She touched the photo, remembering the woman as she’d been: beautiful and quiet and somewhat sad.
Catherine Wall.
Adrian’s wife.
Elizabeth didn’t wait for Francis Dyer to come looking. She found him in his office, on the phone. Beckett was there, too. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
Dyer met her eyes, still on the phone. “No, she’s here now. I’ll handle it. Thanks for the heads-up.” He settled the phone on its receiver. “Apparently, you made quite an entrance.” He gestured at Beckett, who closed the door. “That was the FBI agent in command. He wants to know what a suspended detective is doing poking around in what is now the heart of a multijurisdictional operation.”
“When were you going to tell me?”
“I’m asking the questions,” Dyer said.
“When?”
“Liz, listen-”
She swung to Beckett, hands fisted on her hips. “Don’t tell me about task force protocol, Charlie. I know the protocols. I don’t care about that.” She turned back to Dyer, her voice tight. “When did you plan to tell me that Adrian Wall is in the clear?”
“He’s not.”
“His wife is a victim. She died after his incarceration.”
“Adrian beat a prison guard to death with his bare hands.” Dyer leaned back and touched his fingertips together. “He may as well have killed a cop.”
Elizabeth turned away, reeling from the injustice of it all. Adrian went to prison for something he didn’t do. Now, he was wanted for killing a guard he should never have known. “He’s lost thirteen years, and now his wife.”
“I can’t change the fact he killed William Preston. Officer Olivet has given a sworn statement. We’ll have DNA soon.” Dyer opened a drawer and removed her service weapon and shield, placing them on the desk. “Take them.”
“What?”
“Take them back, and tell me where to find Adrian Wall.”
Elizabeth considered the badge and understood the offer. She could be a cop again, and word would descend from on high: Liz is in the fold; Liz is one of us. But, readmission came with a price, and the price was Adrian Wall. “What if I told you Channing Shore was missing?”
“I’d tell you she’s a grown woman, free on bond. She can go anywhere she wants. Take the badge.”
“What if I told you she was in trouble?”
“Do you have some proof of this? Something concrete?” Elizabeth opened her mouth, but knew it was pointless. A smear of blood. A lost phone. “Take the shield. Tell me where to find Adrian Wall.”
His palm was on the badge and the gun, his fingers spread. He didn’t care about Channing. He wanted Adrian. That’s all he wanted.
She pointed at Beckett. “What about you?”
“I think she’s an unhappy young woman, and she’ll turn up when she’s ready. This is more important.”
“So it’s all about Adrian?”
“Officer Preston had a wife and kids. I have a wife and kids.”
Elizabeth stared from one man to the other. There was no give or doubt. “If I give him to you, I want help with Channing.”
“What kind of help?” Dyer asked.
“Resources. Manpower. I want her name on the wires. I want her found, and I want it a priority. Local, state, and federal.”
“Do you know where to find Adrian?”
“I do.”
“And you’ll tell me where he is?”
“If you help me find Channing.”
Dyer slid the badge across the desk. “Take it.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“I’ll help you find her.”
“All right.” Elizabeth picked up the badge; clipped it on her belt. She lifted the weapon, checked the loads.
“That’s the easy part.” Dyer pushed pen and paper across the desk.
Elizabeth looked once at Beckett, then wrote down an address and room number.
“Don’t hurt him,” she said.
Then slid the paper back across the desk.
30
Channing felt as if she were dying, and that was all about the heat. It filled the silo, pressed her into the dirt. After so many hours, she didn’t have any tears left, or sweat. She had the dark and the heat and a single question.
When was he coming back?
That was the only thing that mattered. Not why it would happen or where she was, but when?
When would he come?
She rolled onto her knees, her face flat against the hot soil. She could taste it on her lips and in her mouth; feel it in her nostrils.
“One more time.”
She straightened, and the plastic ties cut her again. Same pain. Same slickness. The earth tilted in the blackness, but she got to her feet, hands still behind her back, ankles still lashed together.
“I can do this.”
She’d already fallen fifty times, or a hundred. It was pitch-black. She was bleeding.
“Okay.”
She shuffled an inch, didn’t fall.
“Okay, okay.”
She tried a hop and kept her balance. She did it two more times, and that was the most she’d managed without going down. That was the pattern. Stand. Fall. Spit out the dirt.
There had to be an exit.
Something sharp.
She tried again and fell as an ankle twisted, and her body whiplashed. She couldn’t catch herself, and her face hit hard enough to drive dirt into her throat. She rolled, choking.
“Elizabeth…”
The name was like a prayer. Elizabeth would know what to do. Elizabeth would want her strong. But, Channing felt terror like a palm on her back.
The basement.
Now this.
The palm pressed hard enough to drive everything good right out of her. She’d killed two men, so maybe this was just, to be alone in this place.
Sliding through the dirt, she covered an inch at a time, first on her side, then on her stomach. She was sobbing quietly as she did it, but, at the far wall, pulled herself up and felt her way along it, finding vertical beams every ten feet, each of them as rusted as everything else. It took an hour, or maybe two; but the fourth beam had a narrow edge where metal had rusted away enough to make it sharp.
So sharp…
Channing backed against it, working her wrists, the zip ties. Skin went with the plastic, but she didn’t care.
Now!
It had to be now!
The plastic parted with a snap, and her arms swung like deadwood as she sobbed again and waited for them to burn. When she could move them, she lay on the ground and used the same sharp metal to strip the ties from her ankles. After that, she followed the curve of the wall until she found the door. Made of solid steel, it opened half an inch before the chain outside snapped tight. She stared out with a single eye, saw dirt and grass and trees. Afternoon, she thought, yellow light. She called for help, but knew he’d chosen the silo for a reason. That meant no one was coming. No one was there.
Channing pushed fingers through the crack a final time, then dragged herself up to explore the silo again. The structure was ancient and rusted and crumbling. She went around the perimeter from the door all the way back, tripping twice, then circling again. She found the ladder on the second trip. The lowest rung was high above her head, so she almost missed it, her fingers grazing it once, then coming back. When she pulled it made a clanking sound, and bolts scraped in the concrete. She dragged herself onto it, finding enough strength to reach the third rung, and pull her knees onto the first. When she stood, everything swayed. The ladder was skinny, barely a foot wide. Moving carefully, she climbed another rung, then a dozen more. Twice, the ladder groaned, and each time she froze, thinking it would pull from the wall or drop away beneath her. She managed another twenty rungs before she froze from all the blackness that tried to drag her down. Only the weight on her hands and feet told her which way was up and which was down. Channing closed her eyes and counted to ten.