Robert Browne - Kill Her Again

Every mirror was intact, mounted between broad pillars that formed what looked like arched doorways, a dozen of her reflections staring back at her. Her flashlight beam was doubled and tripled and quadrupled, giving the illusion that there was more light in the room.

The sight was breathtaking. Someone-and she had no doubt who-had spent hours maintaining this place, keeping it pristine.

The angle of the mirrors made it seem as if there were several long corridors leading deeper into darkness, but she knew this was deceptive, designed to confuse. There would be only one true passageway, and finding it in near darkness would be difficult, if not impossible.

Steeling herself, she moved forward, stepping through one of the archways. She was only able to go a few feet, however, before she hit a dead end.

Turning, she doubled back, tried another archway, and got luckier this time, moving several yards down the corridor before hitting another dead end. But when she turned to look behind her, ready to again double back, all she saw were more reflections, and she couldn’t determine exactly what path she’d taken.

A feeling of panic rose-a mild claustrophobia-but she tamped it down, telling herself to remain calm. The pathway was near. It had to be.

Pressing her back against the mirror to her left, she moved along it, using it as a guide, shifting from pane to pane, her progress slow but steady.

Then she turned, passing through another archway, moving deeper into the maze.

And that’s when she heard it.

A shuffling sound.

Very faint, but unmistakable.

Anna clicked her flashlight off, knowing, without a doubt, that she wasn’t alone.

Pope could barely contain himself.

Still crouched in the weeds, he gripped and regripped the 590, chastising himself fifty different ways for letting McBride go in there alone.

He was no hero-he’d proven that more than once in his life-but he knew he shouldn’t have listened to her. Shouldn’t have let her have her way.

He waited there, staring blankly at the building, wondering what was going on inside.

When he couldn’t take it any longer, he stood up and headed for the entrance.

The Maze was silent again.

Anna heard only the sound of her own breathing, and tried desperately to keep it under control. Leaving her flashlight off, she once again flattened against a mirror and moved slowly along it, shifting to the next and the next until she found the continuation of the passageway.

Turning, she passed under an archway — and another sound filled the room. A quick fluttering. The shuffle of feet.

She whipped around, peering into the darkness; then the sound came again and she caught movement in the mirrors. Something passing behind her.

Something red?

She turned — but he was gone. The room silent.

Backing against a mirror, she brought the Glock up and waited, heart thumping. Even in the darkness she felt exposed.

Suddenly thinking this had all been a colossally bad idea, Anna forced herself to move, inching along the corridor until she found another open archway.

Passing through it, she saw light ahead-at least she thought it was ahead-and moved toward it.

A moment later, she found herself standing in the center of the maze, a tiny skylight overhead, letting in a narrow swath of sunlight.

And here, in the middle of room, was a set of wooden steps that led downward, into a hole in the ground.

A wooden sign next to it read: MINER’S MAGIC MINE-ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Keeping her Glock up, Anna carefully approached the hole, peering into it. Candlelight flickered below, and there was just enough sunlight for her to see that the walls on either side of the steps had been decorated with spray paint.

She was immediately reminded of Susan’s notebook.

They were covered with gypsy wheels.

Pope was about to slip through the gap between the doors when his cell phone rang, startling him.

Stepping back, he quickly dug for it, saw the caller’s name. Ronnie.

He clicked it on, keeping his voice low. “Hey, Ron, this isn’t exactly a good time.”

“Oh, god. Thank god.” Her voice sounded shaky. On the edge of panic. “I’ve been trying to call you all day, but I didn’t have your number-Jake’s got it on his cell. Where are you?”

“Up near Salcedo. Why?”

“Is he with you?”

“No, what’s going on?”

“Christ,” she said. “I haven’t heard from him since last night. He isn’t home, he doesn’t answer his phone, and nobody at the station house has seen or heard from him.”

“You know Jake. He probably turned his phone off to get some peace and quiet.”

“It’s not just him I’m worried about,” Ronnie said. “It’s Evan.”

“Evan?” Pope’s stomach tightened. “Why? What happened?”

“We’re at my parents’ house. He was upstairs sleeping. I was going to let him sleep through the morning, but when I went to check on him, the bed was empty and the window was open.”

“What?”

“He’s gone, Danny. He’s been gone for hours. Either he ran away or somebody took him.”

“Took him? What makes you think that?”

“Jimmy Chavez questioned the neighbors. One of them said they saw a car parked out on the street early this morning. One they’ve never seen before.”

“What kind of car?”

“An old Ford pickup,” Ronnie said.

Pope didn’t know if Ronnie kept talking after that.

He had already dropped the phone.

Anna approached the steps, her gaze on that flickering candlelight, knowing it was a trap, that he was down there somewhere, waiting for her.

But what were her choices?

She could turn and flee, which wouldn’t change anything. Wouldn’t stop him from coming after her again. Or she could push ahead and hope for the best, even though her training warned her against it.

She looked into the mirrors, saw her reflection, could see the fear in her own eyes.

Do-or-die time, McBride.

Make up your mind.

But a sound made it up for her. Faint but unmistakable: a crying child.

And not just any child.

She’d recognize the sound of those tears anywhere.

Evan.

He had Evan down there.

Oh, sweet god…

Quickly stepping past the sign, Anna turned and moved sideways down the steps, keeping her Glock at the ready, the sound of Evan’s tears growing louder with each step.

The room below was awash in candlelight, dozens of them lining a long shelf and a small, squat table. There were more gypsy wheels spray-painted on the wall, the floor littered with stacks of newspaper and phone books and street maps, some new, some decades old.

And there, seated on an old army cot, a swatch of bloody bandages on his left shoulder, was Mikola. He held a blood-caked knife in his hand, precariously close to a crying Evan Fairweather, who sat at his feet on the cement floor.

Evan started to rise at the sight of Anna, but Mikola grabbed his collar, pulling him back.

“Do not move, boy.”

The sobs grew louder.

Mikola looked at Anna. “He cries too much, this one. A small poke and he cries like an infant. Let him spend just one day in my skin and then he will find something to cry about.” His gaze snapped to Evan. “Shut up, boy, or I cut your throat.”

Evan turned sharply, looking at him, and abruptly stopped crying.

Anna kept her Glock up, pointing it at Mikola. “Let him go.”

“Of course,” Mikola said, calmer now. “Once you have given me what I seek.” He paused. “The boy is important to you, yes?”

“Let him go, goddamn it.”

Mikola shook his head. “Such language, Chavi. I see you have been corrupted by the gadje.”

“I swear to God, I’ll shoot you where you sit.”