“Which way?” asked Detective Bellman, crouching down low with his SIG Sauer automatic held in both hands.
“I don’t know. Let’s go up to level two and check it out.”
They climbed cautiously up the ramp until they reached the second level. There were no cars parked here except for a thirteen-year-old Buick station wagon covered in thick sandy-colored dust.
“Maybe we should try the stairs instead.”
“I don’t know, man. I don’t like this one little bit. Why is it so quiet? There are twenty SWAT guys in this building, and it’s like a fricking church.”
Detective Kunzel sniffed. “It could be they have Red Mask cornered, and they don’t want to make any sound in case they reveal their position.”
“You really believe that?”
“I don’t know what to believe. But we won’t find out unless we go up and take a look, will we?”
They walked across to the door that led to the stairwell. But as Detective Kunzel opened it, they heard scuffling and shouting from one of the levels up above them. Then a scream. They looked upward, between the dark concrete pillars, and then at each other.
“Jesus H. Christ,” said Detective Kunzel. He had heard men scream before when they were shot, or stabbed, or had their arms broken, or when they were doused in blazing gasoline. But he had never heard a scream like this before. It had started off as a piercing, panicky falsetto, like somebody begging please don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me, but now it descended into a wide, agonized howl.
There was a last shout of utter despair, and then it stopped.
Detective Kunzel unclipped his radio. “Control? This is Kunzel. What the hell’s going on? We’re inside the building and we can hear screaming from one of the upper floors.”
His radio made a blurting noise, and then he heard, “ — signal, can’t. have to pull back — ”
“Control? I can’t hear you! What’s happening up there?”
“ — see who’s — ”
The radio crackled and went dead. He shook it, and slapped it furiously in the palm of his hand, but it still didn’t work. “Goddamned piece of Chinese crap. Try yours.”
Detective Bellman tried his radio, too. He listened intently, but after a few moments he had to shake his head. “I think I can hear somebody shouting, but they’re much too faint.”
Detective Kunzel said, “Something’s gone shit shaped. We need to get up there, fast.”
“Hey — do you seriously think that’s a good idea? There are ten SWAT guys up there, and two FBI agents. You think they can’t handle a psycho like Red Mask? Or even two psychos like Red Mask?”
“Maybe it’s three psychos like Red Mask,” said Detective Kunzel. “But the point is, we won’t find out unless we go up there.”
All the same, he felt suddenly afraid. The Cincinnati SWAT teams were highly trained, and some of the best in the country. They were armed with Colt carbines and Glock automatic pistols and shotguns that fired tear gas, as well as flashbangs to deafen and blind any adversary and fifty-thousand-volt Tasers. But so far he had heard no radio reports of any arrests. No shots fired. Only that long, drawn-out scream, and then silence.
“We should call for more backup,” said Detective Bellman.
Detective Kunzel tried his radio again. Like Detective Bellman, he thought he could hear some tiny, far-away voices, as faint as flies, but it was impossible to make out what they were saying.
“Control,” he repeated. “Can you hear me, control?”
There was no response. Detective Bellman said, “Come on, man. We just can’t get a signal in here, that’s all. These walls — they must be six feet thick.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Detective Kunzel. He glanced upward again. “Let’s get back outside.”
They were less than halfway down the ramp, however, when they heard another scream, just as agonized as the first, but even higher, like the climactic note in some hideous opera. It echoed and echoed down through the tiers until it abruptly ended with a loud bang, which sounded more like a huge door slamming than a gunshot.
Detective Kunzel dragged out his gun again and started to run back upward, his belly joggling under his brown checkered shirt. Detective Bellman reluctantly ran after him.
When he reached the crest of the ramp, Detective Kunzel roared out, “CPD detectives! CPD detectives! What in the name of God is happening up there, you guys? SWAT commander! Can you hear me? Sergeant Rickwood! Kenneth! Special Agent Morrison!”
There was no answer, only a strange scraping noise, and then nothing.
Detective Kunzel said, “Jesus,” and hurried over to the stairs.
“Mike!” said Detective Bellman. “This is not a good idea!”
Detective Kunzel opened the door to the stairwell. He was panting and sweating. “People are being hurt up there, Freddie. What do you expect me to do?”
“Be serious, Mike. If the Red Masks have killed all of those SWAT guys and those two FBI agents, what do you think they’re going to do to us two mooks?”
“It’s our job to save people in danger, Freddie. To protect and serve.”
“Sure. But it’s not our job to commit suicide, is it? Who was the first person to tell me that you never rush headlong into any situation where you might get killed?”
“So what are we going to do, Freddie? Mosey back down to the street to round up some more backup, while even more of our people are being killed?”
“For Christ’s sake, Mike. You don’t know they’re being killed. You don’t have any idea what’s happening, do you?”
“What did it sound like, Freddie? People don’t scream like that unless they’re sure that they’re going to die. Don’t tell me you don’t remember that young guy on Walnut Street — the one who got crushed by that Metro bus? Now, I’m going up there, okay? And there’s nothing that you can do or say to stop me.”
With that, he seized hold of the handrail and started to heave himself up the staircase.
Detective Bellman hesitated, then he shouted, “I’m going for backup! Okay?”
“Okay! Okay! Do whatever you damn well like!”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Carrion
Detective Kunzel reached the next level and kicked open the door. He listened and waited for a moment. Nothing. No sound at all, except for dripping, and the faintest soughing of a draft down the stairwell, as if the parking structure were an elderly cancer victim who was breathing his last.
He stuck his head out, looking quickly to the left and then to the right. He kept his gun held tight in both hands, the slide cocked back ready.
“Red Mask!” he shouted in a phlegmy voice.
Still nothing.
“Special Agent Morrison! Special Agent Greene!”
He waited and waited, but there was no response. He started to climb up to the next level, panting. His shoes made a chuffing sound on the concrete steps, like a train. He wished to God that he had gone easy on the scrapple and goetta breakfasts. His chest felt tight and the blood was thumping in his ears.
He had one more flight of steps to go when he heard another agonized scream. He stopped, gasping for breath, and listened. Although the hollow structure of the building made it very hard to decide exactly where the scream was coming from, he could tell that it was close.
God save whoever that is, and please save me, too. He knew that he had to go on. He could have stayed here in the stairwell and waited for Detective Bellman to bring more backup. But if he did, and he later discovered that he could prevented more officers from being killed, how was he going to live with himself for the rest of his life?