Full Frontal Murder (28 page)

“And start your beacons the minute you spot them,” DiFalco added, needing to have the last word. “All right, people, you all know which tunnel you're taking. Let's move.”

The searchers started filing through a service door that led to the walkway along the main tunnel. DiFalco stepped over and placed himself directly in front of Marian, forcing her to stop.

“Captain?”

“How're you holding up, Larch?”

“Well enough, thanks.”

“It's been a while since we first worked with Holland, back when he was still FBI. A lot of things have changed since then.” He grinned nastily. “Your lover boy has got himself in real deep shit this time, hasn't he?”

Three voices spoke at once.

“That's enough of that, DiFalco,” Murtaugh said sharply.

“You're an asshole, DiFalco,” Marian said tiredly.

Gloria Sanchez cussed him out in Spanish.

The two women pushed on by, leaving Murtaugh to deal with DiFalco.

The walkway along the tunnel was narrow, forcing the searchers to move in single file. A low guardrail protected against that false step that could send them tumbling to the tracks eight or ten feet below. The tunnel lights marking the approach to the station cast just enough illumination to make the flashlights unnecessary but not enough to do away with shadow. It was hot and close. The line slowed down as they reached the hole in the tunnel wall.

The hole was on the ground level, necessitating that the searchers crawl through one at a time. Marian dropped to her hands and knees and followed Gloria Sanchez in … and found herself in a darkness so heavy it was almost tactile.

The beams of the searchers' flashlights cut through the dark like Darth Vader lightsabres. One light caught the tunnel ceiling. “Keep 'em
down,”
somebody growled.

Marian played her own light across the tracks below and to the opposite wall. No tiling in this tunnel, but that meant nothing; only the areas of the subway stops were tiled. No service walkway on the other side of the tracks. And unlike the walkway in the main tunnel they'd just left, the one they were standing on now had no guardrail.

“Watch your footing,” Gloria called out. “And no talkin' from now on.”

The search team started moving to the right. The beams cast by other teams' flashlights showed to the left, following to other branching tunnels. Last in line, Marian felt disoriented and kept her eyes fixed on the small pool of light in front of her feet.
I'd probably flunk a sensory-deprivation test
, she thought unhappily. She had to keep her hand touching the wall to her right, a second point of reference in addition to the light at her feet.

When she'd gotten a little more used to walking with so little visibility ahead of her, she raised her head to see the dots of light cast by the other team members' flashlights. She'd fallen a little behind; Marian hastened to pick up her pace.

The service walkway was covered with a fine grit. Among the footprints left by the searchers ahead of her, Marian thought she could make out track marks. Something on wheels had come this way? Something narrow enough to fit on the walkway?

Marian turned her flashlight on her watch and was surprised to find they'd been walking only fifteen minutes. It seemed longer.

The next time she looked up, all the other searchers' lights had disappeared. Marian felt a stab of panic in spite of knowing that the tunnel had probably just curved. She raised her flashlight and shone it along the wall, confirming the curve. Then her heart jumped: there was something else. Inset into the wall a few feet was the unbarricaded entrance to another tunnel.

No, not a tunnel proper, but a set of iron stairs leading down
to
another tunnel. The Transit Authority had provided locations to all the known
barricaded
access points; they might not even be aware this opening was here. As quickly as she could, Marian made her way around the curve in the tunnel they'd been following; ahead of her, the other searchers' lights were small dots in the distance. She started to call out Gloria's name but stopped herself in time; silent approach.

Shit
. They'd all been doing what she had done, keeping their lights on where they were walking; they'd missed the other entrance completely. This one must be one of the shorter branching tunnels, but it would be enough to separate Marian from the other searchers. By the time she checked it out, they'd be too far ahead for her to catch up and she'd have to return to the station. But she couldn't just leave this new tunnel unexamined.

Nervously, she stepped onto the iron steps. At the bottom when she'd reached the tunnel proper, Marian realized this was no minor branch that could be checked out quickly. She needed help. Well, Gloria and her team would just have to backtrack.

She reached in her pocket and activated the beacon.

Fairchild was angry. “Do you take me for a fool? Do I
look
like a fool?”

“Of course not,” Holland replied mildly. He sat on the mattress, watching his captor pacing back and forth. “You asked me what the problem was, and I told you.”

“I am
not
unlocking the manacles.”

“I don't expect you to. I do expect you to understand.”

Fairchild laughed derisively. “Oh, I understand. I understand you're trying to con me into setting you free.”

Holland played the sulking child again. “You aren't even trying to understand.”

“Oh, don't be like that!”

“It's all right for you—you have the upper hand. But it's different from where I sit. This isn't just a game for me.”

“A game? You think I'm playing a game?”

“A bondage game, yes. Normally when two people play at master-and-slave, they both know at the end of the game the cuffs are coming off and everyone goes home happy. But I don't know that. This is more than a game—it's real. These manacles are real. That chain is real. How can you expect me to believe you won't kill me at eleven o'clock?”

“Because I say I won't.”

“You could change your mind again.”

Fairchild bared his teeth in feral imitation of a smile. “Yes, I can change my mind again. And again. And again. And you can't do a damned thing about it.”

Holland tried another tack. “What if our positions were reversed? What if I was the one running this show and you were the one chained to the wall? What if I talked casually about killing you if I didn't hear something on the eleven o'clock news I wanted to hear?”

“It wasn't casual,” Fairchild said harshly.

“But can you imagine yourself in my position? Would knowing you might have only a few more hours to live make you believe whatever I told you?”

Fairchild sighed. “No, I suppose not. But if Lieutenant Bitch doesn't come through at eleven o'clock, you get to play dead for the video camera. Maybe that will convince you.”

“Unless you change your mind again.”

Without warning Fairchild lashed out a kick that caught Holland in the ribs. “I decide when I feel like deciding! And I'm beginning to wonder if you're worth the trouble.”

Holland was bent over in pain; he'd overplayed his hand. He'd meant to lead Fairchild into thinking more about what it would be like, having his own pet slave for a while longer. But the man was so volatile, so changeable … what would work now?

The Nixon approach
. “If you get rid of me,” he gasped, “who will you have to kick around then?”

The silence grew so long that Holland was beginning to think he'd made another mistake. But then Fairchild laughed, softly and indulgently. “There's no end to your arrogance, is there?” he asked rhetorically. “It's one of the things that makes you so intriguing. Here you are, only inches from death—and you're still baiting me. Oh, I've caught myself a wild one here!” He laughed again.

Holland picked up his cue and snarled. “So glad you are amused.”

“Oh, you're very entertaining. I wonder what other tricks you know.” Fairchild knelt down behind Holland and began massaging his neck. “I've never come across anyone quite like you before. I think it's going to be fun, playing with you.”

Holland submitted to the massage, wondering how long he could keep this bizarre charade going.

28

Marian didn't want to admit it, but she was scared.

The oppressive blackness around her, being alone this far underground—that in itself was enough to give her the willies. But if she should happen to blunder on to the spot where Fairchild was holding Holland … she could cost Holland his life if she wasn't careful.

For the last ten minutes she'd noticed a new pull on her Achilles tendons; the tunnel was sloping downward to a new level. The gradient was slight but unmistakable. The temperature was dropping as well; it was almost cool.

Marian's heart was pounding because she thought this was surely the tunnel they were looking for. The layer of grit on the service walkway showed footprints and the same wheel tracks she'd noticed in the last tunnel. Both footprints and wheel tracks could have been made by a homeless person pushing a grocery cart, but she didn't think so. As well as she could make out, these tracks were left by four wheels evenly spaced, unlike those on the carts in the supermarkets. But
somebody
had been using this tunnel lately. She passed an empty cardboard carton of the sort fried chicken came in, but it looked as if it had been there a long time.

A rat ran across her foot.

She stopped dead still, swallowing a cry. She shone the light around and behind her, but the rat had disappeared. Marian took a deep breath and started forward again, her already cautious approach now even more so.

Two or three minutes later she came across a whole pack of them, red eyes gleaming in the beam of her flashlight as they swarmed all over the walkway and blocked her path. Marian shuddered. How to get rid of them? She couldn't fire her gun into their midst … or make any noise at all.

What she needed was something to throw. Marian had left her shoulder bag locked in Jim Murtaugh's car; no help there. And she wasn't about to throw her gun away. She went back for the chicken carton she'd passed. Not much weight, but at least it wouldn't make any noise when it hit.

The rats squealed when the carton landed among them and darted off in different directions. Two of them headed straight for Marian.

She kicked them off the walkway onto the tracks below.

The rats quickly regrouped, swarming around the empty carton looking for any remaining bite of food. Breathing shallowly, Marian started tapping one foot. A rat came to investigate. She kicked it off. Aha.

On her next attempt, she got three. Even better.

But when she tried it again, the remaining dozen or so all turned on her. Then Marian was kicking and kicking, pressing her lips together to keep from screaming. One rat started climbing her trouser leg; she knocked it away with her flashlight. She kicked and kicked and
kicked
.

Then suddenly she was kicking at empty air. She steadied herself and flashed the light around. What rats she hadn't managed to knock off the walkway had retreated. She aimed her light ahead and behind; no sign of them that she could see.

Marian slumped against the tunnel wall and momentarily gave in to the shakes. She was sweating and breathing heavily. But almost immediately she pushed away from the wall and started forward again. Moving was better than standing still.

The gradual downward slope of the tunnel ended, and the air had turned decidedly chilly this far underground. The tunnel started a long curve to the right. At the end of the curve, Marian stopped.

There was a light up ahead.

Quickly she turned off her flashlight. She couldn't make out anything about the light; it was still too far away. Marian flattened against the wall and started inching along the walkway in the pitch-dark, trying not to think about rats.

When she'd gotten a little closer, she could see movement around the light. But who was there, homeless or Holland, she still couldn't tell. She continued her crablike progress.

Then she was able to make out two figures. One of them was naked.

Marian pulled out her beacon signaler to check; the tiny green light was still pulsing regularly.
Gloria, hurry!

She inched her way forward.

Fairchild had started to extend his massage beyond the neck, but Holland complained that his ribs were hurting where his captor had kicked him. Fairchild was still on his knees behind him, contenting himself with fingering Holland's hair.

“You have nice hair. Soft, good body, a nice shine. Do you use a blow-dryer?”

Holland grimaced; it was his one physical vanity, his hair.

A light slap across the back of the head. “Answer me.”

“Yes, I use a blow-dryer.”

“Thought so. I wonder what you would look like bald? That might be an interesting experiment.”

“I'll just grow some more.”

Fairchild's fingers trailed lightly down Holland's back. “Most of these lash wounds are healing, but there's one here that still doesn't look quite right. Time for more of the salve.” He got up and headed toward the cart of supplies.

Holland quickly pulled himself to his feet and stepped over to stand by the wall. He didn't like Fairchild kneeling behind him.

He came back with the salve. “Lie down. It's easier that way.”

“I've been sitting too long. My legs are cramping.” Holland gave one leg a little shake by way of demonstration.

The other man shrugged and told him to turn around. “I'll need to get some more. The tube's almost empty.”

The salve felt good going on. But when Fairchild's fingers started dancing around Holland's waist, Holland jerked away. “That's fine. Thank you.”

Fairchild tossed away the now empty tube. “Ticklish?” he said with a laugh. “Don't you let the lieutenant touch you? Or does she just lie there for you without moving? Tell me what it's like, you and her.”