Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

Sachs brought the Mégane to a stop twenty feet from the door, leaving room for the tactical officers and ambulance. She hurried out. Ercole was close behind her.

Jogging again. But carefully. Sachs kept a close monitor on her legs — she suffered from arthritis, which had become so severe she’d nearly been sidelined from her beloved profession. Surgery had removed much, if not all, of the pain. Still, she always stayed mindful. The body can betray at any moment. But now, all functioned smoothly.

‘You’re new to this, right? To entry.’

‘Entry?’

That answered the question.

She’d learned enough. ‘First, we secure the site, make it safe from hostiles. It doesn’t help the victim, even if he’s seconds away from dying, if we die too. Okay?’

‘ Sì. ’

‘When it’s clear, we try to save him, CPR, open airways if we can, apply pressure to stop bleeding, though I don’t think blood loss is going to be a problem. After that we secure the crime scene to preserve evidence.’

‘All right... Ah, no!’

‘What?’

‘I forgot the booties. For our shoes. You are supposed to—’

‘We don’t wear those now. They’re too slippery. Here.’

She dug into her pocket and handed him rubber bands. ‘On the ball of your feet.’

‘You carry those with you?’

They both donned the elastic.

‘Gloves?’ he asked. ‘Latex gloves.’

Sachs smiled. ‘No. Not in tactical situations.’

The door, she was surprised to see, was barred with the cheapest of locks and a hasp that was affixed to the wooden door and frame with small screws.

She dug into her pocket and the switchblade was in her hand. Ercole’s eyes went wide. Sachs smiled to herself, as the thought occurred that the weapon was Italian — a Frank Beltrame stiletto, a four-inch blade, staghorn handle. She flicked it open and in one deft move pulled the bracket away from the wood, then tucked the knife away.

Holding her finger to her lips, she studied Ercole’s nervous, sweaty face. Some of the consternation was from the harrowing drive; the source of the remainder was clear. He was willing, but he was not battle-tested. ‘Stay behind me,’ she whispered.

‘Yes, yes.’ Which came out more as a breath than words.

She pulled a halogen flashlight from her pocket, a tiny but powerful thousand-lumen model. A Fenix PD35.

Ercole squinting, surely thinking: Rubber bands, flashlight, flick-blade knife? These Americans certainly came prepared.

A nod toward the door.

His Adam’s apple bobbed.

She pushed inside, raising the light and the gun.

There was a startling crash; the door had struck a table, spilling a large bottle of San Pellegrino mineral water.

‘He’s here!’ Ercole whispered.

‘Not necessarily. But assume he is. He may have set up the table to warn him somebody breached. We have to go fast.’

The entryway atmosphere was pungent, the walls covered with graffiti. It resembled a cave in some wilderness, rather than a man-made structure. A stairway led down two flights. They went slowly. The halogen would give them away but it was their only source of illumination. A fall down these steep stones could be fatal.

‘Listen,’ she said, pausing at the bottom. She believed she’d heard a moan or grunt. But then nothing.

They found themselves in an old brick tunnel about eight feet wide. The aqueduct, a square-bottomed trough about two feet across, ran through the middle. It was largely dry, though old iron pipes overhead — the ceiling was six feet above them — dripped water.

Ercole pointed to their left. ‘The reservoir would be there, if the map is correct.’

A rumbling began in the distance and grew in volume. The floor shook. Sachs supposed that it was the subway, nearby, she recalled from the map, but it also occurred to her that Naples was not so very far from Mount Vesuvius, whose volcano she’d read might erupt at any time. Volcanoes equal earthquakes, even the smallest of which might pin her under rubble — leaving her to die the worst death imaginable. Claustrophobia was her big fear.

But the roaring rose to a crescendo, then faded.

Subway. Okay.

They arrived at a fork, the tunnel splitting into three branches, each with its own aqueduct.

‘Where?’

‘I am sorry. I do not know. This part was not on the map.’

Pick one, she thought.

And then she saw that the left branch of the tunnel contained not only an aqueduct but a terracotta pipe, largely broken. Probably an old sewer drain. She was recalling the scatological trace from the Composer’s shoes. ‘This way.’ She began along the damp floor, the smell of mold tickling her throat and reminding of the uranium-processing factory in Brooklyn, site of the Composer’s first murder attempt.

Where are you? She thought to the victim? Where?

They pressed on, walking carefully in the aqueduct until the tunnel ended — in a large, dingy basement, lit dimly from airshafts and from fissures in the ceiling. The aqueduct continued on arched columns to a round stone cylindrical structure, twenty feet across, twenty high. There was no ceiling. A door had been cut into the side.

‘That’s it,’ Ercole whispered. ‘The reservoir.’

They climbed off the aqueduct and down stone stairs to the floor, about ten feet below.

Yes, she could hear a gasping sound from inside. Sachs motioned Ercole to cover the aqueduct they’d come down and the other doorways that opened off the basement. He understood and drew his pistol. His awkward grip told her he rarely shot. But he checked that a round was chambered and the safety catch off. And he was aware of where the muzzle was pointed. Good enough.

A deep breath, another.

Then she spun around the corner, keeping low, and played the light through the room.

The victim was fifteen feet from her, sitting taped in a rickety chair, straining to keep his head raised against the upward tension of the noose. She saw clearly now the mechanism the Composer had rigged — the deadly bass strings running up to a wooden rod hammered into a crack in the wall above the victim’s head, then to another rod and finally down to a bucket filling with water. The weight in the pail would eventually tug the noose tight enough to strangle him.

He squinted his eyes closed against the brilliance of the flashlight.

The room had no other doors and it was clear that the Composer wasn’t present.

‘Come inside, cover the door!’ she barked.

‘ Sì! ’

She holstered her weapon and ran to the man, who was sobbing. She pulled the gag out of his mouth.

‘ Saedumi, saedumi! ’

‘You’ll be okay.’ Wondering how much English he spoke.

She had gloves with her but didn’t bother now. Beatrice could print her later to eliminate her friction ridges. She gripped the noose and pulled down, which lifted the bucket, and then she slipped the noose over his head. Slowly she lowered the bucket. Before it reached the floor, though, the stick wedged into a gap between the stones gave way and the pail fell to the floor.

Hell. The water would contaminate any trace on the stone.

But nothing to do now. She turned to the poor man and examined him. His panicked eyes stared from her to the tape binding his arms up to the ceiling and back to her.

‘You’ll be okay. An ambulance is coming. You understand? English?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, yes.’

He didn’t look badly hurt. Now that he was okay, Sachs pulled on latex gloves. She removed her switchblade once more, hit the button. It sprang open. The man recoiled.

‘It’s all right.’ She cut the tape and freed his hands, then feet.

The victim’s eyes were wide and unfocused. He rambled in Arabic.