Presumption of Guilt (33 page)

“Shit,” he said between clenched teeth as he dropped the light and began flailing for a handhold.

It was too late. With a groan and a sigh, the flooring took him down like a collapsing playground slide, and dumped him into the darkness ten feet below.

The good news was that he landed in a soft pile, showered by wet dirt, but otherwise undamaged, and within sight of his still-functioning flashlight. The bad news was that his radio had been torn from his belt and mangled by an accompanying floor beam.

He tried it nevertheless, standing up uncertainly and blinking the mud from his eyes. “Joe to Barb. Come in.”

He didn't bother repeating the attempt. He knew what he'd done from the unit's complete lack of life, including the usually flickering LED. He dropped it back onto the ground, reached into his pocket, and halfheartedly pulled out his cell phone. He wasn't optimistic. From long experience, he'd found the things generally disappointing, despite how his younger colleagues sang their praises.

Sure enough, there was no signal to be had. He repocketed the phone, brushed off his light, and looked around for an exit.

The easiest would have been a set of stairs or a door, neither of which was apparent. The next hope was for something he could drag under the hole, in order to climb back out. But again, there were no such offerings. Rather, he found himself in a brick-lined room, paralleling the one he'd dropped from, running off into the gloom and equipped with an assortment of rusted, broken, long-forgotten pipes lining its walls, no doubt once designed to deliver water, electrical wiring, heating, or all three.

He quickly checked to make sure that his other equipment was still attached, and that his adrenaline wasn't masking an injury he hadn't yet registered. Aside from a cut on his hand and a couple of bruised knuckles, however, he was whole, if dirty and wet. He set out in the direction he'd been following upstairs, hoping to discover something more encouraging than a blank wall.

At least progress was easier. Confusion and clutter were in spades, coming mostly from abandoned and broken tools, hundreds of rotten baskets, and assorted other piles so lost to disintegration as to defy description. But overall, the middle of the corridor was clear, if soaked, allowing for quick and wary passage.

Even with his mishap, Joe hadn't overlooked that—planned or not—he was now closer to where he'd just warned Zonay their quarry might be hiding—although without any way to summon help.

There was a door at the far end, as he'd hoped, locked, of course. Peering closely, and using his Leatherman as a probe, Joe looked for a way to break through as quietly as possible.

The door was wooden, soft with rot in places, and thankfully, slightly loose in its jamb. Also, both its hinge pins were available. Concentrating there, he seized the top of the lower pin in the teeth of the Leatherman pliers and gently thumped the underside of his right hand with his left fist, hoping to work the pin loose of the hinge's embrace.

It worked. He repeated the maneuver on the upper hinge, which of course proved more reluctant.

“God damn it,” he swore under his breath, looking around for some kind of prying tool. He located a sodden chunk of two-by-four in a corner and rigged a crude fulcrum of sorts, against which he could lever the Leatherman's purchase on the stubborn pin.

Finally, the pin slid up just enough for him to draw it out. He then drove the point of the small pliers between the jamb and the door's edge, and slowly worked it free of its seating. When he could get enough of a handhold, he resheathed the Leatherman, grabbed the door with his fingertips, and pulled it toward him.

The hinges came free of their insets, the bottom of the door oozed against the mud at Joe's feet, and slowly but gradually, the whole thing swung open, opposite from the way it was designed to.

When the gap was wide enough, he carefully stuck his head out, along with one hand holding the extinguished flashlight.

He listened, holding his breath, hoping the slight noise he'd made hadn't drawn attention. Hearing nothing, he eased the door back a few more inches, until he could slip through entirely, and stepped into the blackness.

Only then, breathing silently through his open mouth, did he pull his gun from its holster, brace himself, and turn on his flashlight.

Perhaps not surprisingly, the revelation proved a letdown. He was in a square, bland, brick-lined room, with open doorways on each wall.

He quickly checked the openings, conscious of how much time had elapsed since his tumble from above. He still felt he was on the right track—thinking Dan Kravitz went underground for sanctuary—but he had no choice of strategy, and no proof that he was right. For all he knew, his colleagues had already wrapped up operations and were wondering where in hell he'd disappeared.

His survey revealed one tool closet, one dead-end room with more equipment, and a long, dark hallway with a bend in it, far ahead.

He took the latter, still using his light, and moving faster than he'd dared before. As he went, the floor dried out, until he came to where the mud was replaced by dust, and the mold by cobwebs. By the time he reached the hallway elbow, he found himself tiptoeing, the earth underfoot no longer absorbing the sounds of his approach.

Around the corner, he found another door—this time modern, metal, and betraying a thin line of light around its borders.

He paused. The presence of light gave weight to his conviction. The greenhouse had been unplugged for years, its owners long gone, its security nonexistent. There were no known electrical lines still servicing the building. Whatever lay beyond the door, therefore, perfectly suited what Joe knew of Dan Kravitz through Willy—that the man was a human mole of sorts, secretive and ingenious enough to find a way to wire just one part of an abandoned, huge hulk of a building.

But the light presented a dilemma. Given that Joe's suspicions were firming up, where did that put him—alone, in the dark, without communications, heavy weapons, or backup? He was no action hero cowboy, and this was no movie. It had been one thing to pursue a hunch and wander by mischance through a silent, possibly empty building, but what were his options now?

His own words to Barb Zonay about the need to act quickly, if they hoped to save the Kravitzes, rose back up with extra urgency—effectively overriding any thought of retreat in order to somehow rally the troops.

It was an odd and disquieting moment. Joe thought of his family, Beverly, and his extended tribe of colleagues. The results of his actions, if they turned out poorly, would ripple outward to all of them.

With an apologetic shake of the head, Joe pocketed the flashlight, gently placed his left hand on the doorknob, readied his handgun, and stepped ahead.

He entered fast, low, and immediately cut left, his back against the wall and his gun covering the room. From his low-target crouch, he saw—as in the burst of a light strobe—three people before him: two seated and one standing, the last holding a gun, pointed directly at him.

That was all he needed to shoot first.

Except that the balding man beat him to it.

The muzzle flash was more surprising to Joe than the bullet punching into his vest. That hurt, and threw him off balance, but the image of this huge, hot, bright flower of flame—directed straight at him—caught him completely off guard and caused him to blink before he could respond.

It was just enough time for the other man to cross the room, smack him across the head with his gun, and remove Joe's weapon with his other hand.

With the temporary blindness, the searing pain to his temple, and the knowledge that he'd just been shot, Joe was overwhelmed by his own failure and stupidity. After the life he'd been through, he was to end up in a pile on the floor, being killed by someone he didn't even know.

But not now—maybe. The man—whom he assumed to be Walter—retreated two feet, still aiming at Joe, and asked, “You have other weapons?”

Joe winced, trying to clear his mind. He noticed that Dan and Sally had been zip-tied to their chairs, reducing them to targets only. “Of course I do,” he replied. “So do the people crawling all over this place.”

Walter smiled. “Yeah. Well, you three'll be more than I need to get by them. Especially you. Always nice to have a cop as a shield.”

Those were his last words. With no warning, the door facing Joe flew open, and a black-clad Barb Zonay stepped in and shot Walter in the head with a single round. As if he'd been yanked offstage by a steel cable snapping tight, he landed in a heap against the wall.

Zonay, followed by a herd of gun-toting, shouting colleagues, crossed the room in three paces, crouched beside Walter to move his gun beyond reach, and quickly checked his pulse.

Then, her familiar easy smile replacing the grim expression of moments earlier, she turned to Joe.

“Hey,” she said. “How're ya doin'?”

“Been better,” he answered truthfully. “But I'm alive, thanks to you.”

“You kidding?” she said. “You not only told us to go underground; you gave us the perfect distraction, coming through the door like Rambo. Saved me trying to figure out how to nail this yo-yo without getting the hostages killed.”

“Great,” he said, laughing tiredly, as she slipped a pair of handcuffs onto the lifeless body, per protocol. “I'll give myself the duck decoy award after I check out of the hospital.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Joe looked up as Beverly entered the hospital room. “My God. You must've driven here at two hundred miles per hour.”

She crossed over to him, her expression clinical, taking in the bandage covering half his head, and his blackened left eye, and kissed him long and hard without comment. He could feel her lips trembling slightly against his own as he reached up to hold her face in his hands.

“You are a sweetheart to come down,” he told her.

“Like I was going to send you flowers and a card,” she said sourly, propping one hip on the edge of his bed. “You are such a turkey.”

“Doctor,” he said, feigning shock, “I'm an injured man.”

She allowed a small smile. “I have no experience with that. My patients never complain.”

He reached up to kiss her in turn, but winced in the process.

She straightened. “What?”

He shook his head and patted his chest. “My vest caught a bullet—left a wicked bruise. One of the reasons they're keeping me for a few hours.”

She absorbed that before saying, “They didn't mention that part.”

“I asked them not to,” he confessed. “I thought the phone call would be bad enough, and they wouldn't let me do it myself.”

Her response surprised him. She took his hand in hers and said, “That's all right. I appreciated being called at all.”

Despite the pain, he sat up. “Are you kidding? I had them phone you before my family. Of course,” he added with a smile, settling against the pillow, “they're more used to being contacted by hospitals.”

“It is a habit with you,” she observed, one eyebrow arched. “That much I know.”

“You okay with that?”

She smiled again. “I'm not okay with the reasons, but I'm delighted by your phone tree.”

There was a knock at the door. He expected her to rise and assume a more professional pose, as was her default. Instead, he was touched and pleased when she stayed as she was, still holding his hand.

It was Willy.

“Hey, Doc,” he said in greeting, ignoring the unwritten rule that forbade addressing Beverly as anything other than Doctor Hillstrom.

“Willy,” she said pleasantly, with a nod of the head. Joe wondered if he'd ever heard her speak Kunkle's first name, and doubted he had. Miracles were occurring right before him.

“Got some updates, boss,” Willy said.

That got Beverly to stand. “Which gives me a chance to find the facilities,” she said.

“Don't leave on my account,” Willy told her.

“That'll be the day,” she said, passing by him.

He laughed as she closed the door behind her. He was in a transparently good mood. “You did good, boss. I always liked her.”

“Can't say she thinks the same about you,” Joe retorted.

Willy waved his large hand dismissively. “She would if she knew me. I'm a really likeable guy.”

“You are many things—,” Joe began, before Willy cut him off.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. My kid thinks I'm the bee's knees. The rest of you people? Who cares?”

Joe smiled. “Whatcha got?”

“Linda Lucas in one piece, for one thing. Backtracked the rental car's GPS readings to some woodsy cabin where he stashed her.”

Joe furrowed his brows. Willy cut off his next obvious question. “It was Lucas's
Bourne Identity
hideaway,” he explained. “Guns, food, get-outta-town bags. He went there after you spooked him, and it's where Walter set up shop after he grabbed Linda and got her to spill her guts—including where to find Lucas, and through Lucas, the Kravitzes. We even found the cameras that were probably used to watch the Lucas house from across the street, tucked into a duffel bag.”

Joe let out a sigh. “Very efficient, our friend Walter. What kind of shape was Linda in? Sounds like he worked her over.”

“Safe to say,” Willy agreed seriously. “She's not giving any details. She's a tough bird. Just reading the scene when we got there, I'd say he raped her, at least, and maybe pulled a few other stunts. But she's a sphinx.”

“Why?”

“Maybe worried Walter isn't the only dog off his leash, maybe about the past catching up if she gets too chatty. Don't know. We collected DNA, fingerprints, mug shots, and got a warrant to search her house through New Hampshire authorities, but I wouldn't hold my breath. We already know Dan scoped out the home-sweet-home. I doubt we'll find much more than he did. We'll try, though. We got a last name for Walter, by the way: Nesbit. His fingerprints came back via AFIS, no problem.”