Douglas Preston - The Book of the Dead

The guards had reached the bottom of the fence and were climbing up after him. He felt first one, then two, then half a dozen hands grasping at his feet and legs. After a brief show of struggle, he let himself be dragged back down into the yard.

Guns drawn, they surrounded him in a circle. “Who the hell is this?” one barked. “Who are you?”

D’Agosta sat up. “I’m the truck driver,” he said, slurring his words.

“The what?” another guard said.

“I just heard about this one. He did the meat delivery, got pulled off because he was drunk.”

D’Agosta groaned and cradled his arm. “You hurt me.”

“Jesus, you’re right. He’s drunk as a lord.”

“I just took one sip.”

“On your feet.”

D’Agosta tried to rise, staggered. One of them caught his forearm and helped him up. There was a snicker. “He thought he was going to escape.”

“Come on, pal.”

The guards escorted him back to the kitchen, where his guard was standing, red-faced, along with the supervisor.

The super rounded on him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

D’Agosta slurred his words. “Got lost on the way to the john. Decided to blow the joint.” He gave a drunken laugh.

More snickers.

The supervisor was not amused. “How did you get out into the yard?”

“What yard?”

“Outside.”

“I dunno. Door was unlocked, I guess.”

“That’s impossible.”

D’Agosta shrugged, slumped down in the chair, and promptly nodded off.

“Go check the yard 4 access,” the supervisor snapped at one of the guards. Then he turned back to the first guard. “You stay here with him. Do you understand? Don’t let him go anywhere. Let him shit his pants if necessary.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank Christ he didn’t make it over the fence and into no-man’s-land. Do you know what a paperwork headache that would have caused?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

D’Agosta noticed, to his great relief, that in the confusion and commotion, nobody noticed his shirt was a different color than before. Score three to Glinn.

At that moment, two local cops came in, looking bewildered. “This the guy?”

“Yeah.” The guard prodded D’Agosta with his riot stick. “Wake up, asshole.”

D’Agosta roused himself, stood up.

The policemen seemed at a loss. “So what do we do? We gotta sign something?”

The supervisor wiped his brow. “What do you do? Lock him up for drunk driving.”

One of the policemen removed a notebook. “Break any laws on the premises? You filing any charges?”

A short silence followed, the guards glancing at each other.

“No,” said the supervisor. “Just get him the hell out of here. After that, he’s your headache. I don’t want to see him around here, ever again.”

He shut the notebook. “All right, we’ll take him downtown, give him a Breathalyzer. Come on, pal.”

“I’ll pass! I only took one sip!”

“If that’s the case, you don’t have much to worry about, now, do you?” said the cop wearily as he led D’Agosta out the door.

Captain of Homicide Laura Hayward arrived on the scene a minute or two after the paramedics. She could hear the shrieks of the victim ringing down through the attic rooms, and they warmed her heart: nobody who was going to be dead any time soon could squall that lustily.

She ducked through a series of low doors until she arrived at the crime scene tape. With relief, she saw it was Sergeant Visconti and his partner, an officer named Martin.

“Brief me,” she said as she approached.

“We were the closest team to the attack,” Visconti replied. “We scared off the perp. He was bent over the victim, working him over. When he saw us approaching, he fled back into the attics.”

“Get a look at him?”

“Just a shadow.”

“Weapon?”

“Unknown.”

She nodded.

“We also found Lipper’s wallet.” Visconti gestured with his chin toward a plastic evidence box, lined up with several others just outside the tape.

Hayward leaned over, opened the box. “I want a full battery on the wallet and everything inside-DNA, latents, trace fibers, the works. And freeze a dozen swabs of blood and a dozen of organics for future workups.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Is the other guard around, what’s-his-name-Morris? I’d like to talk to him.”

Visconti spoke into his radio, and a moment later a cop appeared at the far edge of the scene, leading the other guard. The man’s comb-over was in disarray, hanging like a flap down the side of his head, and his clothes were disheveled. He stank of alcohol preservative.

“You okay?” she asked. “Able to talk?”

“I think so.” His voice was high and breathy.

“Did you see the attack?”

“No. I was… too far away, and my back was turned.”

“But you must have seen or heard something in the moments before it occurred.”

Morris struggled to concentrate. “Well, there was this… screaming. Like an animal. And breaking glass. Then something came rushing out from the darkness…” His voice trailed off.

“Something? It wasn’t a person?”

Morris’s eyes slid from side to side. “It was just, like, a screaming, rushing shape.”

Hayward turned to another of the officers. “Take Mr. Morris downstairs and have Detective Sergeant Whittier question him further.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Two EMTs came into view from behind a mountain of stacked boxes, pushing a stretcher with an enormous, groaning mound on top.

“What’s his state?” she asked.

“Lacerated with what looks like a crude knife, or maybe a claw.”

“Claw?”

The technician shrugged. “Some of the cuts are pretty ragged. Luckily, none of them reached vital organs-one advantage to being fat. Some blood loss, shock… He’ll recover.”

“Can he talk?”

“You’re welcome to give it a shot,” said an EMT. “He’s been sedated.”

Hayward leaned over. The guard’s damp, bulging face stared at the ceiling. The smell of liquor, formaldehyde, and dead fish assaulted her nostrils.

She spoke gently. “Wilson Bulke?”

His eyes flickered toward her, away again.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

No clear response.

“Mr. Bulke, did you see your attacker?”

The eyes gyrated in their sockets, and his wet mouth opened. “The… face.”

“What face? What did it look like?”

“Twisted… Oh, God…”

He groaned, mumbled something unintelligible.

“Can you be more specific, sir? Male or female?”

A whimper, a brief shake of the head.

“One, or more than one?”

“One,” came the croaked reply.

Hayward looked at the EMT. He shrugged.

She turned, gestured to a detective waiting nearby. “Stay with him on the way to the hospital. If he becomes more coherent, get a complete description of his attacker. I want to know what we’re up against.”

“Yes, Captain.”

She straightened up, looked around at the small group of police. “Whoever or whatever this is, we’ve got it cornered. I want us to go in. Now.”

“Shouldn’t we call for a SWAT team?” said Visconti.

“It would take hours before a SWAT team could gear up and get over here. And their rules of engagement are so ponderous they’d slow everything down. There was fresh blood on that wallet-there’s a chance Lipper might still be alive and a hostage.” She looked around. “I want you three to come with me: Sergeant Visconti, Officer Martin, and Detective Sergeant O’Connor.”

There was a silence. The three officers exchanged glances.

“Is there a problem? It’s four against one.”