Part 37 (1/2)

Silence.

Anderson turned around, pointing his flashlight back the way he'd come.

”Mike?” he said.

He peered into the darkness, trying to make out the shapes that were just beyond his flashlight beam.

”Officer Henninger?”

No answer.

”Hey guys?”

He trotted a few steps in the direction he had come and emerged into the open area where he had last seen the two patrolmen.

”Hey! Where are you guys?”

Nothing.

He turned his flashlight in every direction, but saw absolutely nothing-only metal and dirt and trash.

”Mike?” He was yelling now. ”Officer Henninger?”

Still nothing.

He felt the heat of panic rising in his cheeks. A darkness had settled over the corridor. It was a darkness so heavy the flashlight beam could barely reach into it.

”Hey guys?”

His voice sounded small and weak in the darkness. He felt the sudden urge to run, but fought it down. That wouldn't do here, not as dark as it was. He'd pitch over the edge of a catwalk and drop G.o.d knows how far down to his death. Probably find out what happened to all the junkies who didn't make it out of here alive.

Out of the corner of his eye, something moved.

He spun on his heel and turned his flashlight beam down one of the corridors.

”Mike? Officer Henninger?”

He took a few steps into the darkness, walking slowly, his right hand resting on his gun. Except for some trash and old rotten blankets and a few makes.h.i.+ft lean-tos, the corridor was empty. At least the little of it he could see was empty. He followed the path to another corner, rounded it, and stopped. His mouth fell open in shock. There, standing not fifteen feet from him, was Bobby Cantrell. He was nude, his chest st.i.tched in black from his autopsy, but it was Bobby Cantrell. He stared Anderson square in the eye, his face an absolute blank, no emotion whatsoever.

”Bobby?” Anderson said.

He was surprised he wasn't scared. Confused, a little dizzy, and he was even a little giddy at seeing his friend again. But he wasn't scared.

Cantrell said nothing. His eyes gave away nothing. They stared into Anderson's, but there was no recognition there, no mirror of the emotion Anderson was feeling. It was like looking into a bottomless hole.

”Bobby?”

Cantrell turned and walked off into the darkness. Anderson trotted after him, his flashlight bouncing around the man's bare shoulders and back and he called out his name, begged him to stop.

”Jesus Christ, Bobby. Stop, would you?”

He never even stopped to think that this couldn't be happening. That part of him that knew this man was dead, that had seen the body carved up on the autopsy table, was silent. Instead there was simply a need. He needed to talk to the man. He needed to hear his friend's voice, and that need was too powerful to shake off.

”Wait a minute, Bobby. Stop, please.”

But the dead man kept on walking. He stepped over debris and stepped through holes in the walls and even climbed a ladder onto a catwalk like it was perfectly natural. He didn't need a light to show him the way. He moved like a man at perfect ease with his surroundings. They emerged onto a catwalk, away from the rest of the superstructure. They were walking towards the dark gray smokestacks that loomed over the rest of the factory. The catwalk was rickety and whole sections were missing, eaten through by the rust. It leaned precariously to the right, and there was no handrail.

Had Anderson been looking anywhere but at Cantrell's back, he would have seen the ground was at least sixty feet below them. Had he not been so lost in the haze of confused feelings that had overtaken him, he would have felt a rough, hot wind whipping dust all around him, rippling his white golf s.h.i.+rt and khaki slacks like a flag in a storm. But he didn't see any of that. All he saw was what had been ripped from his heart, and he walked where his dead friend walked, followed where he led, calling his name the whole way.

Years of decay and neglect had collapsed an entire section of the catwalk immediately ahead of him, just beyond a metal stairwell. The collapsed section was a ma.s.sive tangle of rods and wires and metal lattice works far below him, and had he looked down he would have seen it there, yawning up at him. Cantrell paid no attention to the missing section. He walked across the air to the middle of the gap between the sections and turned around. He beckoned to Anderson.

He followed eagerly. He didn't see anything but the dead man, and he was oblivious to the shouting beneath him.

Paul was the first one up the stairwell. The detective was already dangerously close to the edge. Another few steps and he'd go tumbling to his death. Paul watched him getting closer and knew this was what was supposed to happen, that his father intended for this man to die in this way. He knew it in the same way he had known Magdalena was meant to die.

Though now he was not so sure. He hadn't felt the need to stop Magdalena's death from happening. She had known what she was doing when she defied his father. This man, he didn't know the truth.

He and Mike had been searching for him for the last ten minutes. Or rather, Mike had been searching for him. Paul knew exactly where he was. He had climbed the stairs to this point knowing that the detective would be here. Now he was only a few feet away from him, fighting with himself about what to do. Mike was still below, yelling up at Anderson to stop. Paul glanced down at Mike, then back to the detective. He watched the man staggering forward in a trance, his flashlight swinging uselessly by his side, and he said, ”Stop, Anderson. Come on, hear me. Stop.”

But the detective kept walking.

”Stop him, Paul!” Mike shouted. ”Stop him!”

Mike's voice was like a siren in his mind. It shook him loose from his own trance, and he ran forward just as Anderson stepped over the edge of the catwalk.

Paul dove for him and caught him by the foot. Most of Paul's upper body was hanging over the edge. He held Anderson's ankle in his right hand, the metal lattice of the catwalk with his left. A furious voice in his head was ordering him to let the man fall, to just let go. Drop him, d.a.m.n it!

Paul felt the man's foot sliding through his fingers. He could feel his body armor sliding over the jagged edge of the catwalk, the b.u.t.tons popping off his s.h.i.+rt one by one. Anderson was dead weight. His body spun like the corpse of a hanged man, rotating slowly one way then the other, a plaything in the breeze. Paul was breathing hard now. His eyes were rolling from Anderson to the twisted metal on the ground below them. He heard Mike yelling.

”Help me,” he yelled, and as he did he felt his voice growing stronger. ”Mike, I'm slipping.”

”I've got you,” Mike said. And the next moment Paul felt Mike's powerful grip on the back of his gun belt. ”Just hold him tight,” he said, his voice strangely quiet and calm. ”Don't let go. I've got you.”

Paul groaned from the pain in his arm. He could feel his muscles screaming at him, almost like a force was trying to pry his fingers loose.

”I can't hold him!” Paul screamed.

”Don't let go, Paul,” Mike said.

Mike ran his hand down Paul's arm and grabbed hold of his wrist. He pulled up, then grabbed hold of Anderson's leg with both hands.

”Stay still,” he said to Paul, and a moment later was hoisting Anderson's inert body over Paul's back.

Mike pulled Paul up onto the catwalk next, and afterwards, they sat there, inches from the edge, looking at each other. Paul was breathing hard, his eyes half-closed. He was exhausted. Mike had Anderson's unconscious body across his legs. He was breathing hard, too.