Макс Коллинз - You Can’t Stop Me

Crawling on her knees, hands bound behind her, she used all her energy and will power to get closer to the door, as she continued to scream into the tape.

The going was slow, and the screaming seemed to eat up all the oxygen. Her breathing became labored as she crept ever so slowly toward the door...

Voices on the porch .

And even in the darkness, she could see the knob turn a little.

Then Carmen heard a distinct voice, outside.

“Hey, you kids! Get the hell away from there!”

She could hear the footsteps pound down the stairs...

...and slowly disappear.

The sounds were gone by the time the front door swung open and her abductor came in, wearing a white button-down shirt and nice black slacks.

Gazing down at her, shaking his head in disappointment, he said, “You’re not going anywhere.”

Though she’d vowed not to cry in front of this monster, and had been successful until now, Carmen could feel the tears welling.

“Kids,” he said, with a shrug and a glance toward the door. “What are you gonna do?”

I’m going to die in this room , Carmen thought, on the floor, helpless. I’m going to die right here...

Gibbons raised a foot to kick open the door, but Harrow held up a hand.

He had an idea.

As Gibbons lowered his leg, Harrow reached out and carefully tried the knob. It turned easily, not locked.

Slowly, he swung the door all the way open. The room was pitch black and seemed to be empty.

“Flash,” Harrow said.

Gibbons produced a mini MagLite and stepped into the room, shining the light around, Harrow on his heels.

Other than furniture, the living room was empty. They moved to their left, Harrow pointing his pistol down a hallway to the right while Gibbons and his flashlight checked out the tiny kitchen.

“Clear,” Gibbons said.

Leading the way down the hallway, Harrow slipped into a minuscule bathroom on the right, the shower curtain drawn. Behind him, Gibbons sent the flashlight into the room even as he remained in the hall, pistol pointed toward the two rooms still ahead.

As his fingers touched the edge of the shower curtain, Harrow couldn’t help but picture the image of a dead, blood-spattered Carmen sprawled there.

He let out a breath, whipped back the curtain, and peered into an empty tub.

After a relieved sigh, he said, “Clear.”

Two rooms — presumably bedrooms — were opposite each other at the hall’s end. Gibbons and his flash led the way, then went left and Harrow right, finding himself in a master bedroom that he could make out fairly well, thanks to night vision and moonlight seeping through windows.

The queen-size bed came out from the right wall, a tall armoire immediately to Harrow’s left, a small closet beyond that. The wall to his left was bare except for a longer, low dresser with an attached mirror. Harrow tried to see the other side of the bed in the mirror, but it was all shadows. The opposite wall, painfully close to the bed, had two curtained windows with precious little moonlight filtering through.

Edging to his left, Harrow looked on the far side of the armoire — nothing. His back to the dresser and mirror, Harrow edged around, keeping track of the closet door.

No one on the far side of the bed, either.

His heart beat faster now, his breathing raspy as he squatted down, still trying to watch the closet as he peeled back the bottom of the spread and peeked under.

Nothing except for a couple pairs of shoes and slippers.

From the other room, Gibbons said, “Clear,” the sound of the sheriff’s voice giving Harrow a start.

It had been a while since he’d entered a house with no idea what lay inside, and he had to admit he was a little anxious — maybe more than a little, if his hammering heart was any indicator.

He rose and took two quick steps to the closet, and jerked open the door. Some clothes hung, but nothing else presented itself.

“Clear,” Harrow said.

He went to the doorway where Gibbons waited.

“Gone,” the sheriff said, flipping the switch for the bedroom light.

Harrow glanced at the sheriff, who was looking at something on the bed. Turning, following the sheriff’s gaze, Harrow saw it too.

It had been there the whole time, but Harrow had been so intent on clearing the dark room, he’d not noticed it — folded to display two round holes from the Taser down below the logo: the T-shirt Carmen had frequently worn back when she was a P.A. — the black shirt with the white circle enclosing the letters OZO.

Gibbons asked, “That belong to your teammate?”

“It does.”

“So she was here?”

Harrow looked around. “ Somebody’s been here.”

He clicked the nine millimeter’s safety on and tucked it back in his waistband.

Gibbons radioed, “Clear,” to his deputies.

“Sheriff,” Harrow said, “you have any problem with my people processing this crime scene?”

“None at all.”

Using the walkie-talkie feature on his cell phone, Harrow passed along the message to Chase and Choi.

“Laurene, is the rest of the team here yet?”

“Yeah,” she said. “They rolled up a couple of minutes ago.”

“Good. You and Billy get your crime scene kits and work this scene. Start Billy in the kitchen — you take the master bedroom.”

“You got it, boss.”

“Her T-shirt’s here.”

“Her T-shirt?”

“Yeah.”

A pause, then Laurene asked, “Any of her other clothing?”

“Not that we’ve found. The shirt’s a message, I think. Get in here.”

Laurene gave him a ten-four.

He noticed Gibbons looked as rattled as Harrow felt. “First time into an unknown house in a while, Herm?”

Gibbons nodded. “How long for you?”

“Ten or twelve years,” Harrow said.

“Always a kick, huh?”

With a grim smile, Harrow said, “Safer than working traffic.”

The pair went outside and let the two crime scene analysts in to do their work. Standing in the yard with Gibbons, the two deputies, and the rest of the Killer TV team, Harrow had the empty feeling they were too late.

Though they hadn’t rolled into town with the whole damn circus, their presence had still somehow been known by the bastard.

Across the yard, Deputy Wilson and the other deputy from the office were smoking and chatting. Joining them, Harrow bummed a cigarette. The smoke felt warm and calming in his chest.

The cops in the yard, the dark house, even bumming a smoke, it all reminded him too much of when Ellen and David had been taken from him. Emotions he didn’t want to deal with right now were stirring within him.

His cell rang. “Harrow.”

“Where are you?”

The voice, a familiar one, was a surprise — it belonged to Crime Seen! reporter Carlos Moreno. “J.C., where are you?”

“Lebanon, Kansas. Where are you?”

“Same place,” Moreno said. “Downtown with a camera crew from the Topeka affiliate.”

“What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were in Chicago on a story.”

“I was till Byrnes called. He put me on the Cessna and had a camera crew meet me in Wichita. With Carmen kidnapped, he wants another reporter here.”

Harrow shook his head — he should have known the network president would pull something like this. If Carmen turned up dead, the coverage would be massive in all media, and Byrnes couldn’t allow UBC to shortchange itself on its own story. Harrow felt like Byrnes was writing Carmen off.

“Beautiful human being,” Harrow said, “our Dennis.”

“Yeah, but he signs the checks, J.C. What’s going on?”

“Just get out here, and I’ll fill you in.”