Part 63 (1/2)
But there was a place sc.r.a.ped free of rust on the gate hinges.
Somebody's been in here, and recently. f.u.c.k it. If I don't go in, I'll be up all night wis.h.i.+ng I had.
He drove slowly around the compound, flas.h.i.+ng his flashlight into dark corners, wis.h.i.+ng that he had with him the six-cell flashlight he carried in his unmarked car, rather than the little two-celler he kept in the glove compartment of the Chevrolet.
Zilch.
But then the headlights, not the flashlight, picked up tire tracks in the mud. The mud hadn't had a chance to dry completely.
Harry deduced, Some son of a b.i.t.c.h has been in here, and in the last couple of days. Some son of a b.i.t.c.h has been in here, and in the last couple of days.
Probably the bureaucrat.
But maybe not.
He stopped the Chevrolet and got out and examined the tire tracks sufficiently to determine they were truck tires, light truck tires. From a pickup truck, not pa.s.senger tires.
What the h.e.l.l is going on around here?
He walked to the nearest building and shone his light on the exposed hinges of the steel door. Bright scratches in the rusted metal told him the door had recently been opened.
He pushed the door open and went inside.
He walked down the corridor.
The smell of feces and urine a.s.sailed his nostrils.
Some f.u.c.king b.u.m is in here. Or was in here. I hope was. The last thing I want right now is to find some dead b.u.m in here. I'd never get home tonight. What a smart man would do would be turn around and get his a.s.s out of here.
There were three doors opening off the corridor. Two of the doors were open.
In one of the rooms, his nostrils found the source of the smell of feces.
And a pile of clothes.
Nice clothes. Not a b.u.m's clothes.
What the h.e.l.l is going down in here?
The third door was closed, with latches that reminded Cronin of his time as Fireman First Cla.s.s, USN.
The last time he had been in here, all the doors had been open.
Harry worked the levers and pushed the door inward.
Somebody's taken a dump in here, too.
What the f.u.c.k is that?
”Listen, we have to talk!” a naked man sitting against the wall with an overcoat over his shoulders said plaintively. ”Please, let's talk!”
”I'm a police officer,” Harry said. ”Everything's going to be all right.”
”Thank G.o.d!” the man said.
”You want to tell me what happened?”
”You're a policeman?”
”Detective Cronin, South Detectives.”
”Look, all I want to do is go home. Where's my clothes?”
”What did you say your name was?”
”All I want to do is go home.”
”I don't think that's going to be possible right now,” Harry said. ”Now, what did you say your name was?”
”I don't have to tell you a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing!” the naked man said with absolutely no confidence, but a certain desperation, in his tone.
What the f.u.c.k do I do now? I'm off-duty. I've got no authority inside that f.u.c.king fence. And, since I'm in my own car, I don't even have a G.o.dd.a.m.n radio to call this in!
Matt Payne, who had been watching a program of television commercials interrupted by three-minute segments of a John Wayne leading the cavalry against the Chiricahua Apache movie, jumped out of bed when there was a knock at the door, went to it, stood behind it, and pulled it open first a crack, then all the way.
”It's not that I am not delighted to see you, but does your mommy know where you are, little girl?”
”I hope not,” Susan said. ”Would it be too much to ask you to put your shorts on?”
”Don't trust yourself, eh?”
”Oh, G.o.d!”
”What did you do, sneak out?”
He went to the chest of drawers, found a pair of Jockey shorts, and pulled them on.
”Okay?”
”Thank you.”
”Under the circ.u.mstances, I suppose a blow-”
”I've heard that before, Matt-my G.o.d, you can be vulgar!-and I don't think it's funny.”
”Why do I have this unpleasant feeling that we are about to have a very serious conversation?”
”Because we are,” Susan said. ”I've been thinking.”