Then she was at the doorway.
She gagged again, tried to stifle the sound.
Is he waiting for me, or not?
Head out, a fast look. You’ve got a helmet. It’ll deflect anything but a full-metal or Teflon and remember he’s shooting a.32. A girl gun.
All right. Think. Look which way first?
The Patrolman’s Guide wasn’t any help and Nick wasn’t offering any advice at the moment. Flip a coin.
Left.
She stuck her head out fast, glancing to the left. Back into the tunnel.
She’d seen nothing. A blank wall, shadows.
If he’s the other way he’s seen me and’s got good target positioning.
Okay, fuck. Just go. Fast.
When you move…
Sachs leapt.
…they can’t getcha.
She hit the ground hard, rolling. Twisting around.
The figure was hidden in shadows against the wall to the right, under the window. Drawing a target she started to fire. Then froze.
Amelia Sachs gasped.
Oh, my God…
Her eyes were inexorably drawn to the woman’s body, propped up against the wall.
From the waist up she was thin, with dark-brown hair, a gaunt face, small breasts, bony arms. Her skin was covered with swarms of flies – the buzzing Sachs had heard.
From the waist down, she was… nothing. Bloody hip bones, femur, the whip of her spine, feet… All the flesh had been dissolved in the repulsive bath she rested next to – a horrible stew, deep brown, chunks of flesh floating in it. Lye or acid of some sort. The fumes stung Sachs’s eyes, while horror – and fury too – boiled in her heart.
Oh, you poor thing…
Sachs waved pointlessly at the flies that strafed the new intruder.
The woman’s hands were relaxed, palms upward as if she were meditating. Eyes closed, A purple jogging outfit lay by her side.
She wasn’t the only victim.
Another skeleton – completely stripped – lay beside a similar vat, older, empty of the terrible acid but coated with a dark sludge of blood and melted muscle. Its forearm and hand were missing. And beyond that was another one – this victim picked apart, the bones carefully scrubbed of all the flesh, cleaned, resting carefully on the floor. A stack of triple-ought sandpaper rested beside the skull. The elegant curve of the head shone like a trophy.
And then she heard it behind her.
A breath. Faint but unmistakable. The snap of air deep in a throat.
She spun around, furious at herself for her carelessness.
But the emptiness of the basement gaped back at her. She swept the light over the floor, which was stone and didn’t show footprints as clearly as the dirt floor in 823’s building next door.
Another inhalation.
Where was he? Where?
Sachs crouched further, sending the light sideways, up and down… Nothing.
Where the fuck is he? Another tunnel? An exit to the street?
Looking at the floor again she spotted what she thought was a faint trail, leading into the shadows of the room. She moved along beside it.
Pause. Listen.
Breathing?
Yes. No.
Stupidly she spun around and looked at the dead woman once more.
Come on!
Eyes back again.
Moving along the floor.
Nothing. How can I hear him and not see him?
The wall ahead of her was solid. No doors or windows. She backed up, toward the skeletons.
From somewhere, Lincoln Rhyme’s words came back. “Crime scenes’re three-dimensional.”
Sachs looked up suddenly, flashing the light in front of her. The huge Doberman’s teeth shone back – dangling bits of gray flesh. Two feet away on a high ledge. He was waiting, like a wildcat, for her.
Neither of them moved for a moment. Absolutely frozen.
Then Sachs instinctively dropped her head and, before she could bring her weapon up, he launched himself toward her face. His teeth connected with the helmet. Gripping the strap in his mouth, he shook furiously, trying to break her neck as they fell backwards, onto the edge of an acid-filled pit. The pistol flew from her hand.
The dog kept his grip on her helmet while his hind legs galloped, his claws digging into her vest and belly and thighs. She hit him hard with her fists but it was like slugging wood; he didn’t feel the blows at all.
Releasing the helmet, he reared back then lunged for her face. She flung her left arm over her eyes and, as he grabbed her forearm and she felt his teeth clamp down on her skin, she slipped the switchblade from her pocket and shoved the blade between his ribs. There was a yelp, a high sound, and he rolled off her, kept moving, speeding straight for the doorway.
Sachs snagged her pistol and was after him in an instant, scrabbling through the tunnel. She burst out to see the wounded animal sprinting straight toward Pammy and the medic, who stood frozen as the Doberman leapt into the air.
Sachs dropped into a crouch and squeezed off two rounds. One hit the back of the animal’s head and the other streaked into the brick wall. The dog collapsed in a quivering pile at the medic’s feet.
“Shots fired,” she heard in her radio and a half-dozen troopers rushed down the stairs, pulled the dog away and deployed around the girl.
“It’s all right!” Sachs shouted. “It was me!”
The team rose from their defensive positions.
Pammy was screaming, “Doggie dead… She made the doggie dead!”
Sachs holstered her weapon and hefted the girl onto her hip.
“Mommy!”
“You’ll see your mommy soon,” Sachs said. “We’re going to call her right now.”
Upstairs she set Pammy on the floor and turned to a young ESU officer standing nearby, “I lost my cuff key. Could you take those off her please? Open them over a piece of clean newspaper, wrap ’em up in the paper and put the whole thing in a plastic bag.”
The officer rolled his eyes. “Listen, beautiful, go find yourself a rookie to order around.” He started to walk away.
“Trooper,” Bo Haumann barked, “you’ll do what she says.”
“Sir,” he protested, “I’m ESU.”
“Got news,” Sachs muttered, “you’re Crime Scene now.”
Carole Ganz was lying on her back in a very beige bedroom, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the time a few weeks ago when she and Pammy and a bunch of friends were sitting around a campfire in Wisconsin at Kate and Eddie’s place, talking, telling stories, singing songs.
Kate’s voice wasn’t so hot but Eddie could’ve been a pro. He could even play barre chords. He sang Carole King’s “Tapestry” just for her and Carole sang along softly through her tears. Thinking that maybe, just maybe, she really was putting Ron’s death behind her and getting on with her life.
She remembered Kate’s voice from that night: “When you’re angry, the only way to deal with it is to wrap up that anger and give it away. Give it to somebody else. Do you hear me? Don’t keep it inside you. Give it away.”
Well, she was angry now. Furious.
Some young kid – a mindless little shit – had taken her husband away, shot him in the back. And now some crazy man had taken her daughter. She wanted to explode. And it took all her willpower not to start flinging things against the wall and howling like a coyote.
She lay back on the bed and gingerly placed her shattered wrist on her belly. She’d taken a Demerol, which had eased the pain, but she hadn’t been able to sleep. She’d done nothing but stay inside all day long, trying to get in touch with Kate and Eddie and waiting for news about Pammy.
She kept picturing Ron, kept picturing her anger, actually imagining herself packing it up in a box, wrapping it carefully, sealing it up…
And then the phone rang. She stared for a moment then yanked it off the cradle.
“Hello?”
Carole listened to the policewoman tell her that they’d found Pammy, that she was in the hospital but that she was okay. A moment later Pammy herself came on the phone and they were both crying and laughing at the same time.