Douglas Preston - Still Life With Crows

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 he come 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, he had 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 he began 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 him in 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 had to 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 him for 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

H azen 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?”