sure how long before she bleeds out internally.”
“Got it. I’ll call you back.”
Meg dropped her phone into her lap and took one of the woman’s hands in hers. “Mrs. Devar, can you hear me? I’m Meg, and I’m with the FBI. We have you, and help is on the way. Please hold on. Help is coming.”
Sudden exhaustion made her limbs feel as if they were filled with lead, and she collapsed back to lean against a pillar. Looking over her shoulder, she studied the wide expanse of the skylight and her dog on the far side of it.
“I can’t believe I did that.” Then, leaning forward, she considered the I-beam anew. “I can’t believe he did that.” Mrs. Devar might be slight, but she was still a significant load to sling across his shoulders and carry over that kind of gap. Even if she’d been unconscious, any shift in weight could have been suicide for the suspect. And if she’d been conscious . . . she was sure Hawk would have led her to two broken bodies below as soon as they’d arrived. “He’s willing to die to pull this off.” She looked back at Mrs. Devar. “Maybe you’ll be the key. Maybe you’ll be able to tell us why someone would risk his life to help you meet the end of yours. What does he gain from this that’s so important he’d be willing to die to get it?”
CHAPTER 16
Labyrinth: A series of connected tunnels that were originally constructed for different purposes (e.g., joined storm and sanitary sewers, shared passenger and freight train tunnels, etc.).
Monday, November 5, 3:03 PM
Jennings residence
Arlington, Virginia
“You didn’t have to come all the way into Arlington just for this.”
Webb looked up from where he bent over Meg’s lacerated knee, cleaning her ragged, bloody wound. “You would’ve gone to the hospital to make sure you hadn’t seriously damaged your quadriceps or patellar tendons?”
Meg’s face warmed under his pointed stare. “Probably not. I was just going to give it a good cleaning and figured that would do it. I mean, it hurts, but it’s not that bad. Well, not at first, anyway. Hurt like a mother later, once they had Mrs. Devar loaded into the helicopter and gave me an airlift to the other side of the roof, where Hawk was still patiently waiting. Thank God for that, because I don’t think I could have made that walk a second time.”
“That’s what I thought. Considering the stunt you just pulled and the probability of repeating it in the near future and needing to be at full strength, I thought I’d better check you out personally.”
“And?”
“You sliced up the skin pretty nicely, but your tendons and ligaments seem intact. You could use a few stitches, but I can go one better.” He broke open a blister pack and pulled out a tiny single-use tube. “Surgical glue.”
“You’re going to glue me back together?”
“You’d prefer that I sew the laceration? I can do it, if that’s your preference.”
Meg shuddered. “No, glue will be fine.”
“It will also do better in a joint that sees lots of action.” He opened the tube. “Now hold still.”
Heavy knocking sounded at the front door just before it thumped open and a voice called, “Anyone home?”
Meg looked over her shoulder to where Cara was making coffee in the kitchen. “Guess who.”
“You thought he wasn’t going to show up? In here,” Cara called, walking to meet him at the doorway. “Hey, you.” She reached up on tiptoe, pulled his glasses off with one hand, and pulled his head down to hers with the other for a kiss lasting so long that Webb cocked an eyebrow at Meg at the display.
Cara finally pulled away, slid his glasses back into place, and dropped down to the floor with a smile. “That’s for your hard work this afternoon. The first live recovery.”
McCord blinked at her a few times, as if she’d slightly scrambled his brains, and then grinned. “Thanks. It took us long enough, but we finally won this one.” McCord shrugged out of his leather jacket and hung it on the back of a kitchen chair. “Do I smell coffee?”
“You do. Go sit with Meg. I’ll bring it out.”
McCord
wandered into the open concept living room adjoining the kitchen. “Hey.” He slowly sat down beside Meg, taking care not to jostle her, then leaned in to study Webb’s work. “That looks good. Really neat.”
Without raising his head, Webb shot McCord a sidelong glance. “Not my first rodeo. Not even my first one with her.”
“No, sir.” McCord flopped against the couch cushions. “You nearly fell off the beam today, didn’t you?”
Meg threw him a dirty glare as Webb’s head shot up to pin her with accusing eyes. “You had to let that slip, didn’t you?”
“You did. I thought so. It was hard to tell what was going on when all I could hear was the wind blowing and your breathing. But there was a moment there when I was sure you were going over. Is that when you got this?” McCord pointed at her knee, revealed below the rolled-up leg of her yoga pants.
“That’s why I got this. I told you there were shards of glass littering the I-beam. A few of them crumbled underfoot, shifting my weight, and I started to lose my balance.” She looked up as Cara came in with the coffee tray. “You know who saved my life?”
Cara set the tray down. “Is this a trick question? I’m going to go with you, since you were the only one there.”
“Mr. Wilmont.”
Cara recoiled slightly, her nose and forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Mr. Wilmont. Our eighth-grade terror of a gym teacher?”
“Exactly that Mr. Wilmont. Do you remember how he used to yell at us?”
“Do I ever.” Cara dropped into a chair opposite Meg and fixed herself a cup of coffee. “ ‘Jennings! Tuck that head in when you roll. You can’t hold the ball like that—that’s traveling! Only sissies underhand serve, Jennings. Serve overhand!’ Oh yeah, I remember him. I’m pretty sure he didn’t think any of us had first names.”
“That’s definitely him. Remember how I used to balk at getting on the balance beam, and he would force me up there and then bellow instructions? The beam was four feet off the floor and surrounded by mats, and I was still terrified to be that far off the ground.”
“Your fear of heights was so bad you couldn’t manage that?” McCord asked.
“I’m better now, but back then, the fall was still pretty fresh in my mind. He made me face my fear. When I was up there, panicking because I was losing control, fifty feet in the air over a drop that absolutely would have killed me, it was his voice I heard in my head. His voice telling me what to do, how to recover and not fall. That and your yoga saved my life.”
Cara froze in the act of stirring sugar into her coffee. “My yoga?”
“All those mornings I wanted to sleep in, or Hawk and I had just come in from a run and you made me join you? That core strength I developed doing yoga may have saved my life. That being said, if I ever have to do another forward fold in midair on a steel I-beam, I’m never doing yoga again.”
Cara settled in with her coffee and a self-satisfied grin. “I always told you yoga was good for you.”
Webb finished smoothing a bandage over Meg’s knee and rolled her pant leg down. “Can I suggest next time not doing yoga on broken glass. It would be a lot less painful, and you won’t need surgical glue.”
“I can get behind that.” Meg gave the knee an experimental bend, winced slightly, and stretched her leg out again. “Thanks for fixing me up. It seems like you’re always doing that.”
“You’re welcome. And in your line of work, that’s not overly surprising. Any news on your victim?”
“I’m going to check in with the hospital in a few hours, but Craig gave the air rescue team a heads-up about the type of poison, so they were prepared to start treatment while they stabilized her on the way to the ER. Her initial vitals weren’t too bad, so I hope she’ll pull through. I’d love to talk to her, but I’m not sure how that will go.”
Webb snagged a mug of black coffee off the tray. “You think family will get in the way?”
“No, I think she might, but not intentionally. Sorry, I haven’t filled you in on the details. She was taken from a facility that specializes in Alzheimer’s patients. I don’t know how bad she is, and I know she had enough strength to fight him during the abduction, but I don’t know if that was simply sheer terror because she was confused, or if she knew enough about what was happening to be rightfully scared of her abductor. She may not be able to tell us anything about him. And the security cameras from the residence didn’t capture anything more useful than height and weight, so that still leaves the field wide open.”
“Depending on how far the disease has progressed, she may not retain anything from the entire incident,” Webb said. “Some patients forget things five minutes after you tell them. I’ve met some dementia nurses. They have a tough job and carry it off with grace and patience as they repeatedly tell patients the same thing several times a day, if not several times an hour.”
“So we may not be lucky there. Although if she can’t remember the incident, that may be a blessing for her.” Meg scooted to the end of the sofa cushion and pulled the coffee tray a little closer. “I’ll make sure we know a little better where we stand later tonight. Kate will already be looking into her background.”
“Who’s Kate?” McCord asked.
“The FBI agent assigned to this case. The Human Scent Evidence Team doesn’t spearhead investigations on our own, and, minus Craig, we’re not actual agents. But in his current role as our SSA, he’s not supposed to investigate on his own, either. He arranges for us to work in conjunction with field agents and liaises with other departments. Normally we get called in to a case. This time we brought the case to him, and he had to work backward to get us a field agent. Enter Agent Kate Moore. She’s running the investigation now and will be the one getting information on the evidence found at the abduction site.”
“Anything useful?” Webb asked.
“Nothing definitive, but some of it might help. Tire tracks in gravel where he left his vehicle, and then actual tread impressions on the pavement from where he took off. Looks like a biggish vehicle. Not as big as a van, but maybe a large SUV.”
“He’s grabbing adults,” McCord said dryly. “You have to know he’s not using a smart car.”
Webb raised his coffee cup to McCord in a mock toast. “The crack reporter strikes again.”
“Kate will let us know if they get anything from the evidence.” Meg poked McCord in the biceps. “I’ve already told her about you.”
“Only nice things, of course.”
“Of course. She knows you’ve been involved in the searches and may be useful for future contacts.”
“Good, because I’ve already been doing some digging. I don’t have access to the kind of personal information she does, but I do have a theory.” He grabbed the last mug of coffee, poured cream into it, and stirred.
Cara leaned forward and smacked him on the shoulder. “Don’t leave us hanging. Your theory is . . .”
“Weird. Outlandish.” He took a sip of coffee and relaxed against the cushions. “But something that’s definitely grounded in reality.”
“I’ll bite.” Meg pulled her uninjured leg up on the couch and twisted to face him. “Let’s have it.”
“You asked for it. This all goes back to a story I did . . . four? Five years ago? It was one of those longer weekend-edition stories, when people have more time to read. The story was about senior care in immigrant populations, specifically the Asian diaspora. It’s about how some young people are here, but their aging parents are there, and how they handle that situation. Some people go home again. Some support their parents from afar. And some bring their parents here. I didn’t include it in the story, but I found out about a kind of horrific side aspect. In some cultures, specifically the Tamils of India, there is a rare additional option. It’s called thalaikoothal.”
“Come again?” Cara rotated her index finger in the air in a back-it-up motion. “I didn’t catch that last word.”
“Thalaikoothal. Ritual elder killing.”
Meg s
tared at McCord as if he’d lost his mind. “You think this is some sort of ethnic elder killing? En masse? Spread over multiple states? Doesn’t that seem far-fetched?”
“I said it was weird and outlandish. I wasn’t kidding.”
“What on earth would steer you in that direction in the first place?”
“Because social media is a wonderful thing, and I’ve been using it to follow the victims and their relatives.”
Meg’s brows drew together in disapproval. “Internet stalking, McCord?”
“What do you think investigative reporting is other than glorified stalking? In person, through contacts, from documents, or online research.”
“Hmmm. You have a point.”
“Of course I do. When you don’t have the resources of law enforcement, you have to get inventive. All I have to go on is public record, but you might be surprised what you can dig up just from that. A lot of people are either not savvy about their privacy or know sacrificing it is a risk they take the moment they set foot on the Internet, so they consider themselves open books. They figure if they aren’t doing anything wrong, what is there worth hiding? It’s been pretty useful. In this case, I’ve found that the victims are too separated to know one another. They don’t appear to be related. They didn’t work for the same company or in the same field. There’s even a twelve-year age gap between oldest and youngest. But I did find a common thread in the end.”
Meg squashed the urge to shake him and yell Get on with it! She’d worked with McCord enough times to know that his slow explanations were often due to his forming links in his head, and she didn’t want to interrupt that process in case he lost the thread.
“Which is?” Cara, however, was happy to give him a push.
“They seem to be linked by some degree to the Indian subcontinent. Mrs. Devar’s family comes from Chennai in southern India. Warren Roth’s late wife was Indian. Donna Parker was adopted into an Indian family as a girl. Before she got married, her maiden name was Achari. They are all either Indian or have a connection to someone who is.”
No Man's Land Page 10
