Текст книги "Still Life With Crows"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

But the figure screamed for him: a hoarse, guttural ululation of surprise and anger at the gunshot.

Tad ran. He found the ladder and half fell, half scrambled down it, banging his knees cruelly against the metal rungs. He got tangled near the bottom and fell crashing to the floor, on top of his broken arm. And now he found he could scream, in both pain and terror. But at least he was back on the main floor of the plant. He scrambled to his feet, nauseous from pain and sobbing with terror, ran, tripped again, scrambled back to his feet. And that was when he realized his piece was still clutched desperately in his hand. He could use it, and he woulduse it. He reached back and fired, once, twice, blindly—and each time, the muzzle flashes revealing that the thingwas scuttling toward him, pink mouth yawning wide, arms outstretched.

Muh!

He had to aim the gun, aimit, not just fire wildly. Two more rounds, and each flash showed it coming closer, closer. Tad scrambled backwards, still screaming, and fired twice more, his hand shaking wildly.

Muh! Muh!

It was almost on him. He couldn’t miss now. He aimed point-blank, pulled.

The hammer fell on an empty cylinder. He fumbled for his extra clip, but a second terrible blow struck him in the gut and he fell, unable to breathe, the gun skittering away across the floor. A third blow, this one to his gun arm. He found his wind, thrashing desperately, screaming and kicking, trying to slide himself backwards, but it was impossible with both his arms unusable.

Muh! Muh! Muh!

Tad shrieked again and twisted wildly away, sliding on his back, kicking in the direction of the sound.

And then the thing caught his flailing leg. Tad felt a terrible pressure on his ankle, then a sudden give, accompanied by the snap of bone. Hisbone.

A moment later, a huge weight pressed down on his chest and something rough and hard gripped his face. There was a smell of earth, and mold, and something fainter but far worse. For a moment it seemed as if the grasp would be gentle, comforting, reassuring.

But then it tightened with a terrible, unforgiving pressure. And then, with ferocious speed, his entire face was twisted in the direction of the floor.

There was a grinding click; a burst of fire at the base of his neck; and then the terrible darkness became bright, so very, very bright . . .

Fifty-Three

 

Corrie lay in the putrid dark. In this terrible and disorienting blackness, it was impossible to tell how much time had passed since hehad left. An hour? A day? It seemed like forever. Her whole body ached, and her neck was sore from where he had squeezed it.

And yet he had not killed her. No: he’d meant to torture her instead. And yet torture didn’t seem to be quite the right word. It was almost as if he was toying with her, playingwith her, in some horrible, inexplicable way . . .

But guessing about the killer was pointless. There was no way she could understand something so alien, so broken, so foreign to her own experience. She reminded herself that nobody was going to rescue her way back in this cave system. Nobody knew she was there. If she were to live, she had to do something herself. She had to do it before he came back.

She struggled once again to loosen the cords, succeeding only in chafing and tearing her wrists. The ropes had been tied wet and the knots were as hard as walnuts.

. . . When would hecome back? The thought sent a wave of panic through her.

Corrie, get a grip.

She lay still a moment, focusing on her breathing. Then, slowly, with her hands tied behind her, she half crawled, half rolled over the sloping floor of the cave, exploring. The floor was relatively smooth here, but now and then she noticed rough rocks projecting in clusters from the floor of the cave. She stopped to feel one formation more closely with her fingers. Crystals, maybe.

She positioned herself and kicked hard at them with her feet. There was a sharp snapping sound as they broke away.

Now she explored with numb fingers until she found a fresh, sharp edge. Positioning herself laboriously over it, she placed her hands against the edge and began rubbing the ropes, back and forth, back and forth.

God, it hurt. Her wrists were raw circles of flesh where the ropes bound her, and she could feel the blood trickling down the insides of her palms as she worked. There was barely any feeling left in her fingers.

But she kept rubbing, pressing harder. The wet rope slipped, the sharp stone cut her hands.

She stifled a cry and kept rubbing. Better to lose her hands than her life. At least the rope was beginning to fray. If she could only get it off, she could . . .

She could what?

. . . When would hecome back?

Corrie shivered; a shiver that threatened to become uncontrollable. She had never been so cold and numb and wet in her life. The stench seemed to permeate everything, and she could taste it on her tongue, in her nose.

Focus on the rope.

She rubbed, slipped, cut herself again, and, sobbing aloud, kept scraping and chafing, harder and harder. There was no longer any feeling at all in her fingers, but this just made her rub the harder.

Even if she got free, what would she do without light? She didn’t have a match or a lighter. Even if she had a light, hehad taken her so far back into the cave that she wondered if she could ever find her way out.

Sobbing, she jammed the rope against the sharp rock again and again. Perversely, the very hopelessness of her situation brought new strength to her limbs.

Suddenly her hands were free.

She lay back, gasping, sucking in air. Pain rushed in like a thousand needles pricking at her palms and fingers. She could feel blood flowing more freely now along her skin.

She tried to move her fingers, without success. With a groan, she leaned to one side, gently rubbing her palms together. She tried moving her fingers a second time and got a little response. They were coming back to life.

Slowly, painfully, she sat up. Propping her legs behind her, she reached down and felt the cords around her ankles. They seemed to be tied in the craziest way, wrapped around and around, with half a dozen crude but effective knots. She tried to pick at them, gasped at the pain, and let her hands drop away. Maybe she could saw them off on the sharp rock she’d used for her hands. She felt around for the edge—

A sound interrupted her. She paused, dread clutching at her.

He was coming back.

She could hear grunting, huffing noises echoing off the cavern walls not far away. It sounded like he was lugging something. Something heavy.

Hnuff!

Quickly she hid her hands behind her back, lay down on the cold floor, and fell still. Even though it was pitch black, she wasn’t going to take the chance that he could see she was no longer tied.

The shuffle of footsteps grew near. New smells, sour smells, were suddenly introduced into the darkness: fresh blood, bile, vomit.

She lay perfectly still. It was so dark, maybe he had forgotten about her.

There was a dragging sound, then the jangling of what sounded like keys. And then something heavy hit the floor of the cave next to her. The stench abruptly grew worse.

She stifled the scream that rose in her throat.

Now hebegan humming and talking to himself once again. There was a rattle of metal, the scratch of a match, and suddenly there was light: almost indiscernibly faint, but light just the same. For a moment, Corrie forgot everything—her pain, her desperate condition—as she felt her soul rise toward the dim yellow glow. It seemed to be coming from between the chinks of a strange-looking lantern, very old, with sliding sides of rusted metal. The light was placed in a way that left himin shadow—just a dark shape moving, gray against black. He disappeared around a corner, doing something in an alcove, humming and talking to himself.

So he did need light, after all, if only a little bit.

But if he’d managed to do so much in utter darkness—bring her here, tie her up—what kind of work would he need light for?

Corrie did not want to follow this train of thought. It was easy to let it go: the instinctual relief of the light made her feel sluggish, torpid. Part of her just wanted to give up, resign herself. She looked around. Dim as it was, the light seemed to reflect back at her in a million crystallike points, coming from everywhere and nowhere.

She waited, motionless, her eyes adjusting to the gloom.

She was in a smallish cavern. Its walls were covered with feathery white crystals that gleamed in the faint glow of the dark-lantern, and countless stalactites hung from the ceiling. From each stalactite hung a bizarre little ornament of sticks and bones, lashed together with twine. For a long time, her eyes traveled back and forth across them, uncomprehending. Eventually her eyes moved to the walls, scanned slowly across them, and then at last fell to the surrounding floor.

A body lay beside her.

She stifled a cry. Horror and fear surged through her again. How could the mere relief of vision, of the lack of blackness, have allowed her to forget, even for a moment . . . ?

She shut her eyes. But the renewed dark was even worse. She hadto know.

At first, there was so much blood on the face that she couldn’t make it out. And then, slowly, the outlines seemed to resolve themselves. It was the ruined face of Tad Franklin: staring back at her, open-mouthed.

She turned her head violently away; heard herself scream, then scream again.

There was a grunt and she now saw himfor the first time, coming around the corner and advancing toward her, a long, bloody knife in one hand, something wet and red in the other.

He was smiling and singing to himself.

The scream died as her throat closed involuntarily at the sight.

That face—!

Fifty-Four

 

Hazen stood before the assembled law enforcement officers. What he had to say wouldn’t take long: it was a good crew, and they had a good plan. McFelty wouldn’t stand a chance.

There was only one problem. Tad hadn’t yet returned from the plant, and radio communications were down. Hazen would have preferred to hand off control directly before leaving, but he could wait no longer. Medicine Creek was well secured and properly hunkered down: Tad had clearly seen to that already. It was already a few minutes to ten. He didn’t want McFelty slipping away under cover of the storm. They had to go. Tad would know what to do.

“Where’s the dogs?” he asked.

Hank Larssen spoke up. “They’re bringing them straight to the Kraus place. Meeting us there.”

“I hope to hell they got us some real dogs this time. Did you ask for that special breed they’ve been training up in Dodge, those Spanish dogs, what are they called?”

“Presa canarios,” Larssen said. “I did. They said their training wasn’t complete, but I insisted.”

“Good. I’m through playing around with lap dogs. Who’s the handler?”

“Same as last time. Lefty Weeks. He’s their best.”

Hazen scowled, shucked out a cigarette, lit it.

Now he raked the group with his gaze. “You all know the drill, so I’ll be brief. The dogs go first, then the handler—Lefty—then me and Raskovich.” He pointed at the KSU security chief with his cigarette.

Raskovich nodded, his jaw tightening with the gravity of the situation.

“Raskovich, you know how to use a twelve-gauge?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I’ll issue you one. Behind us, as backup, there’ll be Cole, Brast, and Sheriff Larssen.” He nodded to two state troopers dressed in full raid wear: black BDU pants bloused over Hi-Tec boots, blacked-out bulletproof vests. No more Boy Scout hats—this was going to be the real thing. Then he turned back to Larssen. “That okay with you, Hank?”

The Deeper sheriff nodded.

Hazen knew it was important to play the political game, keep Hank in the loop, make sure he was part of the team. Hank clearly wasn’t happy about it, but there wasn’t much he could do: this was Hazen’s turf, and until the operation was finished and outside communication was restored, it was completely his show. In the end Hazen would make sure Larssen looked good. They’d all share credit—Raskovich, too—and there wouldn’t be any backstabbing when it came to trial.

“The rules of engagement are simple. You’ve all got riot guns, but don’t use them unless your life is directly threatened.Is that absolutely crystal clear?”

Everyone nodded.

“We’re taking our man out aliveand unhurt.We’re going in nice and easy, disarm the guy, bring him out shackled and cuffed, but with kid gloves. He’s our star witness. If he panics and starts shooting, you stay backand let the dogs take care of him. And dogs like these can take a major round or two and still work.”

Silence, nods.

“If any of you’s thinking of coming out a hero, forget it. I’ll arrest you myself. We work together.”

He glared at each one in turn. It was Raskovich he was most worried about, but so far the man had been cool. It was worth taking the chance. Hell, he was willing to let Raskovich take all the damn credit if it meant the experimental field came to Medicine Creek.

“Shurte and Williams, you two will stake out the cave entrance. I want you to give yourself a good field of action, which means no lounging in the entrance where you could be surprised. If we flush McFelty and he tries to take off, you need to be ready to take him. You, Rheinbeck, you’re going into the Kraus mansion to serve the warrant and drink tea with Winifred. Be prepared to back up Shurte and Williams if they need it.”

Rheinbeck’s face betrayed nothing, just a faint twitching along the jawline.

“I know, Rheinbeck, it’s a tough assignment, but the old lady’s bound to be upset. We don’t want any heart attacks, right?”

Rheinbeck nodded.

“Remember, we’ll have no communication to the outside world down there. And if we get separated, there won’t be any communication between us, either. So we stay together. Got it?”

He looked around. They got it.

“All right, Cole’s going to tell us about the night-vision goggles.”

Cole stepped forward. He was Mr. State Police himself, tall, muscular, crew-cut, deadpan face. Funny how the Staties were never fat. Maybe it was a rule. He was carrying a gray helmet with a large set of goggles fastened beneath it.

“In a cave,” he said, “there’s no light at all. None. For that reason normal NVGs won’t work. So we’re going in with infrared illumination. The infrared light works just like a flashlight. This is the bulb, right here, on the front of the helmet. Here’s the switch. It’s got to be turned on to work, just like a regular flashlight. You can’t see the light with the naked eye, but when you put the NVGs on you’ll see a reddish illumination. If your infrared headlamp goes off, your goggles go black. Understand?”

Everyone nodded.

“The purpose of the NVGs is so we don’t make ourselves targets by carrying flashlights. He can’t see us. We’ll keep the overhead lights off and go in silent, and he won’t know how many we are.”

“Is there a map of the cave or something?” It was Raskovich.

“Good question,” said Hazen. “No, there isn’t. A wooden walkway’s been erected through most of it. There are a few rooms in the back, two or three at most, beyond. One of these rooms has the old still in it, and that’s probably where we’ll find our man. This isn’t Carlsbad Caverns we’re talking about. Just exercise common sense, stay close, and you’ll be all right.”

The security chief nodded.

Hazen went to the weapons locker, removed a shotgun, broke it open, loaded it, slapped it closed with a flick of his wrist, and handed it to Raskovich. “You’ve all checked your weapons?”

There was a general shuffling, a murmur of assent. Hazen did a final check of his service belt, counterclockwise: extra magazines, asp baton, cuffs, pepper spray, sidearm all in place. He took a breath, snugged his armored vest up tight beneath his chin.

At that moment the lights in the office flickered, brightened, and went out. A chorus of groans and murmurs went up.

Hazen glanced out the window. No lights on the main drag, or anywhere else for that matter. Medicine Creek was blacked out from front to back. No surprise, really.

“This doesn’t change a thing,” he said. “Let’s go.”

He opened the door and they stepped out into the howling night.

Fifty-Five

 

As he pulled into Medicine Creek, Special Agent Pendergast slowed the big Rolls, then plucked his cell phone from his pocket and made another attempt to call Corrie Swanson.

The only reply was a steady beeping, no longer even a recorded message. The relay stations were down.

He replaced the phone. The police radio was also down and the lights of the town were out. Medicine Creek was effectively cut off from the outside world.

He drove along Main Street. The trees were lashing back and forth in a frenzy under the angry wind. Sheets of rain swept across the streets, forming muddy whirlpools in drains that a few hours before had been choked with dust. The town was locked down tight: shades drawn, shutters closed. The only activity seemed to be at the sheriff’s office. Several state police cars were parked outside, and the sheriff and state police were moving around outside, loading equipment into a state police van and getting into squad cars. It looked like some operation was afoot, something more than the usual storm detail.

He continued on, turning into the gates of Wyndham Parke Estates. Within, the windows of the mobile homes were heavily taped, and large rocks had been placed on many of the roofs. Everything was dark, except for the occasional glimmer of a candle or flashlight beam glimpsed through a taped window. The wind tore through the narrow dirt lanes, rocking the trailers, pulling pebbles from the ground and throwing them against the aluminum sidings. In a nearby yard the swings of a child’s playset were whipping crazily, as if propelled by manic ghosts.

Pendergast pulled into the Swanson driveway. Corrie’s car was gone. He got out of his car, moved quickly to the door, and knocked.

No answer. The house was dark.

He knocked again, louder.

There was a thump from inside, and the movement of a flashlight beam. A voice called out: “Corrie? Is that you? You’re in trouble, young lady.”

Pendergast pushed at the door; it opened two inches and was stopped by the chain.

“Corrie?” the voice shrieked. A woman’s face appeared.

“FBI,” Pendergast said, flashing his badge.

The woman peered out at him from beneath slitted lids. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from rouge-smeared lips. She poked the flashlight out the crack and shone it directly into his eyes.

“I’m looking for Miss Swanson,” said Pendergast.

The ravaged face continued to look out, and now a cloud of cigarette smoke issued from the chained crack.

“She’s out,” said the woman.

“I’m Special Agent Pendergast.”

“I know who you are,” the woman said. “You’re the FBI creep who needed an assistant.” She snorted more smoke. “I’m wise to you, mister, so don’t bullshit me. Even if I knew where Corrie was, I wouldn’t tell you. Assistant, yeah, right.”

“Do you know when Miss Swanson went out?”

“No idea.”

“Thank you.”

Pendergast turned and walked briskly back toward his car. As he did so, the door to the trailer opened wide and the woman stepped out onto the sagging stoop.

“She probably went out looking for you.Don’t think you can hide the truth from me, Mr. Slick-ass in your fancy black suit.”

Pendergast got into his car.

“Oh, and looky what we have here, a, what is that, a Rolls-Royce? Sheee– it.Some FBI agent.”

He shut the door and started the engine. The woman advanced across the little patch of lawn, into the lashing rain, clutching her nightgown, the storm tearing her shouted words and flinging them away.

“You make me sick, mister, you know that? I know your type and you make me sick—”

Pendergast swung out of the driveway, headed back toward Main Street.

Within five minutes, he pulled into the parking lot of the Kraus mansion. Again, Corrie’s car was nowhere to be seen.

Inside, Winifred sat in her usual chair, doing a cross-stitch by candlelight. She looked up as he came in and a wan smile creased her papery face. “I was worried about you, Mr. Pendergast, out in that storm. It’s a doozy, it really is. I’m glad you’re back safely.”

“Has Miss Swanson been by today?”

Winifred lowered her cross-stitch. “Why no, I don’t believe she has.”

“Thank you.” Pendergast bowed and turned back to the door.

“Don’t tell me you’re going out again!”

“I’m afraid so.”

Pendergast walked back across the parking lot, his face grave. If he was aware of the storm that lashed and tore the landscape on all sides, he gave no sign. He reached his car, grabbed the door handle. Then he stopped and turned, thinking. Beyond the house with its dimly lit windows, the dark sea of corn swayed violently. The signboard advertising Kraus’s Kaverns banged repeatedly in the wind.

Pendergast released the handle and walked quickly past the house, along the road. Within a hundred yards he came to a dirt road leading into the corn.

Two minutes later he was standing beside Corrie’s car.

Now he turned and strode briskly back toward the road. But even as he did so, a row of headlights appeared in the distance, approaching through the murk at high speed. As the cars blasted past and their brake lights went on as they turned into the Kaverns parking lot, growing concern became conviction, and he realized that the unthinkable had happened.

By a terrible, ironic twist of fate, it seemed that all of them—first he, then Corrie, and now Hazen—had come to the same conclusion: that the killer was hiding in the cave.

Pendergast quickly cut back through the corn, making directly for the opening to the cave. If he could manage to get inside before . . .

He was one minute too late. As he emerged from the corn, Hazen, standing before the cut leading down into the cave, saw him and turned back, a dark expression on his face.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Special Agent Pendergast. And here I thought you’d left town.”

Fifty-Six

 

Sheriff Hazen stared at Pendergast. There was a moment of confused silence in which Hazen felt himself swell with rage. The guy had an amazing knack for appearing out of nowhere at exactly the wrong moment. Well, he was going to face down this son of a bitch, once and for all. This FBI prick wasn’t going to waste any more of his time.

He advanced toward the thin figure, managing a smile. “Pendergast, what a surprise.”

The agent halted. His black suit was almost invisible in the stormy half-light, and his face seemed to float, pale and ghostlike. “What are you doing here, Sheriff?” He spoke quietly, but his voice carried an edge that Hazen hadn’t heard before.

“It’s my recollection you were served with a C-and-D this morning. You are in violation. I could have you arrested.”

“You’re going in after the killer,” said Pendergast. “You’ve deduced he’s in the cave.”

Hazen shifted uneasily. Pendergast must be guessing. There’s no way he could have heard; not yet.

The agent went on. “You have absolutely no idea of what you’re getting into, Sheriff—neither in terms of the adversary you’re facing, nor the setting.”

This was too much. “Pendergast, that’s it.”

“You’re at the edge of the abyss, Sheriff.”

“You’re the one on the edge.”

“The killer’s got a hostage.”

“Pendergast, you’re just blowing smoke out your ass.”

“If you blunder in there, Sheriff, you’re going to cause the death of that hostage.”

Despite himself, Hazen felt a chill. It was every cop’s nightmare. “Yeah? And just who is this hostage?”

“Corrie Swanson.”

“How do you know?”

“She’s been missing all day. And I just found her car, hidden in the corn a hundred yards to the west.”

There was a moment of uneasy silence, and then Hazen shook his head in disgust. “Right from the beginning, Pendergast, you’ve done nothing but throw the investigation off track with your theories. We would already have this man in the bag if it weren’t for you. So Swanson’s car is parked in the corn. She’s probably out in the cornfield with some guy.”

“She went into the cave.”

“Now there’s a brilliant deduction for you. The cave door is solid iron. How did she get in? Pick the lock?”

“Take a look for yourself.”

Hazen looked in the direction Pendergast was indicating, down along the cut in the ground. The iron door wasn’t locked after all: a padlock lay at the bottom of the doorframe, half concealed in the dust and leaves.

“If you think Corrie Swanson sprung that lock, Pendergast, you’re an even bigger fool than I thought. That’s not the work of a kid; it’s the work of a hardened felon. The man we’re after, in fact. And that’s more than you need to know about it.”

“As I recall, Sheriff, you were the one to accuse Miss Swanson of—”

Hazen shook his head. “I’ve listened enough. Pendergast, turn over your piece. You’re under arrest. Cole, cuff him.”

Cole stepped forward. “Sheriff?”

“He’s willfully disobeyed a standing cease-and-desist. He’s hindering a police investigation. He’s trespassing on private property. I’ll take full responsibility. Just get him the hell outof my face.”

Cole advanced toward Pendergast. In the next instant, Cole was lying on the ground, desperately trying to breathe, and Pendergast had vanished.

Hazen stared.

“Uff,”Cole said, rolling into a sitting position and cradling his gut. “The son of a bitch sucker-punched me.”

“Christ,” Hazen muttered, shining his light around. But Pendergast was gone. Moments later he heard the roar of a big engine, the sound of tires pulling rapidly away from gravel.

Cole got up, his face red, and dusted himself off. “We’ll tag him for resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer.”

“Forget it, Cole. We’ve got bigger fish to fry. Let’s take care of business here and deal with that tomorrow.”

“The son of a bitch,” Cole muttered again.

Hazen slapped him on the back and grinned. “Next time you make an arrest, keep your eyes on the perp, hey, Cole?”

There was the distant slamming of a door and Hazen could hear a shrill voice rising and falling on the wind. A moment later, the pallid form of Winifred Kraus came running down the path from the old mansion. The fierce gusts whipped and tugged at her white nightgown, and to Hazen it almost seemed as if a ghost was flying through the night. Rheinbeck was following in her tracks, protesting loudly.

“What are you doing?” shrieked the old woman as she came up, her hair haggard in the rain, drops running down her face. “What’s this? What are you doing on my property?”

Hazen turned to Rheinbeck. “For chrissakes, you were supposed to—”

“I’ve been trying to explain to her, Sheriff. She’s hysterical.”

Winifred was looking around at the troopers, her eyes rolling wildly. “Sheriff Hazen! I demand an explanation!”

“Rheinbeck, get her out of—”

“This is a respectabletourist attraction!”

Hazen heaved a sigh and turned to her. “Look. Winifred, we believe the killer’s holed up in your cave.”

“Impossible!” the woman shrieked. “I check it twice a week!”

“We’re going in there to bring him out. I want you to stay in your house with Officer Rheinbeck here, nice and peaceable. He’ll take care of you—”

“I will not.Don’t you darego into my cave! You have no right. There’s no killer in there!”

“Miss Kraus, I’m sorry. We’ve got a warrant. Rheinbeck?”

“I already showed her the warrant, Sheriff—”

“Show it to her again and get her the hell out of here.”

“But she won’t listen—”

“Pick her upif you have to. Can’t you see we’re wasting time?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, ma’am—”

“Don’t you daretouch me!” Winifred took a swipe at Rheinbeck, who fell back.

She turned and advanced on Hazen, her fists balled up. “You get off my property! You’ve always been a bully! Get out of here!”

He grabbed her wrists and she writhed and spat at him. Hazen was amazed at the old lady’s strength and ferocity.

“Miss Kraus,” he began again, trying to be patient, to make his voice more soothing. “Just calm down, please. This is important law enforcement business.”

“Get off my land!”

Hazen struggled to hold her, and felt a sharp kick to his shin. The others were all standing around, gawking like civilian spectators. “How about a little help here?” he roared.

Rheinbeck grabbed her by the waist while Cole waded in and managed to snag one of her flailing arms.

“Easy now,” Hazen said. “Easy. She’s still a little old lady.”

Her shrieks became hysterical. The three men held her immobile for a moment, struggling, and then Hazen finally extricated himself. Rheinbeck, with Cole’s help, picked her up off the ground. Her legs kicked and flailed.

“Devils!” she shrieked. “You have no right!”

Her shrieks died as Rheinbeck disappeared into the storm, carrying his thrashing burden.

“Jesus, what’s with her?” Cole asked, panting.

Hazen dusted off his pants. “She’s always been a loopy old bitch, but I never expected this.” He gave one final slap. She had kicked him pretty good in the shin and it still smarted. He straightened up. “Let’s get into the cave before someone else pops up to spoil our party.” He turned to Shurte and Williams. “If that son of a bitch Pendergast comes back, you’re authorized to use all means to keep him out of the cave.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hazen leading, the others moved down the dark slot in the ground. As they descended, the sounds of the storm became muffled, far away. They opened the unlocked door, switched on their infrared lights and night-vision goggles, and began descending the stairs. Within moments the silence became complete, broken only by the sound of dripping water. They were entering another world.

Fifty-Seven

 

The Rolls scraped and bumped up the dirt track, the headlights barely penetrating the screaming murk, hail hammering on the metal. When the vehicle could go no farther, Pendergast stopped, turned off the engine, tucked the rolled map inside his suit jacket, and stepped out into the storm.

Here, at the highest point of land in Cry County, the mesocyclone had reached its highest pitch of intensity. The ground looked like a battlefield, littered with jetsam scattered by the ruinous winds: twigs, plant debris, clods of dirt picked up from fields many miles away. Up ahead, the still-invisible trees fringing the Mounds thrashed and groaned, leaves and limbs tearing at each other with a sound like the crashing of surf on rocks. The world of the Ghost Mounds had been reduced to sound and fury.