McGonagle turned away. He slapped the envelope on the steering wheel. Then he opened the clasp and took a look at the first page.
“It’ll take time,” he said.
“We don’t have any.” Abbie shook her head. “Maids can change their schedules. Security alarms need to be checked. Boiler manufacturers can issue recalls for parts. Use your imagination, McGonagle. It has to be invisible, but more than that it has to be quick.”
“You do think she’s down there.”
Abbie reached for the door handle.
“Where are you off to now?” he asked.
Abbie studied him. “If I refused to tell you, you’d probably find out anyway.”
He nodded, seeing nothing amusing in this.
“I’m going to the Galleria.”
McGonagle goggled at her. “The fucking mall?”
She drove to the Galleria, whipping the Saab along the highway at 90 mph and squealing to a stop in front of the back entrance. Abbie pulled the Buffalo PD placard from the glove compartment and placed it faceup on her dashboard so she wouldn’t get towed. Then she opened the door and ran into the main entrance, disappearing into the roiling mass of afternoon shoppers.
60
Forty minutes later, Abbie was driving along Delaware Avenue. The afternoon light was the color of old pots in a dark cupboard, pewter shining occasionally through the dimness, as she sped past the commercial district, then slowed as the houses got bigger and grander. The kid at the Assessment Office had plotted out all the houses on a map of the North that he printed on the back side of some letterhead. Clusters of stone houses and a few commercial and state buildings. He’d even placed numbers over the houses with existing coal bins reported on their architectural drawings, then at the bottom matched the number to the address for that house.
Abbie passed by the first one, 42 Delaware. The sign out front said it was the Western New York headquarters of the St. Vincent de Paul charity. She parked in the lot, then hustled up the walkway, tapping her police issue flashlight against her thigh.
Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket. She picked it up.
It was a text from McGonagle.
“128 Elmwood. Clear. Storage room, cleaning supplies.” Abbie pulled out the list and crossed the address off the list. One down, twenty-three to go.
This is not the one you want to check, she said to herself. You want to be looking at Walter Myeong’s house. But McGonagle was still trying to find a way in there.
Somewhere within a radius of two miles, more or less, there might be a girl in a room where the darkness seems to come off the walls onto her hands and blacken her skin. How horrifying it must be for Katrina, the first time she holds her hands up and they, too, have disappeared in the blackness. She won’t know what it is at first. She will feel she’s losing her mind.
The door opened. “Kearney, Buffalo PD,” she said. “There’s a gas leak in the area and I’m helping out Nat Fuel. May I check your basement, please?”
The coal bin at the St. Vincent de Paul building was now a janitor’s room, filled with mop buckets and floor cleaners. Abbie tried the Red Cross next, four doors down, using the same gas leak excuse. The receptionist, a heavyset woman with a unibrow, made a face, then led her down to the basement. Abbie first found the boiler room and shone her flashlight at the pipes coming out of the wall.
“Looks good,” she said to the woman. “I’m going to look around a little, see if there are any other connections. I’ll meet you upstairs?”
The woman nodded, eager to get back to her work.
Abbie pulled out the sheet for this building. The old coal bin was catty-corner from the boiler room, all the way across the basement. Abbie shut the door to the boiler room, walked down the hallway, listening as she walked.
If they heard a scream down here, wouldn’t they have called 911? Wouldn’t they have done it for Sandy Riesen?
Another text from McGonagle. “12 Bryant, 34 Summer, clean.”
Abbie felt a wave of fatigue drift through her body. She reached the end of the hallway. There was a door on her left and another on her right. The bin would be on the left.
She turned the old brass knob and pushed open the door.
Boxes and boxes, stacked from the floor nearly to the roof. The walls were clean, any hint of coal dust gone long ago. Abbie tore open one of the boxes. Fund-raising pamphlets for a post-hurricane drive.
She was looking in the wrong places. Who leaves a room coated with coal dust for decades? Not a place like the Red Cross, with janitors and inspectors and a need for every inch of space.
Maybe a man who lives alone in a mansion.
Hurry, McGonagle.
She shut the door angrily and headed quickly up to the first floor.
Abbie dodged a car as she ran for her car, pulling her phone out of a coat pocket.
She hit “recents” and dialed the last number.
“Yeah,” McGonagle said.
“What do you have planned for Myeong?” she said.
“He’s a fucking hermit. He has no regular house cleaner, calls Merry Maid when the place gets too bad. I spoke to his meter reader from Nat Fuel, but he says Myeong follows him down to the basement every time he goes by there.”
“Follows him to the basement?” Abbie said.
“Yeah.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because he’s annoying.”
“Then a meter reader’s not going to work,” Abbie said. “And we only get one shot without Myeong getting suspicious. If we send a boiler repairman and then someone from the water company, talking about a main break or something like that, he’s going to know something’s up.”
McGonagle grunted.
“So what do you have in mind?”
Abbie put the Saab in gear.
“I don’t know. I want to see the back of the house first.”
61
Abbie passed in front of the mournful facade of Myeong’s corner house. She made the turn onto the side street, and parked in back of a silver Volvo, got out of the car and crossed the street. The houses along Summer weren’t as grand as the ones on Delaware, mostly old Tudors or Colonials, some of them in need of a good coat of paint. Abbie walked past the Myeong house and glanced into the backyard, which was separated from the sidewalk by an old chain link fence. There was a gate near the corner, where the property ended, but it was locked with a hefty-looking chain.
From the back the house looked abandoned. There were weeds that had grown most of the way up the fence and the old trees—were they chestnut?—that she could see through the shade from the tangled branches were gnarled and uncared for. The yard itself was long but shallow, and butted up against the new vinyl fence of Myeong’s neighbor to his rear, a yellow Victorian with white trim.
Abbie’s phone buzzed.
“234 Bryant, clear.”
Abbie fumbled for the list of houses and found it, then pulled out a pencil. She crossed off the address. Nineteen to go.
She found McGonagle’s number and called. “Can you get someone to his front door in ten minutes? They can be taking a survey or selling insurance, whatever. When I know he’s occupied at the front of the house, I’ll take a quick look at the coal bin myself through the back.”
McGonagle hmmed. “How about a chimney cleaning service?”
Abbie glanced toward the house. On the right of the house, toward the rear, was a brick chimney spire, in the same yellow brick as the rest of the house.
“Fine,” she said.
“I’ll text you when he’s walking up.”
The wind was tossing the limbs of the tall chestnut tree in the corner of the yard. The ground was covered with fallen chestnuts, and she heard one or two thump when they hit the packed earth. Did kids collect chestnuts anymore? When she was growing up in the County, the local boys tossed heavy sticks at them up in the trees, gathered them in paper shopping bags, and then had chestnut wars for weeks afterward. She’d been hit by mor
e than a few. But here she could see the dark nuts gleaming through their split green skins.
Abbie waited until the impatience got to be too much, then put the toe of her boot in the chain link and climbed to the top bar, holding on to the top of the vertical pole for balance. She brought her left knee up to the bar, careful not to snag her wool pants, then paused and jumped. She landed on the sun-dappled ground and walked quickly toward the tree. She stepped on a chestnut and nearly rolled her ankle, but hopped up to recover before the bone twisted. Cursing under her breath, she limped to the tree and rested her back against its thick trunk, which shielded her from anyone looking out the back windows of the house. Abbie crouched down, rubbing the ankle and whistling softly.
The pain began to pass. More chestnuts struck the ground as the wind picked up.
A taxi went by on Summer. Abbie checked her watch. It had been thirteen minutes.
“Damn it, McGonagle,” she hissed. “Come on.”
Her phone was silent in her hand.
Abbie peeked around the tree trunk and looked at the back of the house. It was yellow brick with a cement base and the windows were depthless black, like you’d see in a museum. She pulled out the blueprint of the house; the wind caught it and tried to tear it from her hands. She put the paper against the tree trunk, then turned it right way up. She was standing closest to the northeast corner of the house. The little room marked “C. bin” was at the opposite end.
She tapped her phone impatiently against her thigh. It immediately vibrated. Abbie looked at the screen. “He’s ringing the doorbell.”
Abbie crouched down and scooted diagonally across the yard toward the far corner of the house. She heard the noise of traffic passing in front of it, but the brick was too thick to hear the bell. Myeong would be moving toward the front door as the fake chimney cleaner waited for him.
She reached the corner of the house. The base of the brick was hidden by a foot-high fringe of grass that swayed back and forth in the wind. The man never cuts his grass, Abbie thought. He doesn’t call a lawn service to cut it, or have a regular maid, and he doesn’t let kids come in the backyard and get the chestnuts.
Reaching down, she felt along the stone, her hand skimming just behind the grass. The surface was cool, rougher than the cement above it. She bent over and walked forward slowly.
After a few feet, she stopped. The window should be here, she thought. I can’t be that far off. But under her palm she felt only cement. She moved her hand back. There was a ridge where the material rose slightly and then dipped again.
The coal window was right here, but someone had patched it over. Years ago.
She walked slowly, her hand still on the house, crouching as she crept along. There was an earth smell back here, and her hand touched only concrete. Abbie counted out another eight feet, then ten, before she came across a thick black pipe that turned on an elbow joint and went into the cement.
“Damn it,” she muttered, then pushed ahead. Five feet later, her hand dropped onto the cool surface of glass.
Abbie dropped to her knees. It was an old, leaded glass window set deep in the base of the house. The glass was dark and greenish and looking through it was like staring into a deep pond where the bottom wasn’t visible. If the diagram was right, she was at least fifteen feet from the coal bin. Abbie took out her flashlight. At least she’d get a look into the basement.
She flicked the flashlight on and turned it toward the green window. A bright cone of light lit up the surface. She moved it down and dropped to her knees.
I hope McGonagle chose a talker. Tell Myeong a story, comment on his chimney, scare him into getting an estimate.
The cone of light spread itself into an egg shape as it shone on the basement’s dusty floor. It was like looking at objects at the bottom of a well. She could only make out shapes.
Her phone buzzed.
“Done?” the text read.
“Not even close,” she muttered and stuffed the phone back in her pocket.
There was a box, maybe wood, maybe not, with some writing on the side. Abbie pressed her face to the glass, the light skimmed over something flat, something familiar. She moved it back.
It was a desk. She recognized it from her days at Mount Mercy High School. A school desk with an attached seat, held together by a gray metal tube.
Basement clutter, she said to herself.
The phone buzzed again. She didn’t look at it. Instead, she moved the flashlight to the right. Something glowed in the light and disappeared. The back of her neck went ice-cold. Abbie moved the beam back.
A human hand, pale in the dark cellar.
62
Abbie gasped and pulled the flashlight back. She couldn’t see past the wrist, there was something large—a dresser?—in front of the arm blocking her view. Abbie sat back, a surge of terror inching up her throat.
She couldn’t make out any details, beyond that the arm looked thin and wasn’t moving. Abbie rubbed the heavy glass of the window with her sleeve, then shone her light back on it. The arm hung there. A young girl’s arm.
Abbie banged the flashlight on the window. “Katrina,” she called.
No movement.
Something buzzed on her thigh, and she jumped back. The phone again.
She looked down at it. “Myeong antsy. Be ready to move.”
Abbie reached for the window and began to push it with both hands splayed against the glass. The frame groaned, but refused to give. She turned her head and pushed harder. Either the window was painted shut or it was locked from the inside.
“Katrina,” she cried out.
Abbie moved along the base, feeling through the thick grass. Five feet down was another window inset into the concrete. She pushed on it and it gave a half-inch before springing back. Breathing hard now, Abbie turned and sat on the cold ground, putting her riding boots against the frame. She took a breath, held it and pushed, her hands gripping the dirt underneath them.
The frame gave way with a horrendous shriek and dropped inward on a rusted hinge. A smell of dampness came rushing up into Abbie’s nostrils. She coughed and turned away.
The buzzing from the phone again. Abbie ignored it. She was going in.
The interior of the room was dark as a shroud. Abbie pushed her head and shoulders through the gap and felt for something in the semidarkness. Her hand dropped down until it touched steel, round and cold. She pushed against it and it held. Abbie braced herself against the pipe as she pulled the rest of her body in and lowered down face-first toward the floor. Oh, God, she thought, don’t let it be a torture rack.
She held the bar and swung her feet to the floor. Abbie stood, grasping for her flashlight. The basement was quiet, the silence enveloping her.
Then she heard footsteps from above.
Abbie clicked on the light and dust rose from the floor. She’d disturbed the tiny particles, but through the veil of motes she could see objects: a low dresser, and something turned against the wall, tall and rectangular with something silvery at the center. A mirror, Abbie thought.
Another noise from above. A door closing? She no longer heard footsteps.
The phone buzzed. She snapped it out of her pocket.
Text from McGonagle: “Run.”
Abbie shoved the phone into her pocket and moved the flashlight to her right hand. As she did so, the shaking light revealed paintings stacked against a concrete wall. Abbie pulled the Glock from the holster, its raised grip cold and damp, then turned toward the steel thing she’d felt when climbing in.
An old bed frame, painted with that black old enamel that gleams. On it hung something small and square. Abbie walked up to it and reached for it in the darkness.
A baby’s building block, worn, with some of the edges chipped. The letter A, painted in blue, the background in white. Abbie stared at it, then twirled the block slowly in her hand.
A baby block.
Her eyes were wide with adrenaline and she felt her hand shaking. Eas
y, Abbie. You’re close now. Get to the girl and get out.
Abbie flashed the light ahead and approached the door. She took two steps, more dust billowing up, golden in the light. She touched the knob. The room’s mustiness nearly choked her.
She opened the door a crack. Air came rushing in through the dark gap and Abbie listened into the room ahead. Silence.
Why didn’t the hand move when I tapped the glass? She had a vision of Katrina Lamb hung from a rafter, hand dangling down, like Martha Stoltz up in the tree. The stillness of death.
Abbie pushed open the door and put the flashlight through first, turned it slowly to the right, followed by the Glock. Shoulders squeezed together, she pushed through the doorway.
A low-ceilinged hallway led to steps twenty feet away. Seven of them, she counted. And a door in the wall to her right. She moved toward it quickly.
Steps again, closer now, definitely on the floor just above her. The floor seemed to creak under someone’s weight. Abbie took a shaky breath and flexed her palm over the Glock’s grip.
Should I text McGonagle, tell him to get some cops down here? No time, she thought. What if Katrina is still alive?
Abbie dashed toward the room with the body and pulled on the knob. The door pulled back but the top corner was jammed in the frame and the door torqued back without releasing. Abbie set her feet and pulled away. The corner stuck fast. She closed her eyes and tried again, the veins in her neck beginning to stand with the effort. The door creaked, then all of a sudden it shuddered open. Abbie fell back against the far wall. Crouched against the cold, jagged stones, she shone a light into the doorway.
A dresser, oak. A nice one. Newer than the stuff in the next room. Abbie got up quickly and stepped toward the room. She listened almost subconsciously for the creaking of a rope, a rope with something heavy on it. She slid in, an icy tremor sweeping across her face as she entered.
There was a body straight ahead of her, turned away, motionless. Abbie felt her skin tingle with horror.
Abbie pulled the Glock up and was about to draw on its chest when she noticed the outline of the head. It was odd, misshapen.
She brought the flashlight up and saw a head with no eyes or ears.
Hangman Page 24
