Part 6 (1/2)

”You don't sound worried, though.”

”No need, really. They were kicking his a.s.s, sure, but it wasn't like he was just sitting there taking it, you know? I mean, this guy's a mean motherf.u.c.ker. The guy learned to kill people in the state prison at Beeville. By the end of the fight Collins' uniform s.h.i.+rt was hanging around his waist like a hula skirt.”

Paul nodded. He'd heard of fights like that before, but hadn't been in one himself. His instructors at the Academy had told him they didn't happen all that often.

”You said they froze, though?”

”Yeah,” Mike said. ”They did. They had everything they needed for a search warrant. The girl screaming would have been great probable cause in and of itself. They could have established everything they needed right there.”

Paul saw the problem immediately. ”They went back in, didn't they?”

Mike nodded. ”Collins did. Wes still had Hector Avalos face down in the gra.s.s. But Collins went in and started checking out the stolen property. Collins, he was looking at all that jewelry and thinking he'd just caught a capital murder suspect. It doesn't get that much bigger than that. He had casino eyes, you know?”

Not really, Paul thought. It seemed absolutely stupid to him that Collins would risk a good arrest by doing what was, at best, a questionable search.

But Mike turned to Paul and his smile leveled out. ”It wasn't as bad as it sounds,” he said.

Once again, Paul got the feeling that Mike had read his mind.

It's going to be interesting, Paul thought, partnering with somebody who could read him so well.

”Really,” Mike said. ”It wasn't. They had all the elements of a good arrest. They just needed somebody to articulate it for them. You know, make it fly?”

Paul was about ready to agree, just out of politeness, when the radio's emergency tone went off.

Instantly, he and Mike broke off their conversation and listened in. The dispatcher said, ”Three-zero-zero-three Morgan Rollins Road at the Morgan Rollins Iron Works.” She sounded implacably calm. ”I have Eighty-five Fourteen hitting his e-tone, not answering his radio. Possible officer-in-trouble. Clearing all but East.”

The dispatcher cleared from the all-routes channel and was speaking only to her guys on East again.

”I've got everybody a.s.signed to a call right now, guys,” she said. ”I need somebody to go ten-eight. I'll take any unit.”

”s.h.i.+t,” Mike muttered.

”That's us, isn't it?” Paul said. ”That's our district.”

”Yeah,” Mike said, gripping the steering wheel. ”We're not even halfway back yet.” He mashed the throttle down to the floor and within seconds the Crown Victoria was up to its top speed, the car heaving up and down over the uneven pavement like a speed boat skipping over waves. Again Paul felt his stomach rising into in throat. His fingers clutched at the edge of the seat, at the door handle, anything to steady himself.

Mike keyed the radio. ”44-70, show us on the way.”

”10-4,” the dispatcher responded.

Everybody was so calm, Paul thought. Their voices never cracked. He, on the other hand, could barely focus. He tried to picture a map of their district in his mind, but couldn't locate the Morgan Rollins Iron Works in it.

Paul looked over at Mike. His face was suffused with a sort suppressed tension, but there was no weakness, no self-doubt.

”Who's Eight-five Fourteen?” he said.

”Narcotics,” Mike answered. ”Hold on, okay?”

Mike banked the car toward an exit ramp so sharply that Paul came dangerously close to vomiting. He held on to the edge of the seat, willing himself not to close his eyes, because he knew if he did he'd throw up all over himself. The engine whined loudly and Paul gripped the seat even tighter.

Paul's head rolled to one side and he made the mistake of looking out at the ruined buildings and clapboard houses they pa.s.sed. He was only dimly aware of the radio chatter. The voices merged with the wailing sirens so that, to Paul at least, it sounded like a blur of noise. He was too frightened by their speed to untangle anything he heard.

And then they left the street lights behind them, and all that remained was the empty black of vacant lots and a ribbon of a dark uneven road ahead. Toward the end of that road, beyond a line of trees, Paul thought he could make out three crumbling smokestacks rising up into the air.

”That's it there,” Mike said. He grabbed the radio again. ”44-70, we're coming up on it now. We should be ten-six in just a moment.”

”Acknowledged, 44-70,” the dispatcher answered.

A voice Paul didn't recognize came on the radio. ”Hawkeye Bravo, we're ten-six over the location. We've got a visual on 44-70's approach.”

”That's the helicopter,” Mike said.

Paul nodded. He craned his neck forward to try to look up through the winds.h.i.+eld into the night sky, but he couldn't see the helicopter.

”10-4, Hawkeye Bravo,” the dispatcher said. ”Can you see Eighty-five Fourteen?”

”Negative,” the helicopter pilot answered. ”We're searching with the FLIR cameras now.”

”10-4,” the dispatcher answered. ”Let us know. All officers, be advised, Hawkeye Bravo is ten-six.”

And then the ruins of the Morgan Rollins Iron Works rose up before them, and had Paul been driving, he thought for sure he would have slammed on the brakes, officer in trouble or not. The ruins were-his mind groped for the right word-vile. Yes, that was it, vile. That is a bad place, he thought, a diseased, insane, wretched place. Don't go any further, his mind insisted. Don't, for the love of G.o.d, don't.

But they were already skidding through the remnants of the old iron gate at the entrance, pa.s.sing a parked Malibu-the detective's car, Paul thought-and climbing a cracked and winding road bordered by overgrown shrubs. They slid to a stop near a twisted pile of metal blocking a rickety staircase that led up into a black confusion of catwalks and loose cables and rusted pipes.

Mike didn't bother to shut off the car. He pushed his door open and was running before Paul even had his seatbelt off. Paul groped at the release for a moment before freeing himself, then ran after Mike. For a moment, Paul thought they were going up the staircase, though he didn't see how. It was far too packed in with debris. Then he froze again, something lurching in the pit of his stomach like a hand had reached inside him and squeezed. This place, this old moldering pile of sc.r.a.p iron, had caught him. His gaze wandered upwards, searching the darkened upper reaches of the superstructure, trying to isolate exactly what it was that frightened him so about this place. He felt his lips tingle and grow cold. An undeniable dread was worming its way through him, and it occurred to him that worming was the perfect word for it, for that dread was a living thing. He was sure of that. It was as real and as alive as the voice in his head, the one pleading with him to turn back, to get far away from there.

”Move it!” Mike shouted.

Paul shook himself. Mike was slipping into a narrow gap in the twisted metal at the base of the stairs. He's not going up them, Paul told himself. He's going around them. He knows this place.

”Come on,” Mike said to him. ”You have to stay close. You can get lost in here.” Then he keyed up his radio. ”44-70, be advised, we're entering the structure. Ask Hawkeye Bravo if he can give me a visual on something in here.”

”10-4,” the dispatcher said. ”Everybody hold the air. I got 44-70 out on officers in trouble. Hawkeye Bravo, you copy on that visual?”

A short pause.

”Hawkeye Bravo, 10-4, Ma'am. We've got 44-70 and his partner on the FLIR. I've got faint heat signatures up near the round room, but nothing moving-Wait! Hold that. I got movement just south of the round room. Can't tell if it's a person or a...”

The helicopter pilot trailed off. Paul stared at his radio, waiting for more, but nothing came.

”Or a what?” he said. ”What's the round room?”

”This way,” Mike said. He had his gun in his right hand, his flashlight in his left, hands back to back in the cla.s.sical style Paul remembered from tactics training back at the Academy. He drew his own weapon, clicked on his flashlight, and followed after him.

”Middle of this place,” Mike said, glancing back over his shoulder, ”is a round room. Big place, walls are twenty feet high at least. That's what he was talking about.”