'Harder,' the man cried. 'Harder.'
A woman laughed.
Bryson removed his handgun and listened at room 33. He heard running water. He motioned for Noah to step closer.
'Is there a shower in this room?' Bryson whispered.
'Each room has its own bathroom.'
'Where is it?'
'When you open the door, it will be to your left.'
'Locks?'
'Yes, each bathroom door has a lock. I don't have a key. If you'd like additional help, I could call security.'
'No. Please step back. Stay right here.'
Noah moved against the far wall, looking as though he might faint. Bryson turned to Watts.
'I'll go in first and you'll cover me. If he makes a move, take him down.'
Watts nodded, sweat dripping down his face. The hallway was uncomfortably humid from the steam. Bryson slipped the key inside the lock and held his breath for a moment before turning the handle. Don't throw the door open. If it banged against the wall, the sound would alert Fletcher, might give him enough time to reach for his gun. Okay… now.
56
Snapshots in the candlelight – a massage table in the corner, clothes piled on a fabric-covered bench, the assortment of toys, handcuffs and bottles of lotion lying on a shelf next to folded towels.
Clear. Bryson turned to the bathroom, the light on, relieved to see the door was cracked open. He threw his shoulder into the door and rushed into the thick steam. Clear. Watts moved past him and yanked the shower curtain aside.
The showerhead was running hot, steam everywhere, but nobody was standing under the water.
On the floor was a metal canister shaped like a soda can only it had the kind of handle and pin seen on a grenade. Underneath the pounding water Bryson heard a hissing sound.
From the bathroom doorway came a muzzle flash. Watts was hit in the back. He fell inside the shower as Bryson turned around to fire – a second flash and Bryson felt a force like a hot, metal fist slam into his stomach.
Bryson fell against the bathroom wall, gasping for air, saw the third flash from the doorway and the fist hit him again high in the chest as he tripped over Watts and crashed sideways into the shower stall.
Bryson's heart was pounding but his lungs felt as though they had shut off. He couldn't breathe. The gun was still gripped in his hand. Gasping for air, he brought the gun up, about to fire into the steam when a black-gloved hand gripped his wrist and twisted, snap. Bryson tried to scream but no sound came out. The Beretta fell. He tried to reach for it. The fabric of a pair of black pants whisked past his face and a foot kicked him in the stomach.
He threw up his coffee and parts of a bagel. A boot pressed his face against the shower floor. His arms were yanked behind his back, his fists bound with what felt like Flexicuffs. Bryson felt the plastic biting his skin, his eyes on the canister lying sideways on the floor, hissing.
Next his ankles were bound and then the gloved hand ripped the lapel mike from his coat. The hands grabbed him by the hair. Bryson felt a needle plunge into his neck. He tried to pull away, couldn't, felt a long, slow burn and then he was tossed out of the shower stall and onto the bathroom floor.
Bryson lay on his side, every muscle in his body straining as he dry heaved. Something was wrong. His eyes were burning and he felt another wave of nausea running wild through his stomach.
Fletcher dragged him into the adjoining room. Watts lay on the shower floor, hogtied by Flexicuffs, the water spraying his bloody face as he threw up onto the floor.
A fire alarm sounded. Fletcher shut the bathroom door and dragged Bryson across the floor, the carpet burning his cheek as he kept dry-heaving. Then the burning stopped and his face was lying against the cool tile in the hallway. Men and women in towels and bathrobes were standing around to see what the commotion was.
A small, cylindrical object trailing thick grey smoke rolled down the hallway. A hissing sound behind him and then Bryson saw the same canister from the bathroom rolling across the floor as he was dragged into an elevator.
A whine of the motor and the clank of gears as the elevator lifted. Timothy Bryson lay on his stomach on the elevator floor of dirt and grime. He turned onto his side, dry-heaving, and looked down at his stomach. No blood.
That didn't make sense. He had seen the muzzle flash, had felt the gunshot tear through his stomach and then his chest. He should be bleeding.
Malcolm Fletcher stood above him, his voice muffled behind a small mask covering his mouth and nose.
'Do you know who I am, Detective?'
Bryson nodded then dry-heaved again.
'Then you know why I'm here.'
Bryson didn't answer. Fletcher took off the mask and tucked it inside his jacket pocket.
The elevator stopped. The doors slid open, the hallway dark.
Malcolm Fletcher flipped the emergency stop button. A hunting knife was gripped in his gloved hand.
Bryson felt a surge of panic and then, strangely, the feeling vanished behind an odd sense of calmness. He knew he should be scared but his body seemed completely unaware of the danger.
'If you're a good boy and tell the truth, Timmy, I'll let you go. But if you don't tell the truth, if I don't feel you're truly sorry for your sins, well, you'll have no one to blame but yourself.'
The blade cut through the bindings on his ankles.
Fletcher helped him to his feet. Bryson coughed, tried to catch his breath. Hands cuffed behind his back, it was difficult to stand.
Fletcher gripped his arm and moved him into the hallway. As Bryson made his way up the stairs, wobbling like a drunk, that odd sense of calm transformed itself into something different, a feeling of bliss that took away the fear, the pain, everything.
A door opened and Bryson saw a flat roof that seemed to stretch for miles. Three drunken steps and then Fletcher shoved him back against a brick wall and pressed the blade of the knife underneath his chin.
'Say hello, Timmy. And remember our agreement.'
Fletcher pressed a cell phone against Bryson's ear.
'Hello?'
'Detective Bryson? This is Tina Sanders – Jennifer's mother. We met at the police station.'
Bryson heard a dim voice scream at him to run, run as fast as you can.
'I was told you have information on the man who killed my daughter.'
Where could he run? He wouldn't get far, not with a knife pressed to his throat, not with this peaceful, drunken dreaminess that made him feel like he was an angel floating on air.
'Please, I -' Tina Sanders' voice caught. She cleared her throat, collected herself. 'I need to know what happened. I've been living with this so long, I can't stand not knowing. Please tell me.'
'I don't know what happened to your daughter.'
'I was told a man named Sam Dingle killed Jenny.'
'I don't know anything about that.'
'This man… is he in jail?'
Bryson shivered underneath his wet clothes, his teeth chattering as he scrambled to recall the pieces of carefully constructed lies he had stitched together over the years in case this moment ever came.
Fletcher stuck the tip of the knife through his throat. 'Make a choice, Timmy.'
'My daughter was dying,' Bryson said. 'Emily had a rare form of leukaemia. My wife and I tried everything. The doctors wanted to give her an experimental treatment but my health insurance wouldn't cover it.'
'What's this have to do with Jenny?'
The truth floated to the surface. Bryson closed his eyes, surprised at how easily the words came.
'Sam Dingle used his belt to strangle one of the women. We found a fingerprint. That was the only evidence we had. We had no witnesses, and Dingle's mother said her son was with her the night those women disappeared. We were building a case against him when I approached Dingle's father. I told him I could make the belt disappear for the right price.'
In the distance was the sound of fire engines. Just keep talking. Lang knows you're in here so just keep talking until he finds you.