Leslie Parrish - Fade To Black

Staying low, she gestured toward the rear window of the truck.

He glanced in and saw. Tension sizzled off his hard form as he growled, “The description of the kid mentioned that backpack.”

“That’s called probable cause.”

“Damn right it is.”

They both peered around the side of the truck at the house. “He came up from the basement. The window on the east side goes into the kitchen; basement door is about six feet from it, on the right.”

“Got it.”

With matched gaits, they darted toward the house, staying low. They certainly wouldn’t fool Seth into a sense of security if he looked out the window and saw the vehicles. But he might not be expecting them to go on the offensive so soon. Especially not just the two of them.

If they were lucky, he hadn’t looked outside. He might not even know Dean was here.

Reaching the end of the porch, they climbed up over the rails onto it, avoiding the steps. With weapons upraised, they positioned themselves on either side of the window. Dean silently counted down, then jabbed his elbow sharply toward the center pane just below the lock. Glass tinkled, but the blow was precise and only the one pane broke.

He reached in, unlocked the window, and slid it up, both of them watching the closed basement door. It remained closed.

Dean climbed in first; she followed. Slowly crossing the kitchen, they eased open the door, peering down into the dimly lit stairwell, which, as she recalled, ended outside the rec room Randy had finished. A sharp turn led down a short hallway to a series of other small, finished rooms, one of which was Seth’s.

They crept down, covering each other. Dean faced the bottom, Stacey backing step by step with her weapon pointing up in case Seth had hidden upstairs, lying in wait for them.

Her feet had just hit the floor when she heard the slam. It came from down the narrow hallway, in one of the back rooms.

“The Bilco doors,” she snapped, immediately recognizing the metallic clang and squeal.

They both hurried toward the sound, hoping to stop Seth from escaping. But as they skidded into the last room, with its low-hanging ceiling and uneven, damp cement floor, they realized they were too late. Sunlight poured from the open doors that led from the darkness up into the day.

Neither of them raced up the steps, however. Because they were both entirely focused on the small cot in the center of the room. And the nightmare that had been taking place down here in the hellish dark.

“Oh, my God, is he…?”

Dean fell to his knees beside the cot, touching the boy who lay there, still, pale, silent. He listened to his chest, touched the tips of his fingers to his throat. It seemed like an eternity before he finally muttered, “He has a pulse. It’s slow and thready, but he’s alive.”

So relieved she almost cried, Stacey knelt, too. Using her pocketknife, she cut through the duct tape binding the child’s hands and feet. He remained utterly motionless, and she surmised that he had been drugged.

Seeing a towel on the floor, covered with a few tools and implements, she shook it empty and dragged it over the boy, trying to keep him warm and protected from the cold, damp air of the basement. “It’s okay, honey. It’s okay; you’re going to be fine. We’re not going to leave you.”

He didn’t groan or whimper; in fact he barely even breathed as she gently wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. Now that they thought they’d saved him from certain death, she prayed that whatever Seth had given the child to knock him out didn’t kill him anyway.

As Dean called 911, she looked around and immediately saw the tripod. It stood at the foot of the cot, set low to the ground. It was empty, but had a camera been attached, it would have been level with the boy.

At its base were wires that had been quickly disconnected. They ran to a state-of-the-art desktop computer, which was turned on. The screen was awash with odd, vivid colors. Toys, swings, grass, a blue sky.

Satan’s Playground.

She looked away.

“I need to go after Seth,” Dean said after he’d finished his call. “You okay staying here with him?”

She nodded. “Be careful. Call me and keep me posted. I’ll catch up as soon as backup gets here; it shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

He leaned over the boy, brushing a tender hand across his pale, clammy forehead. Then, a muscle twitching in his jaw, he pointed toward the sharp tools on the floor. The ones that had been laid out neatly on the towel Stacey had grabbed. “Looks like he was setting everything up.”

Stacey nodded. She’d realized the same thing. “We’re fine. I won’t let anything happen to him. Now go.”

Pressing a quick kiss on her mouth, Dean went.

Seth had taken his truck, driving over the lawn to get around the two vehicles parked behind it. As Dean ran for his, he pulled his phone out and called Mulrooney. He explained in as few words as possible, not having time to give Kyle any more than the bare bones. That they’d found the Reaper. That he was Randy Covey’s twenty-year-old son. And that he was on the run.

“I’m going after him,” he snapped. Then he stopped short. “God damn it.”

“What?” Mulrooney asked.

“He snipped the fucking valve stems on both cars.” Both his car and Stacey’s had two flat tires on the driver’s side. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“Get here fast,” he told the other agent. “But first call Wyatt. Get an APB out on Seth Covey and his vehicle.”

“Hold tight; we’re on the way.”

As he cut the call, he heard sirens, soft, in the distance. But no more than a couple of minutes away. He’d have to jump in with one of Stacey’s deputies.

Hurrying back to let her know, he headed for the open metal doors and descended into the Reaper’s personal hellhole.

“He won’t get far,” she said after he filled her in. “There are only a couple of roads that lead out of town.”

“I know.” Seeing the still-motionless child, he asked, “Any change?”

She shook her head.

A moment later, they heard voices from above. Dean darted back outside, seeing the ambulance, not a sheriff’s car, and gestured for the paramedics. They followed him down, taking over the care of the Reaper’s intended victim. Dean and Stacey watched in silence. Somehow, in the dark, their hands had twined together. She squeezed his, as if knowing that when he looked at that kid, all he saw was Jared’s face. Jared lifeless and near death.

“Do you have any idea what he gave him?” one EMT asked after taking the boy’s vitals.

Stacey hurried to the desk, grabbing a prescription bottle. She tossed it to the man, who read it and shook his head. “Who the hell would do this to a kid?”

If only he knew.

Stacey and Dean stayed out of the way, letting the professionals do their work. His impatience grew with every second that ticked by. The backup was taking too long; every mile that passed beneath Seth Covey’s tires gave him an advantage.

“I know it seems like forever,” she said, “but it hasn’t been. The firehouse is a couple of miles closer, that’s all. We’re pretty secluded out…” Her voice trailed off.

“What’s wrong?”

“You don’t think he’d go to Dad’s place, would he?”

He immediately shook his head. “No way. He’s panicked and on the run.”

She didn’t look so sure.“You’d think if he was that panicked, he wouldn’t have stopped to take his camera.”

Not getting her at first, he followed her stare, noting that strangely empty tripod, the computer cables still tangled at the base, yanked free and dropped to the floor. Why would a serial killer lose precious minutes taking a damned video camera?