Part 43 (1/2)

(II).

It felt like a great, wobbly bubble rising from deep water. When Kathleen awoke, she thought she was dead. She remembered in guillotinelike s.n.a.t.c.hes: the room, Maxwell's entrails and limbs strew about the floor, then Sammy- Killing me, she thought. she thought.

Pain burned at the back of her neck; her brain had winked out like a light. But-I'm not dead, But-I'm not dead, she thought. How could she be? She lay face down in the hall. Alive. she thought. How could she be? She lay face down in the hall. Alive.

In increments, she was able to lean up, look around.

What she saw seemed like a loud, thunking nightmare.

Two dark figures, one tall, one short, struggled behind her in the hall. ”Daddy!” shrieked the taller. ”You're back!” The smaller figure was but a puppet thrown to and fro against the wall. Each impact of the skinny form resounded through the house. It was like watching a dog shake a ragdoll in its jaws. THUNK...THUNK...THUNK...

Then the shorter figure collapsed.

”Aw, G.o.d, baby, please. You don't understand.”

The tall figure leaned over, tremoring in some weird form of delight. ”Daddy's back, Mother! Look! He's come back to us!”

”Baby, please, I love you,” croaked her uncle's wasted voice. ”You're my child.”

”Come into Daddy's Room,” he was answered.

”No, Jesus Christ nooooooooooo nooooooooooo-”

”Come in with us...”

Sammy, then, was dragged into the charnel room.

The door slammed shut.

Kathleen tried to rise but then pa.s.sed out again.

Chapter 40.

(I).

Spence whispered into his Motorola, ”I want the biggest signal 13 in the history of the law enforcement.”

”What's that, Lieutenant?”

”Scramble every car, every helicopter, everything you got. I want every TAC guy in the city here in five minutes.”

The pause reflected the dispatcher's confusion. ”I don't get it. What's going o-”

”Just do it,” Spence ordered.

”But...why?”

”Shade,” Spence whispered. ”I got no idea how, but Shade found out where the killer lives.”

”You mean...your psycho?”

”That's right.” Spence gulped. Only now was it sinking in. ”This is the killer's house,” he said.

”On the way.”

Spence clipped the radio back to his belt. His back to the house, he checked his Smith snub in the moonlight, checked his speedloaders, and took several deep breaths. Darkness hung still in the cramped backyard. Spence wondered how many bodies were entombed here.

The window was too high to get in quietly. He didn't really want to go in that way anyhow; he remembered the quick glimpses: all the blood and entrails, sawed limbs. There'd even been something on the floor that looked like a steppedon brain. Poor f.u.c.kin' Platt, Poor f.u.c.kin' Platt, he thought. he thought. What a way to go. What a way to go.

He crept back around the side. The foundationlevel bas.e.m.e.nt windows were dark, and one, tested by Spence's foot, was not locked. He knelt and s.h.i.+ned his penlight in, saw nothing but blocks of scary black. Here goes, Here goes, he thought. He ought to wait for the TAC teams but- he thought. He ought to wait for the TAC teams but-Shade's in the house somewhere. Every second I wait is another second she can die in. He squeezed through the little open window, lowered himself down, and- He squeezed through the little open window, lowered himself down, and- Good G.o.d...

-almost threw up from the stench. Meaty, dank rot. Sweat, blood, excrement. His penlight found a caged bulb hanging. He yanked the string and filled the bas.e.m.e.nt with light.

And stared.

A starved, redhaired woman had been chained naked across a bench. Her skin gave off a tint like spoiled cream.

Eyes glued shut. Mouth closed by surgical st.i.tches. She was so skinny the slats of her ribs looked like fissures.

Dead, he concluded, applying a finger to her jugular. he concluded, applying a finger to her jugular. It was Creamy, It was Creamy, he realized, he realized, 'Rome's hooker. Starved to death down here. 'Rome's hooker. Starved to death down here. That's how the killer had thrown him offtrack. Leaving the prost.i.tute's prints, and strands of her hair on the evidence. It seemed brilliantly macabre... That's how the killer had thrown him offtrack. Leaving the prost.i.tute's prints, and strands of her hair on the evidence. It seemed brilliantly macabre...

Another workbench against the cinderblock wall. Bloodencrusted tools lay in disarray. Buckets and plastic garbage bags-Spence frowned into each one. Clumped blood and sewage filled the buckets; b.l.o.o.d.y clothes filled the bags. And shoved under the bench...

A shoed foot.

Then the foot moved.

Spence dragged out a figure lashed by ropes into a fetal position. The figure trembled. Still alive, Still alive, Spence thought in a grim rejoice. The long blond hair gave it away. Spence thought in a grim rejoice. The long blond hair gave it away.

It's Platt.

Eyes glazed by terror bugged up. Spence untied the knots, peeled off the duct tape which sealed the poet's lips.

”I believe in G.o.d now,” came Maxwell Platt's desiccated whisper.

”How bad are you hurt?”

”I'm all right, I think. I think she was saving me for later.”

”Okay.” Spence helped him up, crutched him toward the window. ”Everything's gonna be all right,” he said. ”I want you to get out of here right now. Don't make any noise, just get out. A whole s.h.i.+tload of cops are on the way. Get out and start running, and don't stop.”