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We found more evidence of unauthorized visits. Used condoms, McDonald’s wrappers. I knew from reading online articles that exploring abandoned sites was a popular pastime for some people. But so far, we seemed to have the place to ourselves.
Except for Greg. He was here somewhere.
“Let’s head upstairs,” I said. “That’s where I saw him last.”
We went to the escalator. I went first, testing to make sure the steps, while not moving, were at least secure. They seemed structurally sound, so I motioned for Isabel to follow me, pointing out the steps that were missing. I offered a hand since there was no rubber handrail to grab on to, and she took it with what seemed some reluctance.
When we got to the upper level I raised a finger, signaling Isabel to be quiet while I listened for sounds of work. Power tools, hammering. There was mostly silence.
One thing was different from last time. More of the railings that were designed to keep customers from plunging to the first level were missing.
“Last time I was here,” I said, pointing, “he was working in that end.”
Our steps, and our occasional words to each other, echoed throughout the empty space. We’d only taken a few steps when I heard an industrial grinding or cutting sound. Short, repetitive bursts. Too noisy for a cordless drill. Probably that reciprocating saw I’d seen Greg wielding the last time I was here.
I pointed, and we started walking in the direction of the sound.
We’d gone about a hundred feet, sidestepping trash, a rusted-out bicycle with one wheel, a couple of shopping carts, and a leaning, bird-shit-stained statue of P. T. Barnum, the long-dead founder of the Barnum & Bailey Circus. He was, according to the plaque that was hanging to the base by a single screw, a native of Connecticut. Right now he looked more like the toppled statue of Saddam Hussein.
We stopped in front of what was once a dollar store, faded banners advertising 50 percent off! and all sales final! dangling from the ceiling. Inside, hacking away at some wood shelves, was my longtime buddy Greg Raymus.
He had on a pair of plastic goggles, but no helmet. Greg had always shunned extra steps to protect himself. There was an inch-long cigarette pinched between his lips.
He did like to smoke them down to nothing.
He must have sensed us standing there in the concourse watching him, because he took his finger off the saw’s trigger, set it down, swept the goggles from his eyes, and looked in our direction.
“Hey!” he said, and laughed nervously. “Wasn’t expecting to see you. At least, not till later.”
He tossed the goggles and strolled out into the concourse, still holding the saw, pointing it toward the floor. It hung from his arm like some bizarre weapon designed to kill aliens. He took the inch of cigarette from between his lips and tossed it.
“Greg,” I said evenly. “Thought I’d just drop by.”
He looked at Isabel and said, “Have we met?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“This is Isabel,” I said. “Brie’s sister.”
Greg put on a concerned face. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said solemnly. “I really liked Brie.”
I could sense Isabel’s tenseness. She’d figured it out. Why I had brought her here, why we were talking to Greg. She was owed this. Her campaign to get justice for Brie had been genuine and heartfelt. The only problem was that it had been misdirected.
The true target was standing here in front of her.
“Where’s Julie?” I asked, feeling the gun at my back, under my jacket.
“She was here a bit ago,” he said. “Been gone most of the day. Just dropped off some donuts. Want one?”
“No, thanks,” I replied. Casually, I said, “Matt’s dead.”
Greg blinked three times. “I’m sorry, what?”
“He died a few hours ago,” I told him. “In the woods, where he’d buried Brie.”
Greg laughed nervously. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Matt who? What woods?”
“You called him,” I said. “When you thought Brie might have returned. Wondered whether he’d actually done what you’d hired him to do. Freaked him out, too. So he took me along, had me dig her up just to be sure.”
