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"You're a mind reader?"
"You've got an APB for all suspicious cars in the area and you've got your crime-scene guys going over that Buick with a sieve."
"The APB is a code 10-38, which you'd know if you were a real cop, and the closest house to here is an old geezer in a wheelchair about two miles up." Fierro said this with a disdain that was more than familiar to Will. "I'm not gonna have this conversation with you, pal. Leave my scene."
"I saw what was done to her," Will pressed. "She wasn't put in a car and dropped. She was bleeding from everywhere. Whoever did this is smart. He wouldn't put her in a car. He wouldn't risk the trace evidence. He sure as hell wouldn't leave her alive."
"Two options." Fierro held up his pudgy fingers and counted them off for Will. "Leave on your own two feet or leave on your back."
Will stood up, straightening his shoulders so that he was standing at his full six-three. Pointedly, he looked down at Fierro. "Let's try to work this out. I'm here to help."
"I don't need your help, Gomez. Now I suggest you turn around, get back in your little girl car and go gentle into that good night. You wanna know what happens here? Read a newspaper."
"I think you mean Lurch," Will corrected. "Gomez was the father."
Fierro's brow wrinkled.
"Look, the victim—Anna—probably lay down here." Will pointed to the depression in the leaves. "She heard the cars coming, and she walked onto the road to get help." Fierro didn't stop him, so he continued, "I've got a canine unit on the way. The trail is still fresh now, but it'll be gone with the rain." As if on cue, lightning flashed, followed closely by a clap of thunder.
Fierro stepped closer. "You're not hearing me, Gomez." He thrust the butt of his flashlight into Will's chest, physically pushing him away from the crime scene. He kept doing this as he spoke, punctuating each word with a sharp jab. "Get your fucking GBI, three-piece fucking undertaker ass back in your little red toy car and get the fuck off my—"
Will's heel struck something solid. Both men heard it, and both men stopped.
Fierro opened his mouth, but Will indicated he should keep quiet, slowly kneeling down to the ground. Will used his hands to brush away some leaves and found the outline of a large square of plywood. Two big rocks framed the corner, marking the spot.
There was a faint sound in the air, almost a crackling. Will knelt down farther and the noise turned into a few muffled words. Fierro heard it, too. He drew his gun, keeping the flashlight alongside the muzzle so he could see what he was going to shoot. Suddenly, the detective no longer appeared to mind Will's presence; instead, he seemed to be encouraging Will to be the one pulling back the sheet of plywood and putting his face in the line of fire.
When Will looked up at him, Fierro shrugged, as if to say, "You wanted on the case."
Will had been in court all day. His gun was at home in the drawer by his bed. Fierro either had a large goiter on his ankle or he was carrying a backup piece. The man didn't offer the gun and Will didn't ask for it. He would need both hands if he was going to pull back the plywood and get out of the way in a timely manner. Will sucked in his breath as he moved the rocks, then dug his fingers carefully into the soft ground, getting a good grip on the edge of the board. It was standard size, roughly four-by-eight, and half an inch thick. The wood felt wet under his fingers, which meant that it would be even heavier.
Will glanced back at Fierro to make sure he was ready, then, in one swift motion, pried back the sheet of plywood. Dirt and debris scattered as Will quickly backed away.
"What is it?" Fierro's voice was a hoarse whisper. "Do you see anything?"
Will craned his neck to see what he had uncovered. The hole was deep and crudely dug, a thirty-by-thirty-inch square opening going straight down into the earth. Will kept at a low crouch as he made his way toward the hole. Aware that he was again offering his head as a target, he quickly glanced inside, trying to see what they were dealing with. He couldn't see to the bottom. What he did discover was a ladder resting a few feet down from the top, a homemade deal with the rungs nailed crookedly to a pair of rotting two-by-fours.
Lightning cracked in the sky, showing the tableau in full glory. It was like a cartoon: the ladder to hell.
"Give me the light," he whispered to Fierro. The detective was more than accommodating now, slapping the Maglite into Will's reaching hand. Will looked back at the man. Fierro had taken a wide stance, his gun still pointed at the opening in the ground, fear widening his eyes.
Will shone down the light. The cavern seemed to be L-shaped, going straight down about five feet, then turning into what must have been the main area of the cave. Pieces of wood jutted out where the roof was shored up. There were supplies at the base of the ladder. Cans of food. Rope. Chains. Hooks. Will's heart jumped as he heard movement down there, rustling, and he had to force himself not to jerk back.
Fierro asked, "Is it—"
Will put his finger to his lips, though he was pretty sure that the element of surprise was not on their side. Whoever was down there had seen the beam of the flashlight moving around. As if to reinforce this, Will heard a guttural sound from below, almost a moan. Was there another victim down there? He thought of the woman in the hospital. Anna. Will knew what electrical burns looked like. They stained the skin in a dark powder that never washed away. They stayed with you for a lifetime—that is, if you had a lifetime left in you.
Will took off his suit jacket and tossed it behind him. He reached toward Fierro's ankle and grabbed the revolver out of the holster. Before he could stop himself, Will swung his legs down into the hole.
"Jesus Christ," Fierro hissed. He looked over his shoulder at the dozens of cops who were a hundred feet away, no doubt realizing there was a better way to do this.
Will heard the sound from below again. Maybe an animal, maybe a human being. He turned off the flashlight and jammed it into the back of his pants. There was something he should have said, like "Tell my wife I love her," but he didn't want to give Angie the burden—or the satisfaction.
"Hold on," Fierro whispered. He wanted to get backup.
Will ignored him, shoving the revolver into his front pocket. Carefully, he tested his weight on the wobbly ladder, the heels of his shoes on the rungs so he could face the inside of the cavern as he descended. The space was narrow, his shoulders too broad. He had to keep one arm straight above his head so that he could fit down the hole. Dirt kept falling in clumps around him and roots scratched his face and neck. The wall of the shaft was just a few inches from his nose, bringing out a claustrophobia Will never knew he had. Every time he inhaled, he tasted mud in the back of his throat. He couldn't look down, because there was nothing to see, and he was afraid that if he looked up, he might reverse direction.
With each step, the smell got worse—feces, urine, sweat, fear. Maybe the fear was coming from Will. Anna had escaped from here. Maybe she had wounded her attacker in the process. Maybe the man was down there waiting with a gun or a razor or a knife.
Will's heart was beating so hard that he could feel it choking his throat. Sweat was pouring off him, and his knees were shaky as he took step after interminable step down. Finally, his foot hit soft earth. He felt around with the toe of his shoe, finding the rope at the base of the ladder, hearing the chain rattle. He would have to crouch down to get inside, leaving himself completely exposed to whoever was waiting.
