Текст книги "Still Life With Crows"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

They emerged from the pit and the girl immediately fell to her knees, clinging to Pendergast, sobbing violently.

Pendergast knelt beside her. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he gently wiped the blood and dirt from the girl’s face. Then he examined her wrists and hands. “Do they hurt?” he asked.

“Not now. I’m so glad you came. I thought . . . I thought—” The rest of the sentence was lost in a sob.

He took her hands. “Corrie? I know what you thought. You’ve been very brave. But it’s not over yet and I need your help.” He spoke gently but rapidly, in a low, urgent whisper.

She fell silent, nodded.

“Can you walk?”

She nodded, then broke into a sob once again. “He was playingwith me,” she cried. “He was going to keep playing with me, until . . . until I died.”

He put a hand on her shoulder. “I know it’s difficult. But you’re going to need to be strong until we get out of here.”

She swallowed, eyes down.

Pendergast stood and briefly examined his map. “There might be a quicker way out. We’re going to have to risk it. Follow me.”

Then he turned to Weeks. “I’ll go first. Then Miss Swanson. You cover us from the back. And I mean cover,Officer: he could come from anywhere, above, below, beside, behind. He will be silent. And he will be fast.”

Weeks licked dry lips. “How can you be so sure the killer will be coming after us?”

Pendergast returned his gaze, pale eyes luminous in the darkness. “Because he won’t give up willingly his only friend.”

Seventy-Four

 

Hazen moved fast, pausing only briefly to reconnoiter at the twists and intersections of the cavern, not bothering to conceal the noisy sounds of his passage. He gripped his twelve-gauge with white knuckles, fingers resting against the dual triggers.

This bastard was as good as dead.

He passed another little arrangement, then another, tiny crystals and dead cave animals placed on a rock ledge. A psychopath. The cave was where he’d practiced his craziness before going topside to do it to real people.

The son of a bitch was going to pay. No Miranda rights, no call to a lawyer, just two loads of double-ought buck in the chest and then a third to the brainpan.

There was such a confusing welter of footprints that Hazen wasn’t sure what trail he was following anymore, or even if it was fresh. But he knew the killer couldn’t be far away, and he didn’t care how long it took or where he had to go to find him. The corridors couldn’t go on forever. He’d find him.

The rage prickled his scalp and made his face feel hot and flushed despite the clammy air of the cave. Tad . . .It was like he had lost a son.

His grief was checked, at least for now, by a tidal wave of anger. He felt tears streaming down his cheeks but didn’t feel the emotion behind them. All he felt was hatred. He was crying with hatred.

The tunnel suddenly ended in a rocky cave-in. There was a black hole above from which the boulders had fallen. His infrared beam revealed a little trail, winding up through the debris and disappearing into what looked like an upper gallery.

Hazen charged his way up the debris slope, head down, shotgun pointed ahead. He came out into a soaring vertical space. Overhead, feathery crystals hung on long ropes of limestone, swaying slightly in an underground current of air. Passageways wandered off in all directions. He scanned the ground, fighting to get his breathing and his emotions under control; found what looked like a fresh track; and began following it again, threading his way through a maze of tunnels.

After a few minutes he realized something was wrong. The tunnel had curved back on itself somehow, and returned him to where he’d started. He set off down another tunnel, only to find that the same thing happened. His frustration grew until the red wash of his goggles seemed to dim from sheer rage.

After returning to the chamber yet a third time, he stopped, raised his shotgun, and fired. The blast rocked the room, and feathery crystals tinkled gently down on all sides like giant broken snowflakes.

“Mother fucker!” he screamed. “I’m here, come show your face, freak!”

He fired a second time, and a third, screaming obscenities into the darkness.

The only answers that came back were the echoes of the blasts, rolling insanely through the honeycomb of chambers, again and again.

The magazine was empty. Breathing raggedly, Hazen reloaded. This wasn’t helping, hollering and shooting like this. Just find him. Find him. Findhim.

He plunged down yet another passageway. This one looked different: a long, glossy tunnel of limestone, little pools of water dotted with cave pearls. At least he had escaped the merry-go-round of endless returning passageways. He could no longer remember where he had been or where he was going. He simply plunged on.

And then, off to one side, he saw a dark, hulking figure.

It was the merest glimpse, just a shadow flitting across his goggles; but it was enough. He spun, dropped to one knee, and fired—long practice at the range paying off—and the figure dropped, tumbling to the ground with a crash.

Hazen followed immediately with a second shot. Then he scuttled forward, ready to pump out the final round.

He stared down, the red glow of the night-vision goggles revealing not a dead body but a lumpy stalagmite, cut in half by his gun, lying shattered on the cave floor. He resisted the impulse to curse, to kick the shattered pieces away. Slowly and calmly, he raised the shotgun and continued down the echoing tunnel. He came to a fork, another fork, and then he paused.

He saw movement ahead, heard a faint sound.

He moved forward more carefully now, gun at the ready. He swung around a rocky corner, dropped to his knee, and covered the empty tunnel ahead; and in doing so he never did see the dark shape that approached swiftly out of the shadows behind him until he felt the sudden blow to the side of his head, the brutal wrenching twist, but by then it was too late and black night was already rushing forward to embrace him and he didn’t have enough air left in his lungs to make any sound at all.

Seventy-Five

 

Perhaps, Corrie thought, it was all just a dream: this breathless, desperate dash through an endless gallery of caverns. Perhaps Agent Pendergast had never arrived and she hadn’t been rescued, after all. Perhaps she was still down at the bottom of the pit, in a nightmarish half-doze, waiting to be awakened by the return . . .

But then, the ache in her wrists and ankles, the throbbing pain in her temple, would remind her that this was, in fact, no dream.

Agent Pendergast raised his arm, signaling for them to stop. His flashlight bobbled as he consulted the strange, soiled map. This hesitation seemed to greatly agitate the man who was accompanying them. It had taken Corrie several minutes, in her near-stuporous state, to even notice that somebody besides Pendergast had been running along with them. He was a little man with a high voice, sandy hair, and a scraggly goatee. His police fatigues were splattered with mud and clotted pieces of something else she didn’t want to think about.

“This way,” Pendergast whispered. Corrie roused herself to follow, feeling as she did so the vague, dreamlike sensation return.

They passed through a low, chilly cavity that took a series of turns, first to the left, then to the right. And then quite suddenly, the ceiling rose into blackness. Corrie sensed, more than saw, that a large chamber lay ahead. Pendergast hesitated once again at its mouth, listening. When he had satisfied himself that there was no noise besides their own, he led the way forward.

One step, then another, as the walls fell away from the beam of Pendergast’s flashlight. Despite her shock and exhaustion, Corrie looked wonderingly around at the extraordinary space that was revealed, in bits and pieces, by the FBI agent’s flashlight. It was an immensely tall chamber, of blood-red stone so wet and slick that it appeared in places almost to be polished. Pools of shallow water dotted the floor. Near the top of the chamber, the rock face was broken by a series of horizontal cracks, through which the long seeping action of water had built up veils of calcite. These immense white veils, draped over the red stone, gave the uncanny appearance of a richly appointed gallery in a theater.

The only problem was there wasn’t any exit at the far end. The dazed sense of relief that had been settling over Corrie was suddenly lost beneath a fresh wash of fear.

“Where now?” the man in uniform said, panting. “I just knew it. This shortcut of yours led us to a dead end.”

Pendergast peered at the map another moment. “We’re no more than a hundred yards from the public area of Kraus’s Kaverns. But a portion of that will be along the Z-axis.”

“The Z-axis?” the man said. “The Z-axis? What are you talking about?”

“Our route lies up there.” Pendergast pointed to a small arched opening that Corrie had not noticed before, situated about forty feet up one of the curtains of stone. A stream of water poured from it, splashing down the huge masses of flowstone and disappearing into a yawning crack at the cavern’s base.

“Just how are we supposed to get up there?” the man asked truculently.

Pendergast ignored him, searching the wall above with his beam.

“You don’t expect to climb that, do you? Without a rope?”

“It’s the only choice left us.”

“You call that a choice? With that huge gaping hole at the bottom? One slip, and we’re as much as—”

Pendergast ignored this, turning to Corrie. “How are your wrists and ankles?”

She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I can make it.”

“I know you can. You go first. I’ll follow and tell you what to do. Officer Weeks will come last.”

“Why me last?”

“Because you need to provide cover from below.”

Weeks spat to one side. “Right.” Despite the chill damp air, the man was sweating: rivulets that traced clean lines through the muck that covered his face.

Quickly, Pendergast glided toward the cave wall, Corrie following close behind. She felt her heart begin to beat hard and fast again, and she tried to keep her eyes off the rock face above them. They stopped a few yards short of the wide fissure in the floor. The spray of falling water formed a curtain of mist that coated the already slick rock. Without allowing her time for second thoughts, Pendergast gave her a boost, directing his light toward the initial footholds.

“I’m right behind you, Miss Swanson,” he murmured. “Take your time.”

Corrie clung to the rock, trying to suppress the pain in her hands and the still greater burden of her fear. To reach the opening overhead they had to climb diagonally, out over the yawning fissure. The ribbed limestone offered plenty of good hand– and footholds, but the rock was wet and smooth. She tried to think of nothing, nothing except raising first a hand, then a foot, and then pulling herself up another six inches. From the noises below, she could tell that both men were now on the rock face and climbing as well. Pendergast murmured directions, once in a while using his hand to direct her foot to one ledge or another. It was more frightening than it was difficult—the handholds were almost like the rungs of a ladder. Once she looked down, saw the top of Weeks’s head and the gulf that now lay directly beneath them. She paused and shut her eyes, feeling a reeling sense of vertigo. Again, Pendergast’s hand steadied her, his smooth, gentle voice urging her along, urging her to look ahead, not down . . .

One foot, one hand, the other foot, the other hand. Slowly, Corrie crept up the rock. Now, blackness yawned both above and below, barely pierced by the glow of Pendergast’s flashlight. Her heart was racing even faster now, and her arms and legs were beginning to tremble from the unaccustomed effort of climbing. Somehow, perversely, the closer she got to the lip of the passage overhead, the more desperate she felt. She did not dare look up anymore, and had no idea if there were five feet, or thirty feet, still to go.

“There’s something down here!” Weeks suddenly shouted from below, his voice pitched high. “Something moving!”

“Officer Weeks, brace yourself against the rock and provide cover,” Pendergast said. Then he turned back to Corrie. “Corrie, just another ten feet. Pretend you’re climbing a ladder.”

Ignoring the pain that shot through her wrists and fingers, Corrie grabbed the next handhold, found another foothold, pulled herself up.

“It’s him!” she heard Weeks shout. “Oh my God, he’s here!”

“Use your weapon, Officer,” Pendergast said calmly.

Desperately, Corrie grabbed a fresh handhold, found a higher ledge for her foot. It slipped and her heart almost froze with terror as she lurched away from the wall. But Pendergast was there once more, his hand bracing her, steadying her, guiding her foot to a better hold. She stifled a sob; yet again, she was so frightened she could barely think.

“He’s gone,” Weeks said in a tight voice. “At least, I can’t see him.”

“He’s still there,” said Pendergast. “Climb, Corrie. Climb.”

Corrie, gasping with the effort and pain, pulled herself up. Peripherally, she was aware that Pendergast, with a lithe maneuver, had turned himself around on the ledge to face outward. His flashlight was in one hand and his gun in the other, its laser sight scanning the cavern below.

“There!” cried Weeks.

Corrie heard the deafening blast of his shotgun, followed by another. “He’s fast!” Weeks screamed. “Too fast!”

“I’m covering you from above,” Pendergast said. “Just hold your position and fire with care.”

There was another blast from the shotgun, then another. “Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ,” Weeks was saying, over and over, sobbing and gasping.

Corrie ventured a glance overhead. In the dim glow of Pendergast’s flashlight she could see that she was now just five feet below the lip of the archway. But there did not seem to be any more handholds. She felt around, first with one hand, and then with the other, but the stone was smooth.

Another scream, another wild shotgun blast.

“Weeks!” Pendergast rapped out. “You’re firing wild! Aim your weapon.”

“No, no, no!” The shotgun went off yet again. And then Corrie heard the clatter as Weeks threw his empty gun down in a panic and began climbing furiously.

“Officer Weeks!” Pendergast shouted.

Once again, Corrie reached out with her hands, fingertips splayed, looking for a purchase. She could find none. With a sob of terror, she looked down toward Pendergast, appealing for help. And then she froze.

A shape had flashed out of the darkness below, leaping upon the rock wall like a spider. Pendergast’s gun cracked but the shape kept coming, scrambling up after them. For a moment, Pendergast’s light fell directly on it, but it gave a grunt of rage and ducked away from the beam. And yet it was enough for Corrie to see, once again, that great moonlike face, inhumanly white; the wispy trailing beard; the little blue eyes flecked with blood, staring out from below long, effeminate lashes; that same strange, intent, fixed smile: a face that seemed as ingenuous as a baby’s, and yet so very alien, rent by thoughts and emotions so bizarre as to scarcely seem human.

Even as she watched, the figure ascended the rock with terrible speed.

Pendergast’s gun cracked again but Corrie saw that Weeks, climbing desperately, had come directly between him and the monster and the FBI agent no longer had a shot. She lay against the rock face, her heart like a hammer in her chest, unable to move, unable to look away, unable to do anything.

The killer reached the frantically climbing Weeks, brought his pistonlike arm back, and smashed the man in the back, cracking him like a bug. With a scream of pain Weeks peeled off the rock and began to slide. The massive arm cocked back again and this time struck a sideways blow that rammed Weeks’s head against the rock. Corrie watched in frozen horror as Weeks simply dropped, down the wall and into the great fissure below, his body making no sound as it plunged out of sight through the veil of mist into the unguessable depths beneath.

Then immediately there came another shot from Pendergast’s gun, but the man, with a great apelike leap, dodged sideways and once again began scuttling up the rock face with almost unbelievable agility. Before she could even draw breath he was on top of Pendergast. There was a blow and the agent’s gun fell away, clattering onto the cavern floor below. Then the thing’s hammerlike fist drew back to deliver another, fatal blow and Corrie, finding her breath, screamed, “No!”

But when the fist came down, Pendergast was no longer there, having jumped sideways himself. Now the agent raised his hand, fingertips curled tightly in against themselves, and thrust the meat of his palm violently up into the man’s nose. There was a cracking sound and a jet of crimson blood. The man grunted in pain and lashed out again, knocking Pendergast roughly from the wall. The agent teetered, slid, then managed to halt his fall, reestablishing a grip on the stone several feet below.

But it was too late. The thing, bloodied and frothing, had gotten past Pendergast and was now scrambling up the rock face toward Corrie. She was helpless; she could not even release a hand to defend herself; it was all she could do to cling to the cliff.

He was on top of her in a heartbeat and the great callused hands closed once again around her throat, with no hesitation now, no humanity in his dead eyes, nothing but a sense of anger and the desire to kill. And the sound of her gagging was drowned out by his own brutal roar.

Muuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Seventy-Six

 

The wind was blowing even harder now, and Shurte and Williams had retreated into the shelter of the cut leading down into the cave. It wasn’t exactly where the sheriff had ordered them to be, Shurte knew, but the hell with it: it was past one in the morning, and they’d been standing in the cold and rain for over three hours already.

He heard Williams groan, then swear. He glanced over. Williams was huddled farther down the cut, holding the propane lantern. Shurte had dressed his partner’s bite, using the first-aid kit from the cruiser. It was an ugly wound, but not nearly as bad as Williams was making it out to be. The real problem was their situation. The police-band radios were silent, the power was out everywhere; even the few commercial radio stations that reached this far into the boondocks were off the air. As a result, they had no information, no orders, no news, nothing. Three hours Hazen and the others had been in the cave, and the only one to come out had been one of the dogs with half his jaw ripped off.

Shurte had a very bad feeling.

The cave exhaled a smell of dampness and stone. Shurte shivered. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way the dog had come tearing out of the darkness, trailing blood. What could have ripped a dog apart like that? He glanced at his watch again.

“Jesus, what the hell are they doingdown there?” Williams asked for the tenth time.

Shurte shook his head.

“I should be in the hospital,” Williams said. “I might be getting rabies.”

“Police dogs don’t have rabies.”

“How do you know? I’m getting an infection, for sure.”

“I put plenty of antibiotic ointment on it.”

“Then why does it burn so much? If this gets infected I’ll remember who dressed it, DoctorShurte.”

Shurte tried to ignore him. Even the banshee-like moaning of the wind across the mouth of the cave was preferable to his whining.

“I tell you, I’ve got to get medical help. That dog took a chunk out of me.”

Shurte snorted. “Williams, it’s a dog bite. Now you can put in for a Purple Heart Ribbon for being wounded in the line of duty.”

“Not until next week I can’t. And it hurts now,damn it.”

Shurte looked away. What a jerk. Maybe he should request a rotation. When the going got rough Williams had crapped out. A dog bite. What a joke.

A bolt of lightning tore the sky in half, briefly painting the mansion a ghostly white. The huge drops of rain were propelled like bullets in the howling wind. A river of water was running down the ramp into the cave.

“Fuck this.” Williams got to his feet. “I’m going up to the house to relieve Rheinbeck. I’ll take a turn watching the old lady and send him on down here.”

“That wasn’t our assignment.”

“Screw the assignment. They were supposed to be in and out of the cave in half an hour. I’m injured, I’m tired, and I’m soaked to the skin. You can stay out here if you want, but I’m going up to the house.”

Shurte watched his retreating back, then spat on the ground. What an asshole.

Seventy-Seven

 

The roar of the monster was suddenly drowned out by a second roar, sharp and deafening in the confines of the cavern. Corrie felt the horrible weight of the brute suddenly slam against her, pressing her cruelly into the rock face. He was roaring violently in her ear as if in pain, the bellowing filling her nostrils with the smell of rotten eggs. The great paw around her neck loosened, then released, allowing her to turn her head and gasp for air. She had a brief glimpse of a face inches from hers: broad, unnaturally smooth, pasty white, little eyes, bulbous forehead.

There was another blast, and this time she heard the slap of buckshot against the rock face nearby. Corrie gulped in air, clinging hard at the slippery purchase. Someone was firing a shotgun at him from below.

The monster slid away from the rock, then regained his hold, scrabbling frantically and roaring like a bear in the direction of the blast.

Vaguely, she heard Pendergast’s voice from below. “Corrie! Now!”

Corrie struggled to clear her head. She released one hand, gave a desperate reach upward, and found the handhold that had been eluding her. Crying and gasping, she pulled herself up by her arms, moved her foot—and felt a viselike grip close around her ankle.

She screamed, trying to shake her leg free, but the brute tugged fiercely at her, trying to peel her away bodily from the rock face. She struggled to maintain her hold but the pull was too strong. Her fingers, already swollen and bleeding from her struggles in the pit, grew too painful to endure. Corrie cried out in fear and frustration, feeling her grip give way, her nails scraping across the stone.

There was another shotgun blast and the terrible grip abruptly relaxed. Corrie felt a sharp sting in her calf and realized that one or more of the shotgun pellets had hit her.

“Hold your fire!” Pendergast shouted down.

But the monster had fallen abruptly silent. The roar of the shotgun, the shrieks of pain and rage, echoed and fell away. Corrie waited, frozen in terror against the rock face. Almost against her will, she found herself looking downward.

He was there, the broad moon face now a mask of blood. He stared up at her a moment, his face horribly twisted, grimacing, his eyes blinking rapidly. Then his hands spasmodically released their holds. His eyes remained on hers as he swayed back, as if in slow motion, from the rock face. Then he gradually fell backward, his countenance serene as his huge body dropped away into space. Corrie watched in sickened horror as he hit the rock wall a dozen feet below, bouncing with a great smack and a spray of blood, then turning once and landing heavily at the mouth of the fissure. He lay still for a moment, and then another shotgun blast roared out, catching him in one shoulder and turning him over violently, swinging his body partway over the abyss. A man holding a shotgun stepped forward: Sheriff Hazen. He aimed it point-blank at the man’s head.

For a moment, one of the monster’s great hands clung to the edge. And then it relaxed and the thing slid down out of sight, dropping like a stone into the void. Corrie waited, listening, but there was nothing more: no splash, no cry of ultimate pain to mark the thing’s final passing. He had disappeared, claimed by the dark bowels of the earth. The sheriff stood there, not having fired the final shot.

The first to speak was Pendergast.

“Easy does it,” he said to Corrie, his voice low and firm. “Let one hand follow the other. I can see the rest of the path from here. The handholds are good, and the top is only a few feet away.”

Corrie gasped, sobbed, her entire body shaking.

“You may cry when you reach the top, Miss Swanson. Now, you must climb.”

The businesslike tone broke the spell of terror that froze her against the rock. She swallowed, moved a hand, found another handhold, secured it, moved a foot. And when she reached up again, her hand found the lip of the precipice: she had made it to the top. In another moment, she had pulled herself up and over. She stretched out on the cold floor of the passageway, face down, and gave herself over to sobbing. She was alive.

For a minute, maybe two, she remained alone. And then Pendergast was kneeling over her, his arm around her, his voice low and reassuring. “Corrie, you’re fine. He’s gone now, and you’re safe.”

She couldn’t speak; all she could do was cry with relief.

“He’s gone now, and you’re safe,” Pendergast repeated, the cool white hand stroking her forehead—and for a moment the image of her father returned, so strong it was almost a physical presence. He had comforted her this way once, when she had been hurt on the playground . . . The memory was so vivid that she swallowed the next convulsive sob, hiccuped, and struggled to sit up.

Pendergast stepped away. “I have to go down for Sheriff Hazen. He’s badly hurt. We’ll be right back.”

“He—?” Corrie managed to say.

“Yes. He saved your life. And mine.” Pendergast nodded, then was gone.

Corrie leaned back against the stone floor. And only now the true storm of feelings flooded through her: the fear, pain, relief, horror, shock. A breeze came wafting down from out of the darkness, stirring her hair. It carried with it a familiar, horrible smell: the smell of that cauldron, in the room where the killer had first grabbed her. But along with it was the faint smell of something else, something almost forgotten: fresh air.

Perhaps she fell asleep then, or perhaps she simply shut down. But the next thing she remembered was the ring of footsteps against rock. She opened her eyes and saw Agent Pendergast looking down at her, gun once again in his hand. Beside him, leaning heavily against the FBI agent, was the sheriff: bloody, clothes ripped, nothing but a knot of gristle where one of his ears had once been. Corrie blinked, stared. He looked as tired and battered as a human being could be and still remain standing.

Pendergast spoke. “Come. We’re not far now. The sheriff needs both our help.”

Corrie staggered to her feet. She swayed a moment and Pendergast steadied her. Then they began moving slowly down the tunnel. And as the smell of fresh, sweet air began growing stronger, Corrie knew for sure that they were finally on their way out.

Seventy-Eight

 

Williams toiled up the path, the bite smarting with each step. The corn in the fields along the road had been ripped to shreds, husks gone, ears scattered across the path, broken stalks rustling crazily against each other. He cursed extravagantly at the rain and the wind. He should’ve packed it in an hour ago. Now he was soaked andinjured. Great combination for pneumonia.

He struggled up onto the porch, his feet crunching over broken glass from a window blown out by the wind. Now he could make out a faint glow from inside.

It was a fire in the fireplace. Nice. Rheinbeck, it seems, had been taking it easy up here while he and Shurte were down in the storm, guarding the cave entrance. Well, now it was his turn at the fire.

Williams stopped, leaning on the door and catching his breath. He tried the handle, found it locked. The firelight flickered through the leaded panes, making warm kaleidoscopic patterns in the glass.

He gave the knocker a few raps. “Rheinbeck! It’s me, Williams!”

No response.

“Rheinbeck!”

He waited one minute, then another. Still no response.

Christ, Williams thought, he was probably in the bathroom. Or the kitchen, maybe. That was it. He was in the kitchen eating—or drinking, more likely—and couldn’t hear with all the wind.

He went around the flank of the house and found another broken window panel in the side door. He put his mouth to it and shouted, “Rheinbeck!”

Very strange.

He pushed out the rest of the glass in the panel, reached inside to unlock the door, then eased it open, nosing his light ahead of him.

Inside, the entire house seemed to be alive with the creaking, groaning, and muttering of the storm. Williams looked around uneasily. It looked solid enough, but old places like this were sometimes full of dry rot. He hoped the whole structure didn’t come crashing down on him.

“Rheinbeck!”

Still no answer.

Williams limped forward. The door from the parlor to the dining room was half closed. He pushed through, looked around. All was in order, the dining table covered with a lace tablecloth, a vase of fresh flowers in the middle. He shone his light into the kitchen, but it was dark and there was no smell of cooking.

Williams returned to the parlor entrance and stood there indecisively. Looked like Rheinbeck had left with the old woman. Maybe an ambulance had finally come. But why hadn’t they notified him and Shurte? It was only a five-minute walk to the cave mouth. Typical Rheinbeck, looking after himself and to hell with everyone else.

He glanced over at the fire, at the cheery yellow glow it threw over the parlor.

Hell with it,he decided. As long as he was stuck in this creepy old place, he might as well make himself comfortable. After all, he’d been badly injured in the line of duty, hadn’t he?

He hobbled over to the sofa and eased himself down onto it. Now this was more like it: there was always something reassuring about the warm glow of a fire. He fetched a contented sigh, noticing the way the firelight reflected off the framed embroidery, the glass and porcelain knickknacks. He sighed again, more deeply, then closed his eyes, still seeing the flickering warm light through his eyelids.

He awoke suddenly, wondering for a wild moment where he was. Then it all came flooding back. He had dozed off for a moment, it seemed. He stretched, yawned.