J. Jance - A more perfect union

Cautiously counting the rungs, I made my way back down to the floor. In the instant before the light had gone out, I could remember glimpsing a stairway on the other side of the basement. Now, with my eyes finally accustomed to the dark, I could see a faint glow that had to be daylight leaking into the basement through a crack under a door at the top of the stairs.

I attempted walking toward it, only to stumble over an invisible box on the floor and crash, nose-first, into a solid upright timber. A quick spurt of blood told me I'd done something to my nose-something bad, something that would add another lump to it and give my face more character. Just what I needed.

Maybe I'm not too bright at times, but at least I learn from my mistakes. I dropped to my hands and knees and began crawling toward that tiny sliver of light at the top of the stairs. The concrete floor was cold and damp beneath me as I groped my way across it, creeping along like an overgrown baby. The basement was musty and reeked with the smell of long-resident mice. The house had probably stood vacant for some time before Linda Decker and her children moved into it.

I made slow progress. The actual distance across the basement couldn't have been more than twenty feet or so, but in the dark it was one hell of an obstacle course. What had seemed like a relatively empty room with the light on was actually a jumble of wood and boxes, furniture and tools.

Along the way I jammed my knee down on something sharp, a piece of broken glass or a loose nail that my scouting hands had missed. There was a sudden telltale wetness on my knee and leg, unmistakably warm and slick. The texture of rough concrete on lacerated skin told me I'd torn the hell out of both my knee and my pants. The knee would heal; the pants wouldn't. And this was one pair I wouldn't be able to voucher. I'd never get Seattle P.D. to agree that tearing my pants in Linda Decker's treacherous basement ought to qualify as a line of duty mishap.

Had the lights been on, I'm sure I would have made quite a sight. The bloodied nose and the torn knee created a symmetry of sorts, the top and bottom halves of a matched set. An ugly matched set.

At last my fingers touched the far wall. I inched my way along it until I located the bottom of the stairs. They were made of roughhewn cobweb-covered planks open at the back end. My hands searched in vain for a handrail on the outside. There wasn't any. Running my hands up and down the wall I located a two-inch pipe that had been bolted to the wall as a make-do banister. Clutching it gratefully, I eased my body up the stairs, feeling my way one step at a time, clinging to the pipe with one hand while sharp wooden splinters from the steps bit into the palm of my other hand.

Being blind must be hell, but real blind people have canes and seeing-eye dogs. I only knew things were in my way after I ran into them. That's a little late.

On step number twelve I barked a knuckle against something metal-something round and metal and cool. It was another grill, more of the ornamental iron bars I had seen on the outside of the house. Beyond the bars was the smooth finished surface of a wooden door.

Suddenly, I heard swift footsteps coming toward me. The light came on and the wooden door fell open beneath my hand. When the door gave way, it took me by surprise and I lost my balance. I had to grab hold of the metal bars to keep from pitching ass over teakettle back down the stairs.

When I righted myself and looked up, I found myself staring into the barrel of the biggest pistol I'd ever seen. From where I was, it looked a hell of a lot more like a cannon than a handgun. I was only dimly aware of the woman behind it, but her words came through loud and clear.

"Let go of the bars. Now!"

I let go and retreated down the stairs a step or two.

Her voice was steady even though the gun wasn't. "Mister, if you've got a gun on you, you'd better shove it under this rail right now before I blast you into a million pieces!"

There was no doubt in my mind that Linda Decker meant what she said. Even if she didn't, I couldn't afford to call her bluff, not with a gun pointed right between my eyes from some three feet away. A shaking gun at that.

"Okay, okay," I said. "Take it easy."

Cautiously I eased the Smith and Wesson out of my shoulder holster. I didn't want to do anything to alarm my captor. She was nervous enough already. Her finger was still poised on the trigger while the barrel of the gun trembled violently. It scared the holy crap out of me.

I slipped my gun, handle first, through a flat, clear space at the bottom of the metal bars. With a quick, deft movement she kicked it behind her, sending it spinning away across the linoleum floor until it came to rest against the bottom of a kitchen cupboard.

"Now take off your jacket and push it through here, too," she ordered.

"Look," I began. "You're making a terrible mistake."

"Shut up and take off the jacket."

I did. "What's going on? You already saw my ID. You know I'm a cop." I finished poking the jacket under the bars and glanced up at the gun. It was still pointing at me, still shaking.

"I don't know anything of the kind," Linda Decker answered. Without ever taking her eyes off me, she kicked my jacket away as well.

"Call my partner, Detective Lindstrom at Seattle P.D. He'll vouch for me."

"Cop or no cop, you're still working for them," she retorted.

I took a deep breath, summoned my most conciliatory tone, and tried again. After all, I'm supposed to be trained to talk my way out of tough situations. "Linda, I already told you, I'm investigating the death of Logan Tyree. I thought you'd want to help."

She winced when I mentioned his name, but she didn't back off. "Cut the bullshit. You tried that line already. I called Seattle P.D. just a few minutes ago. You're not assigned to Logan's case, so what the hell are you doing here?"

There was no point in trying to explain that I was on vacation and looking into Logan Tyree's death on my own because I felt like it, because I didn't like the way the official investigation was going. She wouldn't have believed that in a million years. Actually, I hardly believed it myself.

"I just wanted to talk to you, to ask you some questions."

"You went to a hell of a lot of trouble. I figured you'd show up today. I warned the kids to watch out for you, told them to come inside the minute they saw a strange red car."

She must have noticed the puzzled expression on my face. She answered my question without my ever asking it. "I talked to Jimmy last night. He told me all about you, about how you'd been so nice to him and given him a ride to the center. He told me you had asked about me, but he couldn't remember whether or not he'd given you my phone number. I guess we don't have to wonder about that anymore, do we. If you were on the up and up, you would have picked up a telephone and called."

She jerked the gun in my direction and my heart went to my throat. "Empty your pants pockets," she added. "Turn them inside out."

"Wait a minute…"

"Do it!" she commanded. "Now!"

I did. My car keys, change, and pocketknife ended up in a pitiful pile which I shoved under the grill.

The little girl appeared at her mother's side and clung to one leg, whining. "I'm scared, Mommie. What are we going to do with him? What's going to happen?"

"I don't know yet, Allison. Go on outside and play with Jason. I'll be out in a few minutes."

Allison backed away from the door, watching me warily through the bars as she did so.

"Now the ladder," Linda Decker ordered.

"The ladder!"

"Go get it, bring it over here, and shove it under the bars. It'll fit."

Linda Decker had evidently thought this whole scene through in some detail. She was leaving no stone unturned. I wouldn't get out of there until she was damned good and ready and not a moment before.