Jeffery Deaver - The Bone Collector

“It’s okay, honey. We’ll have you home soon. You’ll be all right. That man here? You remember him?”

She nodded.

“Did he leave?”

“I don’t know. I want my mommy.”

She heard the other officers call in. The first and second floors were secure. “The car and taxi?” Sachs asked. “Any sign?”

A trooper transmitted, “They’re gone. He’s probably left.”

He’s not there , Amelia . That would be illogical .

From the top of the stairs an officer called, “Basement secure?’’

She said, “I’m going to check. Hold on.”

“We’re coming down.”

“Negative on that,” she said. “We’ve got a pretty clean crime scene here and I want to keep it that way. Just get a medic down here to check out the little girl.”

The young medic, a sandy-haired man, walked down the stairs and crouched beside Pammy.

It was then that Sachs saw the trail leading into the back of the basement – to a low, black-painted metal door. She walked to it, avoiding the path itself to save the prints, and crouched down. The door was partly open and there seemed to be a tunnel on the other side, dark but not completely black, leading to another building.

An escape route. The son of a bitch.

With the knuckles of her left hand she pushed the door open wider. It didn’t squeak. She peered into the tunnel. Faint light, twenty, thirty feet away. No moving shadows.

If Sachs saw anything in the dimness it was T.J.’s contorted body dangling from the black pipe, Monelle Gerger’s round, limp body as the black rat crawled toward her throat.

“Portable 5885 to CP,” Sachs said into her mike.

“Go ahead, K,” Haumann’s terse voice responded.

“I’ve got a tunnel leading to the building south of the unsub’s. Have somebody cover the doors and windows.”

“Will do, K.”

“I’m going in,” she told him.

“The tunnel? We’ll get you some backup, Sachs.”

“Negative. I don’t want the scene contaminated. Just have somebody keep an eye on the girl.”

“Say again.”

“No. No backup.”

She clicked the light out and started crawling.

There’d been no courses in tunnel-rat work at the academy of course. But the things Nick had told her about securing a unfriendly scene came back to her. Weapon close to the body, not extended too far, where it could be knocked aside. Three steps – well, shuffles – forward, pause. Listen. Two more steps. Pause. Listen. Four steps next time. Don’t do anything predictable.

Hell, it’s dark.

And what’s that smell? She shivered in disgust at the hot, foul stink.

The claustrophobia wrapped around her like a cloud of oil smoke and she had to stop for a moment, concentrating on anything but the closeness of the walls. The panic slipped away but the smell was worse. She gagged.

Quiet, girl. Quiet!

Sachs controlled the reflex and kept going.

And what’s that noise? Something electrical. A buzzing. Rising and falling.

Ten feet from the end of the tunnel. Through the doorway she could see a second large basement. Murky though not quite as dark as the one Pammy had been in. Light leached in through a greasy window. She saw motes of dust pedaling through the gloom.

No, no, girl, the gun’s too far in front of you. One kick and it’s gone. Close to your face. Keep your weight low and back! Use your arms to aim, ass for support.

Then she was at the doorway.

She gagged again, tried to stifle the sound.

Is he waiting for me, or not?

Head out, a fast look. You’ve got a helmet. It’ll deflect anything but a full-metal or Teflon and remember he’s shooting a.32. A girl gun.

All right. Think. Look which way first?

The Patrolman’s Guide wasn’t any help and Nick wasn’t offering any advice at the moment. Flip a coin.

Left.

She stuck her head out fast, glancing to the left. Back into the tunnel.

She’d seen nothing. A blank wall, shadows.

If he’s the other way he’s seen me and’s got good target positioning.

Okay, fuck. Just go. Fast.

When you move…

Sachs leapt.

…they can’t getcha.

She hit the ground hard, rolling. Twisting around.

The figure was hidden in shadows against the wall to the right, under the window. Drawing a target she started to fire. Then froze.

Amelia Sachs gasped.

Oh, my God…

Her eyes were inexorably drawn to the woman’s body, propped up against the wall.

From the waist up she was thin, with dark-brown hair, a gaunt face, small breasts, bony arms. Her skin was covered with swarms of flies – the buzzing Sachs had heard.

From the waist down, she was… nothing. Bloody hip bones, femur, the whip of her spine, feet… All the flesh had been dissolved in the repulsive bath she rested next to – a horrible stew, deep brown, chunks of flesh floating in it. Lye or acid of some sort. The fumes stung Sachs’s eyes, while horror – and fury too – boiled in her heart.

Oh, you poor thing…

Sachs waved pointlessly at the flies that strafed the new intruder.

The woman’s hands were relaxed, palms upward as if she were meditating. Eyes closed, A purple jogging outfit lay by her side.

She wasn’t the only victim.

Another skeleton – completely stripped – lay beside a similar vat, older, empty of the terrible acid but coated with a dark sludge of blood and melted muscle. Its forearm and hand were missing. And beyond that was another one – this victim picked apart, the bones carefully scrubbed of all the flesh, cleaned, resting carefully on the floor. A stack of triple-ought sandpaper rested beside the skull. The elegant curve of the head shone like a trophy.

And then she heard it behind her.

A breath. Faint but unmistakable. The snap of air deep in a throat.

She spun around, furious at herself for her carelessness.

But the emptiness of the basement gaped back at her. She swept the light over the floor, which was stone and didn’t show footprints as clearly as the dirt floor in 823’s building next door.

Another inhalation.

Where was he? Where?

Sachs crouched further, sending the light sideways, up and down… Nothing.

Where the fuck is he? Another tunnel? An exit to the street?

Looking at the floor again she spotted what she thought was a faint trail, leading into the shadows of the room. She moved along beside it.

Pause. Listen.

Breathing?

Yes. No.

Stupidly she spun around and looked at the dead woman once more.

Come on!

Eyes back again.

Moving along the floor.

Nothing. How can I hear him and not see him?

The wall ahead of her was solid. No doors or windows. She backed up, toward the skeletons.

From somewhere, Lincoln Rhyme’s words came back. “Crime scenes’re three-dimensional.”

Sachs looked up suddenly, flashing the light in front of her. The huge Doberman’s teeth shone back – dangling bits of gray flesh. Two feet away on a high ledge. He was waiting, like a wildcat, for her.

Neither of them moved for a moment. Absolutely frozen.

Then Sachs instinctively dropped her head and, before she could bring her weapon up, he launched himself toward her face. His teeth connected with the helmet. Gripping the strap in his mouth, he shook furiously, trying to break her neck as they fell backwards, onto the edge of an acid-filled pit. The pistol flew from her hand.

The dog kept his grip on her helmet while his hind legs galloped, his claws digging into her vest and belly and thighs. She hit him hard with her fists but it was like slugging wood; he didn’t feel the blows at all.

Releasing the helmet, he reared back then lunged for her face. She flung her left arm over her eyes and, as he grabbed her forearm and she felt his teeth clamp down on her skin, she slipped the switchblade from her pocket and shoved the blade between his ribs. There was a yelp, a high sound, and he rolled off her, kept moving, speeding straight for the doorway.