He believed this completely. He stepped up to the front door.
Ferguson's headlong passage had jammed it open, in mistaken invitation. The doorway opening was like a stripe of deeper black against the velour fabric of the night. He put his back to the door and stopped, listening.
As he hesitated, he freed his revolver from his shoulder holster. The weight of the gun in his damaged hand was impossible; like grabbing a red-hot coal from a fire. He squeezed his eyes shut for an instant, gently shifting the weapon into his left hand. He opened his eyes and stared down at the gun. Can you hit something left-handed? he asked himself. Something close, maybe. If you have to. He spoke to himself in the third person. Are you sure? Suppose he's armed? You'll be okay. Just collar the bastard. Arrest him and sort it out later. Even if you just have to let him go. Put some fear into him. Let him know he's got big trouble and you're it.
He sorted through the sounds, defining, compartmentalizing, analyzing. He put a label to each small noise, giving it a shape and identity so that he would know it was nothing to fear. A dripping noise was rain in a gutter, leaking through the roof. A swishing sound was traffic, blocks distant. A rasping sound was his own breathing. Then, from deep within the building, a small sound of boards creaking.
There he is, Wilcox thought. He's close. He's inside and he's close.
Taking a single deep breath, he crouched low and stepped into the abandoned building.
It seemed at first as if he'd been enveloped by a blanket. The weak alleyway light disappeared. He cursed himself for not bringing a flashlight, not recognizing that his own was all the way back in Florida. He wished he smoked; then he would have matches or better, a lighter, in his pocket. He tried to remember if Ferguson smoked and thought he did. He hunkered down, still pushing his ears to locate his quarry, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. He thought, Can't see much. But just enough.
He moved carefully into the building. There were stairs leading up to his left, a stairway down to his right. An old apartment house, he thought. Why would anyone have ever lived here? He took a step and heard his own weight creak against the decrepit floor. A new worry flooded him. Christ! There could be a hole or something. Suppose those stairs give way? He used his gun hand as best he could for balance, holding it out perpendicular to his body, maintaining contact with the wall, all the time clutching his damaged hand close to his chest.
He went to the right, the stairway down. He had a sudden thought. He's a rat, Ferguson. An earth animal. He'll go down, deeper. That's where he'll feel safe.
He stopped to listen again.
Nothing.
Means nothing, he told himself. He's here.
He continued, slowly, feeling his way as best as possible. He damned the sounds he made. His own breathing seemed to scratch the darkness like fingernails on a blackboard. Each step he took thundered. His steady progress into the core of the building seemed to crash and rattle with noise.
He fought against the urge to say something, wanting to wait until he was very close before he demanded surrender. The stairs seemed solid beneath his feet, but he did not trust them. He put each foot forward slowly, testing it with a portion of his weight, like some reluctant bather facing cold water. He counted each rise; at twenty-two he reached the basement. A clammy damp sensation, cooler than the already chilled air, reached up from beneath to greet him. He stepped down. He could sense the cement under his feet and thought, Good. That will be quieter. He took a single step and squished into a puddle of water, which instantly soaked through his shoes. Damn! he said to himself.
He crouched, listening again. He was unsure whether the breathing he heard was his own or Ferguson's. He's close, the detective said to himself. He took a deep breath and held it, to try and locate the sound.
Close. Very close.
He breathed in again and caught a smell that seemed thick and awful, covering him with evil. It was a familiar smell, but one he couldn't immediately place. The little hairs on his neck rose; his arms grew prickly hot despite the cold air: Something died in here, he shouted to himself. Something's dead close by.
His head pivoted about, trying to see anything in the solid black space, but he was blind.
Electric fear and excitement hurtled through him. He lifted up and took three small steps farther into the basement, still maintaining contact with the wall with his gun hand. It was wet and soft to his touch. He thought about rats and spiders and the man he was pursuing.
He could stand it no longer. 'Ferguson, boy, come on out. You're fucking under arrest. You know who this is. Put your fucking hands up and come on out.'
The words seemed to echo briefly in the small room, dying swiftly as silence swept over them.
He waited. There was no reply.
'Goddammit, c'mon, Bobby Earl. Cut this shit. It ain't worth the trouble.'
He took another step forward.
'I know you're here, Bobby Earl. Goddammit, don't make this so damn hard.'
Doubt abruptly creased his heart. Where is the son of a bitch? he shouted to himself. He stiffened with tension, fear, and anger.
'Bobby Earl, I'm gonna shoot your fucking eyes out unless you come out right now!'
There was a scratching noise to his right. He tried to turn fast in that direction, pulling his gun from the wall toward the sound. His mind could not process what was happening, only that it was pitch black, and he was not alone.
For a microsecond, he was aware of the shape swooshing through the air toward him, aware that someone, grunting with exertion, had risen up out of the darkness beside him. He tried to command himself to duck back, and he raised his broken hand to try and ward off the blow. He fired once in panic, haphazardly, aiming at nothing except fear; the explosion crashed through the darkness. Then a length of metal pipe smashed against his shoulder and ear. Bruce Wilcox saw a sudden immense burst of white light in his eyes, then it disintegrated into a whirlpool blackness far deeper than he'd ever imagined. He staggered back, aware that he could not let himself slip into unconsciousness. He felt damp cement against his cheek, and he realized he'd fallen to the floor.
He raised his hand to deflect a second blow, which arrived with a similar hissing sound as the lead pipe sliced the cold basement air. It thudded into his already broken arm, sending red streaks of pain across the darkness in his eyes.
He did not know where or how he'd lost his revolver, but it was no longer in his hand. But he reached out savagely with his left arm, and his fingers found substance. He tugged hard, heard a ripping noise, then felt a body slam down on top of his.
The two men became entwined in the darkness, struggling, their breath mingling. Wilcox simply fought against the shape of the man he grasped, trying to find his throat, his genitals, his eyes, some critical organ that he could attack. They rolled together, thudding against the walls, smashing through the wet puddles on the floor. Neither man spoke, other than grunts of pain and outrage which burst unbidden from their lips.
They wrestled in the pitch black, pinned together by pain.
Bruce Wilcox felt his fingers encircle his attacker's neck, and he squeezed hard, trying to choke the life from the man. His useless right hand rose and joined his left, completing a ring around his opponent's life. Wilcox grunted with exertion.
He thought, I've got you, you bastard.
Then pain spiked his heart.
He did not know what it was that was killing him, did not know even who was killing him, only that something had ripped through his stomach and was rising toward his heart. He felt panic surge past the instant agony; his hands dropped away from the killer's neck, tumbling down to his midsection, where they closed around the handle of the knife that had ruined his fight. He felt a single insignificant groan escape from his lips, and he crumpled back to the wet floor.