Chapter 93
MY HEART WAS racing a little bit as we got closer to the concrete factory. I wasn’t sure I could explain this whole incident to my boss. I was letting it play out to see what happened.
Still, I was glad Cindy was driving. She had stomped on the gas pretty hard.
After we reached the end of Willow Pass Road, we took two gravel roads until we had the factory in sight.
The main structure looked almost like a medieval fortress.
It was an uneven and very tall building with a dilapidated fence around it.
A long chain-link fence surrounded the property.
It too had been neglected for so long only about half of it was still standing.
This was exactly the kind of place where people dumped bodies.
I turned to Cindy. “You talked to a potential human-trafficking suspect alone, all the way out here?”
Cindy said, “It sounds a lot worse the way you’re saying it. I was careful. And I talked to him outside, not in that building.”
I saved my scolding for later.
On my phone, I looked again at the map Jake had sent me. Yup, we were right on the money. Eric—or his phone—was here, within yards of where we’d parked.
Cindy let out an excited yap. “Look, there’s Eric’s Jeep Cherokee.”
I recognized the white Jeep from the time we’d visited Eric’s house.
It looked out of place here next to the dingy building.
An old pickup truck sat next to it. The wind kicked up a little bit.
A few dust devils sprang up in the breeze.
It caused a haze to settle around the building.
I didn’t know if that was from cement particles or just general dust and dirt.
Cindy bailed out of the car like she was in the SWAT unit. I rushed to catch up with her. “Hold on, Cindy. We need to work out a plan.” We both paused in front of an old rusty gate.
“I’m sorry. I just don’t want Eric to do anything stupid. I should’ve called someone last night. I feel like it’s all my fault.”
Before I could say anything, I heard shouts from inside the facility.
Two people were yelling. I went against everything I’d just told Cindy.
I rushed through the old gate and toward the battered metal door that led to the interior of the factory, yanking it open.
I was unprepared for the change in light.
Between the dust and the filthy windows that let almost no light into the building, I banged into a couple of barrels before I got my footing completely.
Cindy followed along behind me. She had her phone in her hand, ready to snap some photos or video. I agreed that some visual evidence might be useful later, so I didn’t say anything.
I glanced again at the map on my own phone, then slipped the phone into my pocket as we drew closer to the sounds of the argument.
We passed through a giant open roll-up door into a room that stretched for what looked like a full city block.
The roof was forty feet off the ground. The place was a spiderweb of aging catwalks and giant metal vats.
We immediately located the sources of the argument.
Standing on a catwalk that ran over three enormous empty vats were two men.
It took me a moment to recognize Eric Snaff.
He was dressed in old jeans and a T-shirt.
Giant sweat stains extended from under his arms and over his chest. The moisture had caused some of the cement dust to cake on his shirt.
He looked nothing like the well-dressed, handsome man I’d met at Claire’s award party.
The other man, presumably Jason Cortlandt, appeared to be in his late thirties, and looked more like he belonged here. Cement dust seemed to have permanently soaked into the crags in his face. He had his hands out in front of him. Then I saw why.
Eric Snaff stood gripping an automatic pistol, pointing it at the man.