It was very late when he went upstairs to bed.
He flicked on the lights and studied the room for a moment. The Franz Schensky carbon seascape, the ginger jar lamps with their cheerful yellow-and-gold leaf patterns, the brand-new bed with the brown-and-cream-striped duvet. How could everything look so...normal?
Tucker’s slippers were half-tucked beneath the bed. His bathrobe hung on the back of the door. His extra pair of Oakley sunglasses lay on the dresser. A half-read copy of Kill or CURE, The Destroyer #11 sat on Tucker’s bedside table. Elliot opened the closet and stood motionless, staring at the neat row of Tucker’s immaculate suits, paralyzed by the ghostly scent of Tucker’s aftershave.
He rested a hand on the shoulder of Tucker’s favorite navy-blue blazer, and for a funny moment the hard wood curve of the hanger beneath the soft wool created the illusion that he was touching flesh and bone.
“Don’t do this to me,” he said.
When he finally climbed into bed and switched out the light, it was to stare through the parted curtains, watching numbly until the last sharp sliver of moon faded out of the sky.
* * *
The dog was barking downstairs.
Elliot’s eyes jerked open. He rolled over, reaching for his backup Glock, which sat on the bedside table, and scrambled out of bed.
Sheba was still barking, a deep, full-throated sound that was half snarl. It raised the hair on the back of Elliot’s neck as he padded barefoot downstairs.
He left the lights off, but he could see the pale shadow of Sheba positioned before the front door, hackles raised. He could hear her fury and her fear.
What the hell?
That was not triggered by a foolhardy raccoon or a suicidal cat. That indicated a real and present danger.
Elliot went to the side of the window, keeping out of sight as he tried to view the porch.
He couldn’t see immediately in front of the door, but he could see most of the porch and it appeared to be empty. Unless someone was standing deep in the shadows off to the side.
Sheba’s bark cut off and she came to him, wagging her tail frantically and whining, almost moaning her distress, and he patted her, still listening.
“Good girl,” he whispered.
He left the window, taking care not to step directly in front of the door—he did not want a telltale creak of floorboard to end with him being shot through the door—and headed for the kitchen, unlocking and soundlessly opening the back door, going through the mudroom, unlocking that door and stepping into the damp autumn night. He closed the door on Sheba.
That was a mistake because she began to scratch at the door and howl.
Elliot started around the side of the house, gun held low, wincing as he stepped on rocks and sticks. It had been a dumb-ass thing to run outside barefoot, but he was committed now.
He picked his way down the length of the house, reached the side of the porch and risked a quick look around the corner.
The porch was empty. Completely empty. No one lurked in the shadows.
Sheba, still howling, was now scraping at the front door.
Elliot stayed out of sight, studying the empty drive and the woods beyond.
Nothing moved.
He closed his eyes, concentrating, but he couldn’t hear anything over the racket the dog was making.
It was sprinkling. Not much harder than a mist, but the ground was wet and the air nippy. Goose bumps stood up on his bare shoulders and back. His sleep pants felt thin and uncomfortably drafty.
Sheba, shut up.
She continued to claw and cry, drowning out whatever there might be to hear. He turned and went the other way around the house, stepping gingerly, wincing at the occasional sharp object underfoot.
At least Sheba’s racket also camouflaged any noises he might make.
There was no sign of anyone.
No indication anyone had tried to pry open a window or force a door.
After a couple of minutes, he began to feel silly. And very cold.
If there had been someone, they were long gone, and the sole reason for even suspecting there had been an attempt at a break-in was Sheba’s reaction. The truth was, he didn’t know how nervous and jumpy Sheba might be. Up until now she had seemed amazingly calm, given all that had happened to her, but the house and surrounding woods were still strange to her.
He picked his way to the back step and let himself inside the mudroom. Sheba greeted him on her hind legs, pawing at him.
“Okay, okay. There’s nothing out there. It’s okay.”
She went past him and went to the door, listening, then came back, circling around him and nearly tripping him as he went into the kitchen.
“Sheba, for Christ’s sake.” He set his pistol on the counter and poured a glass of water from the tap, considering the dog.
She was still uneasy, no question.
He didn’t think either of them were going to get much more sleep that night. On Saturday the earliest ferry was at 6:15 a.m. According to the clock on the microwave it was nearly five o’clock.
He remembered the last time he’d woken at this time of the morning. Remembered the strength of Tucker’s arms, the always surprising softness of his lips. He thought of that morning coffee on the deck with Tucker—and Tucker dropping the bombshell that Elliot might be invited to apply for a nonagent job at the Bureau.
All of it moot now. He had to take a couple of deep breaths against the pain. Would there ever come a time when the memory of Tucker wouldn’t feel like a body blow?
He’s not dead. I would feel it if he was dead.
This week had been the longest and most difficult of Elliot’s life—up to and including the period after he’d been shot and learned he would not be returning to active duty. He’d prefer to be kneecapped every day for the rest of his life to losing Tucker.
If he could not save Tucker, he would make it his life’s mission to catch and punish whoever had taken him.
But even that... It was the kind of promise you made—the lie you told yourself—when you didn’t have the guts to face the truth. Who knew better than Elliot that not every murderer was caught and punished? His mother’s hit-and-run death was still unsolved. And he was the guy who had been working the Thompson cold case without success and eventually had to see it handed over to Tucker.
Now Thompson’s case would be handed on to another investigator.
The brutal fact was sometimes people did get away with murder.
He listened to the slow, steady tick of the clock over the sink.
They sure as hell got away with it if you didn’t even try to stop them.
He picked up his pistol. “Come on,” he said to the dog. “We can’t sit around here looking at each other.”
* * *
Gravel crunched beneath the tires as the Nissan pulled up in the drive in front of Corian’s. A raven perched on the for-sale sign in the front yard looked like an early Halloween decoration.
The bird spread its glossy wings and flew away as Elliot got out and opened the passenger door.
“Come on,” he said, and Sheba jumped down and began sniffing the gravel, plumy tail wagging.
“Where’s Todd? Go find Todd.”
She cocked her head, as though trying to understand, and then took off like a shot for the woods.
Elliot followed swiftly, keeping an eye out for nosy neighbors and an ear peeled for gunshots. This was deer hunting season.
Yellow leaves drifted lazily down. He crossed Corian’s yard and started into the woods.
He could hear the dog crashing ahead of him through the undergrowth, though she was now out of sight. He had her leash, but he didn’t want to guide or distract her. Border collies were supposed to be the smartest dogs, so maybe she would have success where the HRD canines had failed. Either way, Sheba was the closest thing he had to a material witness.
Every now and then she raced back as though to be sure Elliot was still following, and then raced on ahead again.
They reached the old access gate. Sheba wriggled under on her side. Elliot climbed over and dropped down. They continued along the road overgrown with lush ferns.
Lush but not tall.
The road had not been traveled for a year or so, but it was possible it had been in use before that. So far Elliot had seen nothing to discourage the very tentative theory that had formed in the back of his mind.
This was a hiker’s paradise. Despite the old road, the world seemed brand-new and completely unspoiled. Shafts of sunlight penetrated the canopy of old-growth trees, gilding foliage so that the leaf tips seemed to glow. Through the green-gold shade he could hear running water, a stream chattering over rocks.
It was very quiet. Other than himself and the dog, the only sounds were birdsong and the stream.
Sheba doubled back once more, plunging around him, as though she wasn’t sure if they were playing or working.
“Where’s Todd? Go find him, Sheba,” Elliot urged, and she obediently sprang away again.
Were they still on Corian’s property? Elliot wasn’t sure. They were probably about three miles from the house, deep into the woods. He surmised this was approximately where the canine teams had given up.
And he had seen nothing to suggest that was the wrong decision. It was not impossible that Corian could have transported bodies out this way using the access road and then hiking farther in. But farther in to what? Why bother? There were better—certainly easier—places to dispose of bodies and body parts.
Up ahead he could hear Sheba whining.
His hopes rose.
Perhaps hopes wasn’t the right word.
He followed the sound, pushing through the bushes, and found Sheba in a small clearing, digging at whatever lay beneath a pile of dead pine branches.
She was scratching something hard and solid. That thin, scraping sound of her nails on metal sent a shudder down his spine.
He went to the dog, dragging away the dead branches and staring down at an old sign.
DANGER. KEEP OUT. Authorized Personnel Only.
Elliot’s unease grew as he realized the faded red-and-white sign was fastened to a hunk of metal. A heavy, round...something.
What the hell was that? Because it looked like a manhole cover in the ground.
He knelt down to get a better look. Yes. In the ground. Not merely lying there, not randomly dropped—from where?—in the middle of the woods. It appeared to be resting on a kind of framework built into the soft soil.
“Wait, Sheba. No.” He pushed the dog back as she pawed at the ground around the weighty iron cover. “Let me see.”
She whined and came back to him, trying to nuzzle his face.
“I know. It’s okay.” Was it? Probably not.
The framework was certainly manmade. He couldn’t think of a single good reason for an underground storage unit in the middle of the woods. But maybe it was something else. Something harmless and ordinary.
Like...?
This was mining country, but that looked pretty narrow to be a mine shaft. And it was hard to believe anyone had dug a well this far in the middle of nowhere. A well or anything else.
It wasn’t a bomb shelter.
It might be a pit cave that had been sealed off for safety’s sake. That made the most sense.
Yes. A potential hazard to hikers. It might be nothing more than that.
But Sheba seemed to think it was something more as she returned to whining and clawing at the sphere.
And watching her, Elliot decided she was right. This was not a cap. Not merely a cover. This was an entrance.
He pulled his gloves off and felt carefully around the edge, trying to figure out how the heavy lid fit into the framework. At last he identified what seemed to be grips. By turning the disc counterclockwise, he was able to lift the heavy plate up and out of the frame.
He set it aside and peered down.
A cold breath of dank, dead air rose up and his stomach knotted. That was not a healthy smell.
How the hell far down was that drop? He could not see anything below. He appeared to be looking down a long black tunnel straight into the ground.
A pit cave. He had been right the first time.
But as he studied the walls, he noticed thin, irregularly spaced bars—metal rungs—built into the sides for hand or footholds. Not something you found in most caves. Not a natural geographic feature. At some point in time someone had used this wilderness space often enough, regularly enough, to create a ladder in and out.
Sheba leaned in, sniffing mightily, and then put her head back and howled. The mournful wail raised the hair on Elliot’s neck.
“Christ. Shhh.” He put his hand around her muzzle and listened.
He could hear the wind shushing through the pines. Nothing else.
He let go of the dog and pulled his phone out.
Bars. Not many. The signal was weak, but he did have a signal.
Sheba began to scratch and dig at the edge of the framework. The soft soil above started to give way in showers of dirt and gravel. The dog slid forward, paws scrabbling. Elliot hauled her back. “Stay.”
No cute perching on her haunches and covering her eyes today. Her ears were flattened to her head, the pupils of her pale eyes were dilated and huge. She nervously licked her chops.
“Stay,” he repeated sternly, and then went back to figuring out how to get down to the bottom of whatever this was without killing himself.
It went without saying that it was a bad idea. The smart thing to do was phone for help. Phone... Woll or Dannon. Except he didn’t trust either Woll or Dannon. Maybe that was paranoia, but that was where he was now. He could call Pine to update him on what he’d found on this morning’s hike, but this was not Pine’s jurisdiction and by the time Pine cut through the red tape and got up here with a support team...
Well, would it really make a difference? There might be absolutely nothing in the bottom of that hole. Or, if what he suspected was at the bottom of this shaft really was at the bottom of this shaft, a few hours wouldn’t make a difference.
“Be smart.” He could practically hear Tucker whispering it to him. “Be safe.”
No. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt instinctively that if he waited, if he tried to get help, whatever proof was down in that pit would vanish. He needed to get in there and see for himself.
He texted a quick message for Pine explaining where he was and what he was about to do, and then, without waiting for an answer, started down.
The first step was the worst. Fingers knotted in grass and weeds—a very insecure hold—feeling with his foot...finding air...scooting a little farther...and feeling the first narrow rung beneath his foot.
It felt pretty solid.
He put his weight on it, leerily half turned, and realized that there was a handhold right below the frame. He gripped it and took another step down...except there was nothing there.
Sweat broke on his forehead despite the chilly air.
There was a sick roil in his stomach as he stretched a little farther, still not finding a foothold. He needed a rope or a cable ladder because this was just...really dumb...
Ah. There it was. The second rung.
The bars had been pounded into the side of the cave without recognizable rhyme or reason, but if you knew where they were, if you were used to climbing up and down...well, even then, this was unsafe.
An excellent deterrent though. Because no one in their right mind would climb down here if they didn’t have to.
He tested the next rung cautiously, afraid to put his full weight on it, but it did not budge.
He took another step down, feeling with his foot.
He was not claustrophobic. Not afraid of the dark. Didn’t have a problem with heights. But this was unnerving.
Sheba made another attempt to start down. Rocks and dirt rained down, and Elliot tried to shelter his head with one arm.
“No!” he yelled. “Sheba, no!”
She ducked back again and he continued his painstaking descent.
Christ, it was cold and the air was stale and tainted. With each slow, careful step, his heart thudded heavily with dread.
Down.
Down.
Down.
How the hell deep was this? He looked back up at the opening.
Maybe the height of a two-story house. Say twenty feet?
His hands felt slick and sweaty on the skinny rungs. He paused to wipe his palms thoroughly on the canvas sleeve of his barn coat before continuing down.
His knee was starting to feel the strain. He paused to rest and looked upward.
Sheba was still looking down at him as though she were trying to judge the jump.
“No,” he called.
The fall would kill her—and probably him, as well.
Fifty feet.
What in the hell was he doing? This was crazy. He should stop now. Climb back up and call for help.
Help with what?
So far all he had was a very deep hole in the ground.
A bad-smelling, scary-ass hole in the ground.
Another step down.
Another.
Another.
Jesus Christ, how the hell deep was this fucking hole?
One hundred feet?
He was guessing, but as he stared up, the sun looked as tiny as the beam of a faraway flashlight.
He took another step and was disoriented when he kicked solid ground. He had reached the bottom.
Elliot let go of the ladder and reached for his phone to use the flashlight.
Something slammed into him, knocking him to the ground hard. His head banged down on the packed earth and lights flashed before his eyes. He dropped his phone, and put up an arm, trying to protect his head from the blows coming his way.
One kick landed in the middle of his back. Another to his tailbone.
For crucial seconds, he couldn’t quite catch up to what was happening. He had expected to find something very different at the end of this quest. Alive and kicking had not figured into his calculations.
He rolled over and away, reaching for his pistol. Dimly he could hear Sheba’s barking echoing down the tunnel.
His assailant, huge and ferocious and terrifyingly silent, dragged him up and hurled him into the rough wall of the cave. Elliot’s knuckles cracked against rock and he dropped the pistol. He dropped down, groping for it, trying to block the punches raining down on his back and shoulders.
His hand closed on the butt of his pistol. He could hear the heavy, strained breathing of the other. As he brought the gun up, a crazy thought flashed into his brain.
“Tucker?”