Page 69 of The Guilty Trial

In the center of the floor sat a metal chair. Beside it, cut rope lay in a loose coil, the ends frayed where it had been sawed through rather than untied. Against the far wall, a wooden table held three items: a fixed-blade knife, a portable electric branding iron, and a stack of documents. Everything was arranged with a compulsion that had nothing to do with efficiency. The documents were squared to the table's edge. The knife lay parallel to the iron. The iron's cord was coiled in an even loop beside it.

Her flashlight beam settled on the floor between the chair legs and remained there. The dirt told the rest of the story. Drag marks cut across it in two directions, something heavy pulled toward the chair, and later, something heavy pulled away. Dark stains had soaked into the earth and spread outward in an irregular pattern, old enough that the color had gone from red-brown to nearly black.

This was where he had killed Sarah Park.

Allie stared at the chair. She thought about Park, her firm handshake, her dark hair pulled back, the visible strain she'd carried even in those early days of the investigation. She thought about what it meant to sit in that chair knowing what was coming.

Jason moved past to examine the table without touching anything. He stood over the documents for a moment and trained his flashlight on the neat rows, then looked back at her. His face was still, but she knew him well enough to read the tightness around his jaw.

“He organized it.” Jason's voice was low. “Even here.”

Marze turned to Rourke, who had come up beside him.

“Facility otherwise clear?”

“Yes, sir. Every structure on the property. Nobody's here.”

Marze nodded once. He looked at the room again, then back at Rourke. “He left his iron behind,” he said. “Which means he might come back to it. I want a surveillance team posted. Unmarked vehicles hidden away, rotating shifts, and full coverage on every access point. If he sets foot on this property, I want to know before he gets near that door.”

“Understood. I'll start coordinating positions.”

“Make it discreet,” Marze said. “He's careful. He'll notice even the smallest thing that looks wrong.”

Rourke stepped away to begin the logistics. Marze remained in the doorway a moment longer, then turned and moved back toward the main yard. His footsteps faded across the gravel outside.

Jason came to stand beside Allie. For a moment, neither of them said anything. One of the SWAT operators shifted position near the door, and the angle of his weapon light changed, pulling the shadows on the far wall in a new direction. The table emerged differently in that light, the documents almost white against the dark wood, the knife a clean, cold line.

“She didn't have a chance,” Jason said.

“No.”

He exhaled slowly. “We're going to get him.”

Allie didn't answer right away. She was looking at the chair again, the dull metal of it, the worn legs sunk slightly into the dirt from the weight they'd been made to hold. The cut rope. The obsessive order of the table beside it, every item placed with care by a man who needed the world to conform to his internal logic even when he was doing the worst thing imaginable.

“We're close,” Allie said finally. “We just have to wait.”

Jason didn't argue with that. He knew, the same as she did, that the surveillance team was their best play now. Pym had found this place for a reason. It was isolated, accessible, contained. He'd used it once. If they were patient and quiet, he would come back.

Outside, Allie walked a few paces into the yard and stopped. Around her, the complex was dark, no floodlights, no work lights set up near the windows. Rourke had been clear about that in tonight’s briefing with the surveillance team. Nothing that could be seen from the road or the fence line. Anyone approaching the property needed to see exactly what they expected to see: an abandoned building in the dark.

Allie listened to the low sounds of the team taking their positions. Their voices were barely audible as she heard the soft creak of a gate swinging back on its hinge.

She resumed walking, making her way toward the command vehicle, where Marze was already on his phone. When Pym came back, she intended to be here waiting for him.

Chapter Forty

U.S. Attorney's Office

Seattle, Washington

The elevator opened onto the top floor, and Allie followed Marze and Jason toward the receptionist's desk. The older woman looked up as they reached her station, scanned the three of them, and reached for the phone before Marze had finished introducing himself.

Thorne's personal office was at the far end of the suite. He stood when they entered. Allie took in the space as the three of them crossed to his desk, a large heavy piece that dominated the room. A row of dark wood bookcases lined the walls. Two leather chairs faced the desk, and a credenza held a row of bound case volumes with gold lettering on the spines. Framed commendations covered the walls: letters of appreciation from three different attorneys general; a photo of Thorne at a podium, younger, shaking hands with someone whose face Allie recognized but couldn't immediately place.

He reached across and shook their hands in turn. Allie noted that he was not quite the man she remembered from their earlier meeting at the TFO. The lines around his eyes had deepened. The composure that had defined him before now felt strained, as though he was working to maintain something he would have held effortlessly a few weeks ago.

“Sit, please.” He returned to his chair and laced his fingers together. Behind him, Elliott Bay filled the windows, gray under the November overcast. “Tell me where things stand.”