A few thin rays of sunlight came through chinks in the outer walls, put a faint shine on the edges of the darkness. No other light. No sounds until he clicked on the flash-claws on wood somewhere nearby. He swung the beam in quick up-and-down arcs. Bottling room, judging from the long tables and left-behind jars and remains of a series of dismantled conveyor belts. Among the debris on the floor was a scatter of RipeOlive labels, some trod on and torn-the same kind as the fragment in his wallet. Dust lay thick and undisturbed except for a scuffed-up line of passage that led from the entrance door to an inner one in a partition wall straight ahead.
He followed the line, entered a second room. Faint brine smell in there, from the vats that lined it. Empty. The line bisected that room, too, extended through another doorway in a second partition wall.
Storage warehouse, twice the size of the previous two spaces. Dead silence, the air so heat and dust choked it was difficult to breathe. He swept the light around. Broken pallets, broken crates, other rubble. Vertical support beams marking off sections. New smell he couldn’t quite identify. He moved forward, widening the length and radius of the beam.
Halted its sweep, held it steady on what lay on the floor toward the far end.
Jerry Belsize.
Facedown, unmoving, arms outflung around one of the support beams, wrists bound together with a pair of handcuffs.
T he kid was still alive-barely.
When Runyon knelt and touched him to feel for a pulse, his body jerked convulsively and then began to thrash, the arms pulling back until the cuffs clanked against the beam, the fingers hooking and spasming as if to fight off an attack. Runyon took his hand away. The thrashing stopped, but the spasming went on. The one eye turned his way didn’t react to the light; it was open wide and seemed blind.
Belsize had been here a long time, left like this without food or water. Probably since sometime last Friday. His clothing, a pair of Levi’s, Reeboks, a thin T-shirt, were torn and grimy. Face a mask of sweat-caked filth, lips cracked and swollen, a bloody wound on the right side of his head-the same kind of wound Runyon wore under the fresh bandage on his temple. Wrists and hands covered with dried blood, the skin ripped and abraded-the residue of frenzied struggles to free himself that had left the support beam splintered and deep-gouged from the chain links. Other marks were visible on the wrists and arms. Rodent bites. That was what he’d been trying to fight off in his delirium… rats, mice, attracted by the blood, making sharp-toothed forays in the dark.
Five days of nightmare.
Runyon had a strong stomach, but this type of cruelty was enough to sicken even the most case-hardened cop. Miracle that Belsize was still alive. Another day in here and he wouldn’t have been. The only reason he’d survived this long was his youth and physical condition. As it was, he might not make it, and if he did, there was no telling what kind of mental shape he’d be in.
Runyon knew who was responsible. Knew it for sure now. Who, and some of the why.
He propped the torch so that the light was off the kid’s face and steady on the handcuffed wrists. The arms and body were still quivering. Talked to him in a low, soft voice, telling him he was safe now, he’d soon be free, that he’d have to lie still so the handcuffs could be removed. He kept it up for several minutes, not sure if the words were having an effect until the quivering stopped and Belsize lay motionless once more. When he touched one wrist, it brought a spasm that lasted only a few seconds.
The cuffs were standard-issue. You could pick the locks on them without too much strain if you knew what you were doing and had the right tools. Two minutes with the awl blade and corkscrew on his Swiss Army knife, talking the whole time to keep the kid still, and Runyon had one shackle open. Worry about the other one later. The steel circle had cut a deep blood-sealed furrow into the skin; he had to pry it loose. Gently he brought both stiffened arms out from around the beam, then turned Belsize onto his back. Brief struggle when he knelt to lift him. He waited until the struggles stopped, then got Belsize up off the floor and cradled against his body the way you’d hold a sick child. The way he might have held Joshua if he’d ever been given the chance.
He held the torch pressed between his fingers and the kid’s body, the beam aimed downward to light the way through the building. But still he had to look straight down at his feet to see where he was going, avoid stumbling over something, and it was slow going. The dust clogged his sinuses; he was coughing, wheezing, by the time he reached the doorway at the far end, finally emerged into the bright dazzle of sunlight.
He was able to move a little more quickly then. Around the shed, across to the rear gates-pouring sweat, the muscles in his shoulders, arms, thighs, aching from the strain. At the Ford he lowered Belsize’s feet, holding on to him with his right arm while he opened the rear door. Eased the kid inside, stretched him out on his back across the seat. His respiration was so slow Runyon had to check to make sure he was still breathing. He got the blanket he kept in the trunk, draped it over the inert form, arranged it so incoming sunlight wouldn’t lie hot on Belsize’s wounds. Before he slid in behind the wheel, he reset the padlock on the gates as he’d found it.
No question of calling 911 for an ambulance, waiting here until it arrived. Belsize could be dead by then. Make the hospital delivery himself, as fast as he could get to Red Bluff. And notify Rinniak on the way.
24
JAKE RUNYON
“Man, I hate this,” Rinniak said. “I hate stakeouts.”
Runyon stirred on the dark front seat of the county cruiser. Every time he shut himself down to make the waiting easier, Rinniak yanked him back. The man couldn’t seem to sit still or keep still for more than a few minutes at a time.
“I never met anybody who didn’t.”
“Some are worse than others. Like this one.”
“No argument there,” Runyon said.
“I’m still having a hard time believing it. The scenario you laid out, I mean.”
“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t. Neither would I.”
“I still hope you’re wrong. Despite Jerry Belsize and the condition he’s in.”
“I’m not wrong.”
“About tonight you could be.”
Runyon said, “They keep getting bolder, taking more chances. Two days from the Silvera murder to the fire at the migrant camp. Two days from then until now. If not tonight, then tomorrow night.”
“We can’t risk another stakeout after this one. Word is bound to leak out about Belsize being alive, and if they get wind of it who knows what they’ll do. We’ll have to make the arrest tomorrow sometime and hope that Belsize doesn’t die before he talks. What time is it now?”
“Almost eleven. If they’re coming, it’ll be pretty soon.”
They’d been there since eight o’clock, pulled well back among the olive trees at the rear of the RipeOlive compound. A pair of Red Bluff deputies were in a second cruiser parked behind this one. The four of them had pulled brush up over the front ends to minimize the chance of headlight reflection off glass and metal, but if the firebugs did come, Runyon figured it would be with their lights off. A half-moon on the rise cast enough shine to drive by.
Both windows were down to let in a faint breeze that had kicked up an hour before. But the night was still hot, sultry, even at this hour. Crickets in the trees and dry grass made a singsong racket that rose and fell all around them. Through the windshield and down an avenue between shadowed tree trunks Runyon could see the rear gate and part of the chain-link fence on both sides. At an oblique angle, a section of the county blacktop to the north was also visible.