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“Tell me about this research center.”
"It's a bit outside of the University District. Like I said, it's inside of those business parks that never quite caught on. A few abandoned buildings, but a few factories. I think there's some sort of bottle manufacturer back in there somewhere. But this was a smaller building, just a front area and several offices with a single, big conference room. But everything was moved out years ago, and I guess the developer and landlord just let it go to pot. But yeah, Webber told me he goes there sometimes to just get out of his shithole apartment. He uses it as a sort of clubhouse, I think. A really sad mancave that—"
“Do you know the address?”
“I don’t but—”
Sullivan interrupted, and she could hear a slow, building excitement in his voice. “I know where it is…or, rather, I know where that bottle manufacturing plant is. You want to meet me over there?”
“Yes.”
“Hold on, and I’ll get the address and send it to you.”
“Sounds good,” Rachel said, already standing up from Stanley Cooper’s laptop and heading for the front door.
She didn't know the city well, and she wasn't sure where she was headed, but she suddenly started to feel that things were rolling in the right direction. She hated to retread her steps by looking into a suspect they'd already dismissed, but the case seemed to be pointing them that way. It would be a waste of time to beat herself up about letting Webber go so easily; she knew there had been enough evidence not to make an arrest when they'd first spoken to him. To sit on mistakes and dissect them now would waste time and effort. She had to focus on moving forward…and right now, forward seemed to be in the direction of an abandoned research office.
When she reached her car, her phone dinged at her as Sullivan sent her the address. She punched it into her maps app, and when she pulled out of Webber's driveway, she did so with such speed that she kicked up gravel and dust behind her.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
The thrill of the new lead she’d stumbled across had her breaking the speed limit in a city she wasn’t familiar with—which added its own extra spark of energy. According to her map, Webber’s old research center was twenty-three minutes away from Cooper’s house. She figured Sullivan would likely get there before she did, and she was okay with that. She had no idea if this would pan out to anything, but she was very interested in this huge new piece to a former suspect—something Webber had not even alluded to when they’d first spoken to him. She couldn’t help but wonder if Jack might have picked up on something if he’d been on the case. Not to discredit Sullivan in any way, but Jack had always had a knack for finding trails others might overlook. She sometimes thought of him as a sort of bloodhound for that sort of thing.
But Jack wasn’t with her. And as she came to the business center, she truly started to feel his absence. Knowing that she’d been reunited with him and her family tomorrow night brought her an incredible little tingle of joy, but it also reminded her that she was running out of time to help with this case.
She passed by the bottling factory, still speeding. It was the first of several buildings inside the Gafferty-King Business Park. But after this large warehouse-style building, she saw several other buildings that fit the description Cooper had given them for the research center. There appeared to be nothing wrong with the buildings from the outside, but the parking lots and grimy windows made it clear that most of them had not been used in quite some time.
The research center sat on the left side of a large cul-de-sac. Cooper had described the size well; it wasn’t large at all. The parking lot wrapped around the front and right side of the building, allowing room for about a dozen cars or so. The neighboring building sat about fifty feet away, separated by a strip of overgrown grass and dead shrubs.
There was no sign of Sullivan’s car, but there was an old Toyota Corolla parked near the back of the right side of the parking lot. It was an old car and not in the best shape, so it was impossible to tell if it had been parked recently or had been here for a while, abandoned just as long as the building.
She parked her car beside the Corolla and took note of the inspection sticker in the window. According to the year on the sticker, the car was apparently a new addition to the lot—at least by a few months. She stepped out of the car and looked to the back of the building. Abandoned or not, she figured the easiest entry would be at the back. She assumed the front would be locked; the back should be, too, but years of experience in searching buildings like this told her that at some point, loiterers or the homeless were far more likely to break into a place like this through the back, leaving the door and lock useless afterwards.
She spotted the back door, a sturdy metal number that did indeed show signs of someone having pried it open in the past. Maybe Webber, she thought. As she made her way to the door, she received a text. Her phone buzzed in her pocket but this time it wasn’t quite as startling. It was a text from Sullivan that read: I’m about five minutes away.
She quickly responded with: Already here. She then pocketed her phone and grabbed the knob of the back door. As she’d suspected, the lock was busted. She did have to give it a tug to free it from the frame, but it came open right away with a slight squeal. She pulled it fully open and stepped inside.
She heard the sounds of whimpering right away.
Rachel reached for her Glock but went still when she realized she didn’t have it. And why would she? She’d only brought her badge and ID for flight and rental car purposes; this wasn’t designed to be a work trip. She knew the smart move would be to back out and wait for Sullivan to arrive. But even as she understood this, she heard the whimpering sound again, this time punctuated with a stifled female voice.
“Please…no…”
If Rachel retreated, she’d have no idea what was wrong with the woman. And she knew she couldn’t call out to her because there might be someone else. Maybe the killer…maybe Webber.
With her nerves pinched tight and every sense on high alert, Rachel made her way further into the building. The back door had entered onto a hallway that led to the front of the building. She could just barely make out the dusty sunlight coming through one of the windows up front. Along the hallway, there were four rooms—two on each side and a secondary hallway just ahead to her right.
But the whimpering and the woman’s voice had come from the first room up ahead on her left. And as she took another step toward it, she heard just how loud every single footstep with this empty, silent building seemed. If the killer was indeed here, they probably already knew they had company.
Rachel glanced around madly, looking for something—anything to use for a weapon but there was nothing. The place had been cleaned thoroughly when the center was its employees were relocated. So as she approached the doorway, she could do nothing more than ball her hands into fists and push her weight down into er claves just in case she needed to deliver a punch the moment she turned into the room.
She steeled herself and did just that. Her forearms drew tight, ready to fight. But there was only one person in the room, and they clearly weren’t prepared for a fight. There was a woman sitting in the corner. Her face was bloodied and her hands were tied behind her back. Some of the blood from her face had mattered in her dark hair at her brow. Fresh blood had trickled onto the old carpet, and there were streams of it running down the woman’s arm. The woman looked up to Rachel with wide eyes—eye that were blackened and bruised. There was a cloth gag around her mouth, which explained why the whimpers and her voice had been so muffled. She—
A prickle ran up Rachels’ spine, the hairs at the back of her neck standing on end. She turned around just in time to see a man lunging at her. She sidestepped the lunge and as she did, in. ablur of motion she just barely had time to register that the man had a knife. As she regained her feet and planted them firmly along the floor, she also saw that the man was indeed Carl Webber.
Furious and loaded with adrenaline, Rachel was finally able to deliver the right-handed jab she'd had coiled up for the past ten seconds or so. But at the same time, Webber lashed out blindly with his knife. The blade caught Rachel across the top of her wrist, taking away a good amount of the force behind the punch. Still, it landed, and when it did, blood from her wrist speckled Rachel's hand.
She drew her hand away, terrified that he’d cut deep right across an artery. Her blood was thrumming, positively spilling out of the wound. Webber took advantage of the situation and lashed out again, this time aiming for her stomach. He was wiry and quick, but he was also essentially telegraphing each attack. Rachel was not only able to dodge it, but she grabbed his right arm and twisted it hard and she fell to her knees and slammed Webber down to the floor. He reached out and grabbed her, carrying him with her, the blade of the knife nearly lashing into her face. She immediately lifted her left arm up to drive the elbow into his back but when she did, she realized she’d perhaps hit the floor to hard. Something flared up in pain in her side—a rib, she thought.
