A muffled voice was coming from her pocket. It took two tries to grab the phone, her wet fingers slipping over its plastic case. “Where are you?” Russ was asking.
She glanced up at the dripping street sign. “Second Avenue.” A grandiose name for a single block of one-and-a-half-story houses. She jogged down the sidewalk, the phone pressed against her ear. “Where are you?”
“On Lower First Avenue. I figure he’s headed for the old chandleries.”
“The what?”
“I’ll tell you later. Is he still in sight?”
She glanced between the houses as she jogged past. “No. I think he went to the end of the street, but I don’t know which way he turned.”
“He couldn’t have gone to the right.” She reached the end of Second Avenue and saw what Russ meant. The street petered out into a marshy tangle of elephant grass and cattails. “All these streets dump into First Avenue, and that’s-”
She swiveled and ran to the left. One house, two houses, three, and there she was, at the intersection with Upper First Avenue and Lower First Avenue. She heard a shout, muffled and distant from down the street, echoed over the phone.
She pounded down Lower First, a street as much a mausoleum as that in the cemetery. Low, shuttered buildings with spray-painted doors and rusting hulks of unidentifiable origin in their yards. A two-story inn untouched so long that its paint had peeled totally away, leaving it raw, gray, and warping. A series of store-fronts, roofs rotting, porches leaning, windows boarded with plywood turned silver with age. And there, crutching toward the last building in the row, Russ.
His mother’s car, windows steamed, lights off, was parked at the street’s terminal point, where the pavement ended and a tumble of boulders sloped down into the Millers Kill. It looked as if a pair of lovers had driven down to enjoy some privacy and a view of the fast-moving, snow-charged river. The bike was overturned in the middle of the street, its rear wheel still spinning.
“What happened?” She skidded to a halt in front of him, sucking breath to speak.
He balanced between his crutches, one hand awkwardly pinching his gun to the palm rest. “I was talking to you on the phone and I saw the guy.” Rain was rolling down his hair, dripping off the ends. “I opened the car door and swung my gun out and ordered him to stop. He dumped the bike and ran in there.” He pointed to the decrepit wooden building squared between the street and the river. Rotting stumps of pilings ran along its waterfront side. “Here, take this,” he went on, handing her his gun. She took it stock down and automatically checked the cartridge and the safety.
“I’m not going to use this on anyone.” She wiped her forehead in a useless attempt to keep the rain out of her eyes.
“I’m not planning on using it on anyone, either. It’s too damn hard to move while holding on to it, and if I stick it back into my belt holster it’ll take me too long to get it out. Goddamn broken leg. Pardon my French.”
He crutched toward the door. “Stay behind me, and when I say gun, put it in my right hand.”
She fell in behind him. “You’re not ordering me to stay in the car?”
“Would you listen if I did?”
“No.”
“Okay then. May as well take advantage of you.”
There was no porch fronting the building, only two granite steps leading up to a gaping doorway. Clare looked up to the second story, where shattered windows stared endlessly into the past. “What is this place?” She pitched her voice low.
“It was a chandlery about a hundred and eighty years ago. A ship’s provisioner. This is the oldest part of the town, from back in the seventeen hundreds when everything moved in and out by boat.” She heard his crutch tips thunk wetly on wood, and then she stepped through the doorway, careful to stay at his back.
“Good God.” She had to fight not to gag. The dark empty space reeked of urine and human waste.
“I know.” He shifted forward into the darkness, thump-step, thump-step. The wooden planks beneath them were uneven, swollen with age and soaking up things Clare didn’t want to imagine. “This is one of the hidey-holes for the hard-core homeless in the area. Every six months or so, we come in here, roust everybody out, and cart them off to shelters or the hospital. It’s useless, of course. There aren’t enough beds in the addiction unit or the mental-health facility for people asking for help, let alone for these guys, who don’t want anything to do with it. We only round ’em up because the aldermen are scared someone’s going to wreck himself up here and sue the town.”
There was a creak ahead of them and Russ froze. Clare stood still behind him, letting the rain drip off her. “C’mon,” he said.
“There doesn’t seem to be anyone here now,” she whispered.
“We were down here in early March. There’d been a fight, and one guy cut another one up real bad. We had the ambulance, a fire truck, the works. Usually they stay away awhile after something like that. They don’t want to get caught if we show up again.”
“What happened to the man?”
“Which one?”
“The one who was hurt.”
“He got patched up in the ER and then hung around town for a while. He had some sort of chronic illness. TB? He hung around the clinic for a while, getting treatment. Yeah, it must have been TB. Of course, as soon as he was well enough, he vanished.”
They came to an open doorway. The waterfront wall to their right was pierced with glassless windows, but the rain and the hour seemed to slow the gray light, so that it sluggarded across the floor and died before it reached the middle of the room.
“I’m going to go through that door and back up against the wall on the right-hand side.” He pitched his voice just above a whisper. “I want you to point the gun in front of you right after I’m out of the way, then step in beside me. Got it?”
“Yeah.”
The handle of the gun was slippery in her hands, from rain and nervous sweat. Russ thudded through the doorway and sideways, the rubber crutch-tips squeaking in protest, and she braced the gun and stepped forward, sweeping it in front of her, lurched to the side, and slammed against the wall, jarring loose a powdery shower of dried birdshit on both of them.
“I bet you watched Starsky and Hutch when you were a kid.” His voice was dry. “C’mon, there’s no one in here.”
They crossed the warped, bulging floor to the next doorway. Russ peered around its edge. “End of the line,” he said. He held his right hand out. Clare gave him the gun. Russ crutched through first, Clare tight behind him. Where the other rooms had soared high into the musty darkness, this ceiling was barely high enough for Russ to pass without ducking. Open-case stairs pierced the low ceiling on the left-and right-hand walls. Below each stairway, trap doorways yawned, revealing two other stairs, leading to the cellar. From the amount of mouse droppings and dirt encrusting the doors, Clare suspected they had lain open a long time.
“Police,” Russ said, in a voice that cracked with authority. “Put your hands up in the air and walk out into the open.”
Silence.
“He has to be here, right?” Clare whispered. The glass was broken out of the windows tucked near the stairs, but the narrow wooden crossbars, the lights, were intact. The wall opposite them was solid, featureless.
“No other way out.” He pointed toward the room overhead. “A couple of vents under the eaves up there. Too small for a human. Cellar down there’s beneath the stone foundations.”
“What are we going to do?” She looked at Russ’s cast.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to go dashing up after him.” He glanced at the dark rectangle swallowing the cellar stairs. “Or down.”
There was a splash. Clare swiveled toward the right-hand stairs. “What was that?”
“Sounded like something in the cellar.” He crutched closer, until he stood next to the long side of the open trap door, like a graveside mourner. “It’s well below the waterline. Probably pretty wet down there.”