Page 73 of The Guilty Trial

Tacoma, Washington

Allie sat in the unmarked sedan parked across from the Brick Works, hidden in the shadow of an abandoned loading dock where the vehicle blended into the deeper darkness. It was her second night on surveillance rotation, and the hours had taken on a numbing monotony, broken only by periodic check-ins from the SWAT commander and the low static hum of the radio on the dash.

She couldn't sleep. Even when she went home between shifts and lay in bed staring at the ceiling, her mind refused to let go. She kept flashing on images of Sarah Park tied to that chair—that rope around her wrists and the grooves it had left in her skin.

Allie adjusted the binoculars on her lap and scanned the Brick Works compound for the hundredth time. The old industrial facility sat dark and sprawling on the far side of the battered chain-link fence. Sections leaned at angles, and the gate hung open on rusted hinges that no longer met. Beyond the fence, the storage buildings rose in blocky silhouettes against the clouded sky.

The SWAT team was out there. She couldn’t see them, which was the point. They’d taken positions around the perimeter before dusk and gone silent, concealed in the overgrown landscaping, in the lee of the crumbling outbuildings. The radio crackled again, sharp enough to make her flinch after hours of dead air.

“Command, this is Bravo One. Vehicle approaching from the east. Single set of headlights, moving slow.”

Allie straightened in the seat and brought the binoculars up. She watched through the glass as a dark sedan crept along the access road that ran past the facility's eastern boundary. The car slowed as it reached the broken gate, and the headlights went dark.

The sedan rolled through the gap in the fence and stopped near the storage building where they’d found Pym's makeshift killing room. The engine cut. For a long moment, nothing happened, and Allie held her breath against the silence.

Then the driver's door opened, and a thin figure stepped out.

Even from a distance, she recognized the gaunt frame. Arthur Pym.

He moved toward the building with quick, purposeful steps. The radio came alive again. “All units, this is Command. Target is on foot, approaching structure alpha. Hold positions. Prepare to move on my mark.”

Allie watched expectantly as the SWAT positions tightened around the compound. The operation was unfolding exactly as they had planned. They would let Pym enter the building, seal the exits, and take him on command.

But Pym stopped.

He was twenty yards from the entrance when his body went rigid. His head turned to the left, then to the right, and even from across the compound, Allie could see the sudden tension in his posture. He froze for two full seconds, his head swiveling as he took in the perimeter, and then he spun and bolted toward the tree line across the road from the facility.

Allie threw open the car door and was running before her feet fully registered the pavement. She keyed the radio as she sprinted toward the road. “Command, suspect is running. He's heading for the tree line to the west. I'm in pursuit.”

She crossed the road and hit the fence line, ducking through a gap in the chain-link that scraped against her jacket. The ground changed beneath her boots from broken asphalt to soft earth and then to loose rock. She pushed through low brush and scrub. The slope steepened over rocky, root-laced terrain, and branches caught her arms and face as she climbed into the woods.

Ahead, she could hear Pym. The sounds carried clearly in the still night air: the snap of branches, the ragged rhythm of someone running hard over uneven terrain. She adjusted her course toward the sound and pushed harder, her own breathing coming faster and her legs starting to burn.

She reached for her phone and activated the recorder without breaking stride, then shoved it back into her jacket pocket. If she caught up to him, she wanted every word on tape.

The sounds ahead grew fainter. Pym was fast, and the terrain was working in his favor. She had the impression he knew this area, or at least moved across it with a certainty that Allie did not share. She stumbled over a root, caught herself on a low branch, and kept going.

Then the sounds stopped.

Allie slowed and then halted completely with her weapon raised, sweeping the trees in every direction. The woods had gone quiet except for her own ragged breathing and the distant sound of SWAT moving through the brush to her rear, searching. She turned in a slow circle, peering into shadows that revealed nothing.

“Drop the gun.”

The order came from somewhere behind her. It was low and taut, with a tremor buried in it like a wire pulled too tight.

Allie turned slowly. Arthur Pym stood ten feet away with a pistol aimed at her chest. His hand shook in a persistent quiver that traveled up his wrist and into his forearm. Even in the dark, with only a thin slice of moon to see by, she could see his pale eyes were locked on hers. He had circled back on her while she ran forward, and now he was planted between two fir trees with the gun extended in both hands.

She calculated the distance, the angle, and the shake in his grip. Ten feet was close enough that even an unsteady hand could find its target.

Allie crouched and placed her sidearm on the ground. She rose with her hands up where he could see them.

“You don't understand.” Pym's words were pleading. “None of you understand what was done.”

“Then tell me.” She kept her tone level, conversational. Training took over. “Help me understand.”

“They made me complicit.” He said the word as though it had been lodged in his throat for years. “Sterling. Vance. Halloway. Park—all of them. They corrupted everything I spent my life building, and they made me part of it.”

“The evidence, you mean,” Allie said. “In the Torrino case.”