Chris Mooney - The Dead Room

She stepped into the woods and found two compost piles of dead grass clippings a few feet from the back fence. Mosquitoes whined against her ears and danced in the beam of her flashlight.

Moving up the incline, she thought about how much she hated these woods. Five years ago she had discovered a buried set of female remains – another victim of Daniel Boyle and… the other one, Boyle's mentor and killing partner, Traveler. A lot of their victims – the missing women, men and children, her childhood friend Melanie Cruz – had never been found, buried somewhere out here -

Darby stopped walking, and listened to the sound of a mobile phone ringing somewhere in the darkness ahead.

Darby ran up the incline, boots sinking deep into the wet ground, the beam of her flashlight zigzagging through the darkness. She reached the top quickly and without much effort.

The ground levelled off to a bumpy, uneven area of half-buried boulders and downed tree limbs and branches. The phone rang again, a soft, pleasant sound that reminded her of wind chimes. It came from somewhere straight ahead. She moved quickly, ducking underneath limbs, dried branches crunching and snapping underneath her boots.

A third ring, very close.

There, a small square of light glowing in the darkness about thirty or so feet ahead. She moved her flashlight to it. A BlackBerry, judging by its size and shape. She reached into her back pocket for an evidence bag.

Branches snapped in the darkness somewhere ahead of her. She swung her flashlight to the sound, the beam whisking past trees and another steep incline leading up, up.

A man dressed head to toe in black tossed something into the air. Before he ducked behind a tree she caught sight of the night-vision goggles strapped across his shaved pale head, a gloved hand clutching a sub-machine gun against a tactical vest holding grenades.

Darby dropped her flashlight and ran, knowing what was coming. Whatever you do, don't turn around, don't turn -

An explosion followed by a blinding light that lit up the woods. Stun grenade, she thought, ducking behind a tree.

The light died away. She stripped out of her bunny suit. She couldn't hide wearing white, couldn't run in the coveralls.

Voices shouting from the backyard, footsteps cracking branches close by, bodies whisking past leaves and branches. How many people are in here?

SIG in hand, Darby flicked the switch for the tactical light and swung around the tree. Through the gaps between the branches and tree limbs she caught sight of two men hauling a body up the incline. Two white males wearing suits. The body also wore a suit. White male, white shirt covered in blood, a blue latex-covered hand bumping across the ground as he was dragged away.

'Freeze. Boston -'

Automatic gunfire muted by a silencer tore into the bark above her head.

Darby dropped to her knees, hugging her body close to the tree trunk. Voices shouting Get down and Take cover. She thought she heard Pine's voice in the mix. She swung around the other side of the tree and brought up her weapon.

Flashlights crisscrossed through the darkness and she could see thick clouds of grey and white drifting through the trees near the first incline. The man who had thrown the stun grenade, the one with the shaved head and night-vision goggles, had moved out of his hiding spot. He stood near the spot where she'd found the phone.

He threw another grenade into the air, in the direction of the backyard. Darby turned away from it and closed her eyes, waiting. Automatic gunfire erupted from somewhere above her.

When she heard the explosion, she opened her eyes and, using the trees for cover, started moving to the bald man.

He darted up what looked like a second incline and disappeared from her view.

Darby gave chase. For the past week she had run in this oppressive heat with a sixty-pound backpack full of sand strapped to her back. She wasn't weighed down now. Even in the mud, she ran fast and well.

The man had a good lead. There was no way she could close the gap. She debated about stopping to fire when he disappeared from her view.

A car door slammed shut. Tyres peeled away in a squeal of rubber. By the time she reached the top, all she found was a pair of dimming red tail lights coming from a car far down the dark road. In the distance she could hear the wail of multiple police sirens. Someone had radioed for back-up and the Belham dispatcher had sent out several units.

As impressed as she was by the quick response time, it wouldn't do any good. Blakely Road, she knew, connected to Route 135. From there the car could jump on to the main highway, Route 1, and disappear.

Worse, she couldn't offer up a description. She hadn't seen the car or a licence plate. As for the men, the only thing she could say with any certainty was that all three were white. No, make that four. The body was that of a white male.

Darby holstered her weapon and made her way back down the incline, her legs wobbly from adrenalin. Dozens of flashlights moved through the thick haze of grey and white smoke filling the woods. Everywhere she heard men coughing.

She cupped her hands over her mouth. 'Stand down. I repeat, stand down.'

A group of patrolmen rushed to her with their guns raised, their eyes red and watery from the smoke. They tried to hold their arms steady as they coughed.

One of them saw the gold shield clipped to her belt clip and the laminated ID badge hanging around her neck. He motioned for the others to lower their weapons.

Darby addressed the group. 'Is Detective Pine back here?'

The tall one with the cleft chin nodded, wiping at his eyes. He could barely keep them open.

'Find him and tell him the shooters are gone,' Darby said. 'Tell him to meet me in front of the house – and tell him to get everyone the hell out of the woods until the smoke dissipates. Call for an ambulance and make sure they bring plenty of oxygen. Get going – wait, not you.' She grabbed the soft, flabby arm of a short patrolman with a pot belly. 'I need to borrow your flashlight.'

He handed it over and stumbled away, gagging.

It took her a few minutes to locate the spot where she'd first seen the man who had tossed the stun grenade. The area offered a lot of tree cover. A perfect place to hide – and watch. From this location she could see the backyard.

Her eyes started to water and her throat burned as she ran the beam of light across the ground. She found several footwear impressions – none of them useful – and a single aluminium-foil blister pack.

Ducking underneath the branches, she moved across the soft ground covered with pine needles and leaves. She threw an evidence cone next to the blister pack. Voices shouted to move out of the woods. One kept calling her name.

'Coop. Coop, I'm fine. Meet me in the backyard.'

She made her way back to the incline and saw that most of the flashlights had been shut off. The ones still on were moving away, retreating back to the house.

A patrolman was on his hands and knees, struggling to breathe. Darby helped him to his feet, then wrapped his arm around her shoulder. She grabbed the last evidence cone from her pocket and slowly retraced her footsteps back to the spot where she'd found the mobile phone. It was gone.

An hour later Darby walked to the corner of the backyard where Pine stood running water from a hose over his face. He had breathed in too much smoke. She could hear his laboured wheezing over the water splashing against the flagstone walkway. He didn't care about getting wet. His clothes were already soaked and covered in mud.

Coop was also in the backyard. He stood alongside Michael Banville, watching the photographer taking bracketed shots of the back gate. There was no reason for Coop to be out here supervising photography. Darby knew the real reason: he was pretending to be busy so he could keep an eye on her.