“Carey? Jesus God, are you all right?”
“No,” she murmured, terrified to raise her voice.
“Carey, can you speak up? I can barely hear you.”
“No. I can’t. He’s going to come back soon.”
“Who? Who took you?”
“Karl Dahl.”
There was an uncharacteristic beat of silence before he asked, “Where are you?”
“In an old munitions building. It’s a ruin. It’s burned. And I can smell a refinery of some kind. I can’t see it, but I can smell it. Hurry, Sam, please.”
“I’ll be there ASAP. You hang on. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
Something made a sound in another part of the building.
Carey turned the phone off, dropped it, snatched it up, fumbled with it, stuck it back into her pocket.
She glanced again at the door.
Don’t watch the door. Get the knife.
Unable to get up because of the ligatures, she maneuvered onto her knees and scooted closer to the box/table.
Arm outstretched, leaning, even her fingers trying to elongate themselves, and still she couldn’t quite reach it.
She tried a second time, leaning even further.
An inch short, maybe two.
She tried to move the concrete block but couldn’t. Another sound of movement or scuffle came. Carey couldn’t tell where it was coming from. The place was probably teeming with rats and mice, and who knew what else. Karl had already been gone longer than she had expected.
One last time she focused on the knife, leaned forward, stretched, stretched until her hand was trembling. She glanced again toward the door.
Don’t watch the door. Get the knife!
It was still just beyond her reach.
She pulled back six inches, regaining her balance, took a deep breath, and lunged.
She hit the end of her tether at the same time the heel of her hand hit the box.
The box scooted away.
Her fingertips caught the handle of the knife, scratched it toward her. It fell from the box.
She snatched at it again.
Scraped it toward her.
Grabbed the handle of the knife.
Carey lay there for a handful of seconds, breathing hard, then pushed herself backward and struggled to get back onto her knees. She had the knife.
Her black shirt was brown with dirt. Her face was probably no better. She did her best to brush herself off, then took the throw that had covered her and wiped her face.
A sound like metal hitting metal startled her. Had it come from inside? Outside?
Either way, she was already on borrowed time.
Pulling the throw up around herself, she lay back down on her side, hiding the knife beneath her leg.
Another sound. A crunch. Another, another. Footsteps. Karl.
Come on, Sam…
Carey closed her eyes, hoping he wouldn’t come to wake her, hoping that he hadn’t decided it was time to make love to his angel.
She didn’t want to pull the knife. There was a much greater chance that he would get the knife away from her and kill her with it than there was of her killing him. And she would have to kill him-not wound him-if she was to have any hope of getting away.
The footsteps drew closer.
Come on, Sam… Come on, Sam…
60
KOVAC RAN DOWN the hall to the war room, catching hold of the door frame to stop himself. Everyone in the room turned toward him, their expressions going sober at the sight of him.
“An old, burned-out munitions plant or dump near a refinery,” he called out.
Tippen grabbed his coat off the back of a chair. “I know it. Let’s go.”
They ran out the door of the building and down the stone steps. Colors and sounds of the media people on the stairs and sidewalk registered only dimly in Kovac’s mind. A blur. White noise.
He had parked his car in the loading zone, along with Dawes’s car and Liska’s car and the cars of the entire task force. But he didn’t go for his car. He ran up to a uniform sitting back against the hood of a squad car, watching the show.
“Gimme your keys.”
The officer straightened. “What the hell…?”
“Gimme your goddamn keys!” Kovac shouted.
“Detectives, Homicide,” Tippen said, showing his badge. “Give him the fucking keys!”
Kovac yanked the keys out of the guy’s hand, rounded the hood, climbed in the car. He gunned the engine, threw the shift into reverse as soon as Tippen’s ass hit the other seat. Cars blasted their horns as Kovac shot the squad car backward into their paths. He shifted into drive and peeled out, leaving rubber smoking on the pavement.
He hadn’t driven a squad car in years, but he still knew where the switches were for lights and sirens.
“Where are we going?” he shouted at Tippen.
“Thirty-five W south. I’ll give directions as we go.”
The speedometer swung to ninety as they came off the ramp onto the freeway. Tippen buckled in and braced himself.
“What the fuck is this traffic?” Kovac demanded as he tried to weave through without losing too much speed.
Ahead, all he could see across the lanes of traffic were taillights. Cars were trying to pull out of his way but had nowhere to go. He hit the brakes and held the wheel against a skid, and the car rocked to a halt.
“Vikings-Packers game,” Tippen said.
Kovac looked at him, wild eyed. “Don’t tell me this is a pack of fucking Cheeseheads going back to Wisconsin!”
He didn’t expect an answer or want one.
Tippen got on the sound system, and his voice blasted out of the speaker mounted on the car.
“Move aside! This is a police emergency! Move aside!”
Drivers all around were staring at them like deer in headlights.
Kovac grabbed the handset and shouted,“Get the fuck out of the way!!”
Cars gave an inch here, a foot there, as he tried to wedge the squad car to the right, going for the shoulder. A sickening crunch sounded as he clipped the front end of an SUV, then the rear end of another.
When he hit the shoulder, he floored the accelerator, and the big car lunged forward, flying past the traffic at a frightening speed.
“Exit here!” Tippen shouted pointing. “Cut across. We’ll get on Fifty-five!”
Kovac touched the brakes, once, twice, took the exit too fast, just missed two cars at the bottom.
By the grace of God he wouldn’t kill anybody.
And he wouldn’t be too late.
61
CAREY LAY AS still as she possibly could as she listened to Karl moving around the room.
Come on, Sam…
He said nothing, maybe out of courtesy so she could sleep, as crazy as that sounded. He wanted her to get her rest.
The sounds of movement stopped. Near her. She could feel him watching her. She held her breath and kept her fingertips on the grip of the knife.
He touched her left hand, which lay on top of the blanket. It took everything in her not to jerk it away.
“You can wake up now, Judge.”
The voice was not Karl’s. It was lower, a gravelly monotone with an odd, slow cadence.
Carey opened her eyes and looked up, her heart stopping as she saw the craggy, homely face dark with beard stubble, the rubbery-looking too-red lips.
Stan Dempsey.
“Your good friend Karl Dahl isn’t coming back in.”
“He’s not my friend,” Carey said.
“Not anymore. You can’t help him anymore.”
“I never wanted to help him in the first place.”
“You just don’t get it, do you? You’re supposed to hand out justice. The guilty have to pay. Actions have consequences.”
Carey knew better than to argue or try to explain.
“Is he dead?” she asked.
“I have special plans for him,” Dempsey said cryptically.
“How did you find this place?”
“Simple police work: I followed the car,” he said.