Stuart Kaminsky - Deluge

"He's not just going to stand there quietly waiting and then let himself be stabbed," she said.

"With a pencil," said Danny, shaking his head. "Why didn't the killer use a knife, or one of the metal rods in the closet?"

"I don't know," said Lindsay. "Unless he didn't plan to kill Havel. He came at him, got angry, picked up a pencil from the desk and- "

"What if the killer was left-handed?" asked Danny.

"Look at the angle," she said. "The blow would have to have been struck from behind and the thrust…"

She demonstrated.

"Would have to have been forward."

Danny manipulated the image of the head toward him. The rod in the neck slowly pulled out. The head turned away. The rod went back in with a jolt.

"He'd have to have been standing," said Danny. "Or the killer had to have been kneeling behind him."

"Not likely," said Lindsay.

"Not likely," Danny agreed. "But what about the other blow, the pencil in the eye?"

"After Havel was dead," Lindsay said. "What sense does that make?"

Danny touched the keys on the pad in front of him and the rod slowly pulled out of the eye.

"No angle," he said. "Straight in, almost four inches. It looks as if it were pounded in with a hammer."

"Not a hammer," Lindsay said, "but something. The eraser is almost torn off."

She reached past Danny, hit some keys and a report appeared on the screen. He read it slowly. "Traces of glass."

He sat back, put his hands behind his head and looked at her.

"How'd you like to take a trip back to school, Montana? See what we may have missed?"

"Why not?"

"The rain's stopped," he said. "Want to pick up a couple of coffees on the way?"

"Why not," she said again. "And let's call Stella, see how Hawkes is doing."

"The rain stopped," Hawkes said.

"But the sky is still falling," answered Custus, his eyes closed.

And he was right.

Hawkes held the bullet he had removed from Custus's side. He dropped it in an evidence bag and placed the bag in his kit.

"How are you feeling?" asked Hawkes.

Custus laughed, choked on his laughter, coughed and finally grew calm enough to say, "Perfect. You just removed a bullet from me in less than antiseptic circumstances. My ankle is pinned under a beam and broken. Water is rising, which is likely to drown me before I'm killed by infection. I hope you're not going to suggest amputating my leg to get me out of here. I'd prefer a quiet morphine-lulled departure from this earth."

"I'm not going to cut off your leg," Hawkes said.

"Good. Do I gather that you just surgically saved my life?"

"I think so," said Hawkes. "At least the threat isn't there anymore."

"Not from the bullet, anyway."

"You want to tell me how you got shot?"

"I think not," said Custus. "It's all quite unclear to me."

Hawkes could hear what sounded like a wooden beam cracking coming from the deep darkness.

The end of the rain didn't mean the end of the water flowing into the pit. It was now a deceptively soothing waterfall working against the pump, which barely kept up with the flow.

"Might as well try to get yourself out of here, Doc," Custus said. "That's not to say I want you to stop trying to get me out too, but what's the point of your sharing my fate if it comes to that. I've been arms-around-the-neck with death more times than a buck in hunting season. It makes for the illusion of having lived a long eventful life."

"You threw the gun away," said Hawkes.

"That I did."

"I saw where you threw it," said Hawkes.

Custus let out a choking laugh.

"And you're going to try to retrieve it? I take back my suggestion that you try to get the hell out of here. If you're going to act like a fool, you can die like one kneeling at the side of an even bigger fool."

Hawkes pulled a pill bottle from his kit, poured three pills into his palm and said, "Open your mouth."

"I haven't had it closed since we started to share this little grotto."

Custus opened his mouth, accepted the pills and swallowed them.

"Thanks," he said.

Hawkes got to his feet in a crouch and, flashlight in hand, moved into the darkness.

"You're really going to do it," marveled Custus. "I've known many a fool and flirted with the appellation myself on more than one occasion, but you are about to take the trophy and hold it for life, which, in your case, does not promise to be long."

To punctuate the prediction, the beam in the darkness let out a jagged scream.

Hawkes froze for an instant and then was gone. Custus tried to turn his head to see him but he was pinned too firmly.

"Hawkes," a woman called above Custus.

"He's occupied," croaked Custus.

"I know what happened," said Stella.

Custus couldn't see her, but he could tell from her voice what she probably meant.

"May I suggest that you get someone down here to pull that stubborn physician out. You might need a strait jacket since he seems to be enamored of both my company and our new accommodations."

"The firemen are working on it," she said.

"They'd best work quickly or their work will be done all too soon," said Custus. "I've grown fond of Doctor Hawkes."

"I'm glad," said Stella.

"A question."

"Yes," called Stella, leaning as close to the pit as she could.

"Are you beautiful?"

"Ravishing," said Stella. "You?"

"I am not beautiful," said Custus. "I'm a wasted husk with a broken ankle and a hole in my side, but in my day, which was as recent as last week, I was considered quite intriguing to the ladies."

"You blew up this building," Stella said.

Custus didn't answer.

"Four people died in the explosion."

Custus still didn't answer.

"Another one was shot before the explosion," she said.

"I plead semi-innocent of all accusations," said Custus. "If I survive, I'll gladly do the right thing. I'll suddenly stop talking."

"You shot Doohan," said Stella.

Hawkes appeared, gun in hand, and knelt next to Custus just as the beam gave a deep sigh of defeat and gave way. The walls and ceiling came down with a crash. The water level rose in a gush and a gray-white dust filled the air and pushed into Hawkes's nose and mouth.

Hawkes leaned over in an attempt to protect Custus's face.

The cracking and crumbling diminished but didn't stop.

Hawkes could see that the space in the pit in which he and Custus sat had now been reduced to about the size of the backseat of a midsize car.

"His name is Adam," said Mac. "He walks with a limp, has an artificial leg."

He and Flack were seated in chairs across the desk from Paul Sunderland, psychologist. Sunderland was white teethed, athletically built, and only his slightly gray close-cropped hair suggested that he was over forty.

The usual degrees were mounted on the wall near the door where they couldn't be missed. The photos on the other walls were of Sunderland in shorts and helmet, with one hand on a bicycle that, Flack was sure, had to cost more than a thousand dollars.

Sunderland had a small blue ball in his hand. He kept squeezing the ball and from time to time switched hands.

"Yeah," said Sunderland. "I know him. Adam Yunkin."

"How about Patricia Mycrant, James Feldt, Timothy Byrold?" asked Flack.

Sunderland hesitated and looked at the two detectives.

"Patricia Mycrant's mother told us she was seeing you," said Flack.

Sunderland nodded.

"Patricia, James and Timothy are dead," said Flack.

"Murdered."

"We think Adam Yunkin did it."

"Murdered?" Sunderland repeated.

"And sexually mutilated," said Mac. "Patricia Mycrant was seeing you because she was a sexual predator."

"Yes," said Sunderland. "Court ordered."