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It was a trapdoor.
Conklin stepped forward and opened the hatch. We surrounded the opening and looked down a flight of stairs into a basement. Martin directed Mastiff down on the steps, the LED lights came on, and the robot bumped down, step-by-step into the hole.
The pack of us, Conklin, Alvarez, Martin, Brady, Park, Holmes, and Crispo, followed Mastiff down the stairs. I brought up the rear and, honest to God, I had a bad feeling.
CHAPTER 95
THE BASEMENT WAS a quarter the size of the store. It had a sloped ceiling that followed the lay of the land above. Wires and pipes ran across the length and width of the ceiling, and the robot provided enough light to see the furnace and other mechanicals.
Lieutenant Martin’s gun was in hand. Brady and Conklin turned on their flashlights. Sergeant Park gave the dogs another deep sniff of Cindy’s cardigan and the canines were off, vacuuming up skin particles from the air. Rich frantically called out to Cindy, tripping over various old tools and odd parts, cursing loudly. He was understandably crazed. Cindy could be here—or nowhere.
There were too many people in that basement room, so I climbed a short flight of stairs in the farthest corner to get out of the way. I sat on the top step, hugged my knees, and watched everything.
There was an oil tank next to me and that made sense. Theoil company would pull into the lot, plug in the hose outside, and fill ’er up.
I reached overhead. The roof above me sloped toward the parking area. It was halved in the center and hinged at opposite ends. This was a bulkhead. It opened for use by electricians or any workmen to do repairs without tracking dirt through the store.
I called out to Brady. “This hatch opens out.”
He was with me in two steps. He tested the bulkhead doors.
“It’s not locked,” he said.
He pressed his hand against the doors, and they opened with a terrible whine. Fresh air poured in over my head. Park leashed the dogs and we all headed outside. One thing was clear: this was how Catton had made his earlier near-escape. He’d gotten out of the store through this bulkhead, without us seeing him do it.
A new moon gave off a pale, haloed illumination as we stared around the parking lot. Martin and Brady scrutinized the loading dock. Betsy Park, Conklin, Alvarez, and I walked every inch of the asphalt with Crispo and Holmes.
There was nothing to see. Until the dogs pulled their handler and alerted at a dumpster up against the house and flower shop next door to the former bookstore.
Dogs barked. Rich ran to the dumpster, leaned over the edge of it calling, “Cindy! Cindy, answer me!”
I heard a faint cry.Please, God let it be Cindy, not a bag of kittens. Rich vaulted over the side of the dumpster and started throwing things out. Cartons, paint cans, rags, drop cloths and other trash.
He called again, “Cindy! It’s me.”
I joined him at the dumpster. “Rich, do you have her?”
I heard the sound of a zipper opening and Rich yelling, “Call a bus! Hurry!”
I called for an ambulance as Rich stood up, holding a very limp Cindy Thomas, our girl reporter, in his strong arms. But he was standing on shifting piles of trash and couldn’t keep his balance.
“Boxer,” he said, “Give me a hand.”
I stretched out my arms and he lowered his and transferred Cindy’s body to me.
Cindy was almost weightless. Her skin was pale, bloodless and her lips were cracked. She looked close to death but moaned softly.
“Cindy, Cindy. We’ve got you. We’re here. You’re going to be fine,” I told her. I was overwhelmed with relief that she was breathing. I set her down gently on a stinking drop cloth, moved her hair away from her face, put two fingers on her wrist. Her pulse was thready, but she had one.
I ignored everything but Cindy and Richie as I listened for the ambulance.
“He put her in a garment bag,” Rich said.
“Blackout? Plastic? With a zipper?”
“Yes. He knew he was asphyxiating her or maybe he thought she was dead.”
Rich asked Cindy to open her eyes, but she didn’t do it. He told her his name and that he was there for her and that help was on the way.
