Chapter Forty-Six
Detective Grant had paid close attention to Mimi when she’d come to his office.
He’d been happy to see her, and had wanted her to stay, to visit.
Now he recognized Mimi’s purse, sitting atop a chair in Jackson’s office.
He opened the top of the fabric bag and withdrew a yellow, leather wallet.
He looked at the photo of Mimi on her driver’s license, noted the muted pink of her lipstick, the glint in her eye.
A gentle tug pulled at his heart. He flipped the plastic photo holder and came upon a photo of her and Kara sitting on the grass.
The edges were worn, cracks in the paper barely visible, lining their legs like spider webs.
He smiled, flipping to the next photo. An image of Ted stared back at him.
His jaw tensed, and the ends of his lips drew into a clenched line.
If Mimi was in trouble, he’d find her. He’d do what Ted could not.
“Got something?” Mark asked.
He clasped the wallet shut. “Nah. It’s Mimi’s.”
“So, she’s here.” He looked around the office, ran his hand through his hair. “Whaddaya’ think?”
Detective Grant breathed a loud sigh. He looked around the small office.
There was no evidence of a scuffle. Grant picked up the blueprints of the plant, his trained eye quickly noting the entrances, the basement, and the sub-basement.
He reached for the phone on the desk, pressing the receiver to his ear.
No dial tone. Jackson’s coat hung on a hook on the back of the door.
No sign of an incident. Kara was missing.
Mimi had come to the plant and was somewhere, he assumed, in the building.
Where was Jackson? What the hell had happened to them?
He thought of the body on the roof, and a pang of worry shot through his gut.
A distant, familiar noise echoed below them.
Grant’s head spun toward Mark. Their eyes locked.
“Gunshot,” they said in unison.
Grant pushed past Mark just as thunder crashed above, illuminating the interior of the plant, and vanishing as quickly as it had come. Grant descended the stairs two at a time. He wasn’t sure where the sound had come from, but he was dead set on finding out.
Grant was halfway across the walkway to the second set of stairs, listening to Mark ramble on about their inability to reach the station for backup. “Shut up already. Don’t you think I know the risks?”
Grant headed down the next set of stairs, then inched along the wall, gun at the ready. Mark followed close behind, gun up, rubbing his ear every few seconds.
Rain pelted the windows behind them. Grant edged his way to the end of the wall and peered around the corner.
A few feet before him was a grating, open to the floor below.
He had to get there without being seen or heard.
If Greer was in the basement, he couldn’t risk being seen as he passed above.
He pointed his free hand in the direction of the tanks against the opposite wall.
Mark nodded, bent over, and came next to him, his back to the wall.
Grant took one more look around the edge, then lifted his chin toward Mark, indicating he was clear.
Mark dashed across the floor. Grant followed, his legs spread wide, his gun held out before him, moving from side to side in even, paced motions.
Mark slipped behind the tank. Grant disappeared behind another, his chest lifting and falling with each breath.
Where the hell was Greer? He listened. Nothing called for his attention.
There were no more gunshots. Had they heard a gunshot?
He wanted this too badly. He wanted to find Mimi, to be her hero, and to save Kara.
What was wrong with him? She was a happily married woman.
The faint sound of water filtered up through the grate.
Grant’s eyes shot from side to side in the massive, empty plant.
He crouched a few feet from the grate, leaning back and looking as far as the dim light would allow.
Nothing. He moved back to the wall. Three hallways shot off from the open floor.
Grant had always followed the top-down procedure in buildings, but his gut was telling him to head down to the basement.
“Call for backup again.”
“Phone’s busted. The storm blew it out the last time I tried, remember?” Mark stood just behind the tank, a few feet from where Grant crouched.
Grant stood and reached his hand out. “Gimme the phone.”
Mark handed it over.
Grant pushed the autodial to his office. The keypad remained dark. The line was dead. “Gimme your phone,” he said anxiously, shoving his phone into his pocket.
Mark’s phone was dead, too. The storm had knocked out the cell service.
“Let’s go,” Grant demanded. For the first time, Grant noticed a fetid odor. He narrowed his eyes, trying to place the smell.
“What?” Mark followed Grant’s eyes toward the ductwork. “The smell? You just notice that?”
Grant didn’t respond.
“Smells like the lightning fried something.”
“That’s not an electrical smell.” Recognition perched on the edge of his mind. His mind grasped for the answer, but it was just out of reach. He turned his focus back to finding Mimi, which made him think of Ted. “Ted might be in the building.”
“What?”
“I saw him from the roof. He was heading for the building.”
Mark made a disgruntled noise. “What? Why didn’t you say something? Jesus, now he’s at risk.”
Grant knew he was right, but on the roof, he’d had to make a decision: holler down and argue with Ted, or work his way toward Greer.
“It’s his wife,” Grant said with disdain.
Had his own motives been selfish? Had he let Ted go in knowing he could get hurt?
He didn’t have time to analyze his reasoning—and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
“All right, let’s see,” he whispered. “We’ve got Jackson and Mimi missing.
Ted in the building, maybe, and Greer. If it’s Greer. It could be someone else all together.”
“What’re the chances of that?”
“Slim to none. And Kara’s a big mystery.”
“The gunshot.”
Grant tried the phone again. No service. “Here’s the plan. We check out this level, then the next. You hear anything?”
Mark shook his head.
Grant had surveyed the blueprints. He knew the only way to find them was to find Greer, and to do that, he needed ten guys, armed and dangerous, to spread out and cover all floors at once.
For the first time, he wished the FBI were here.
For now, he and Agnew would have to do the best they could.
The shot had come from below—somewhere in the bowels of the building.
Had Greer shot Mimi, or Jackson? Did Ted have a gun?
There were too many questions, and they were sitting ducks.
What if Greer had booby-trapped the plant?
He should have taken action the minute Mimi had come to see him.
Hell, he should have followed up on the PFA long ago.
The interior corridor was dark. There were no windows in the outer offices to shed even a modicum of light.
Grant moved slowly, one arm running along the wall for guidance, the other blindly holding his gun before him.
They’d found the bathrooms, both empty, and were winding their way through the darkness like mice in a maze.
“This is insane. They’re not this way. We’d hear something.”
Grant knew he was right. He stopped walking and turned around. “Back to the center, then down the other hall to the right.”
Mark retreated. “I’m telling ya’, they’re in the basement.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Where would you be? The guy can’t go unnoticed. If he does have Jackson and Mimi, then where else could he be? He can’t know if more employees are coming into work. He wouldn’t take the chance of being seen.”
Grant mulled over Mark’s logic. It made total sense, much as he hated giving in to the young sergeant, who already had a big black mark on his file.
“Come on.” Grant pushed past him and headed for the wall of electronics. He stared at the mechanical monstrosity, the darkened lights, the multitude of switches. To the right was a lever that begged to be pulled down. “Know anything about this stuff?”
Mark shook his head. “Wouldn’t chance it, either.”
A shuffling sound below them sent a spear through Grant’s nerves. They spun around, each wielding his gun, crouching slightly, legs apart. Grant pointed to the grate, a few feet away. They moved slowly, quietly, toward the grate. Mark turned from side to side, keeping Grant covered as they moved.
The shuffling sound continued, moving away from where they stood.
The sound of the rain faded away, replaced with the pounding of Grant’s heart in his ears.
His arms tensed as he listened. He desperately wanted to call out Mimi’s name, but he knew better.
He bit back the urge and scanned the darkness for steps to the basement.
There were none in sight. The shuffling was fading quickly, moving deeper into the viscera of the building.
Grant felt something he hadn’t felt in years: fear.
He didn’t fear for his own life, but he feared for Mimi’s.
They would never be a couple, he’d come to accept that years ago.
He’d settle for just knowing she was nearby, seeing her around town, at community events, or in his office.
Wait—his office. She’d come to him. Of course, why hadn’t he seen that before?
She hadn’t gone to Ted, she’d come to him.
Maybe those old feelings hadn’t diminished after all.
Grant headed toward the elevators, his gun remaining trained on the level below. Mark followed.
The elevators were dead. The overhead light quickly dissipated, leaving the bottom half of the hallway dark. Grant followed the ceiling light, looking for a doorway. There had to be an egress to the floor below somewhere around there.
Mark bumped Grant’s arm with his elbow, motioning toward the opposite side of the hall. They hurried across the concrete floor and found a closed door. Mark positioned himself to the left of Grant, his gun aiming in the darkness toward the door. He’d have a clear shot once the door was open.
Grant looked at him, measuring his readiness, and preparing his own courage. He reached for the doorknob and wrapped his palm around the cold metal. He gave Mark a last look, nodded, and turned the knob.
It didn’t turn.
Grant pulled. The door didn’t give. He pushed.
It was locked. He shot a look toward Mark, who eyed his gun.
He couldn’t shoot the door open. They had no idea where Mimi and Jackson were, or who, if anyone, had been shot.
He assumed the worst. If it had been Greer who was shot, then surely he’d hear Mimi and Jackson scrambling to get out of the building—unless they’d also been killed.
Ted lay on the floor in a pain-filled fog, his attacker standing beside him.
Who was he, and why was he after them? What did this have to do with his wife and stepdaughter?
The thought sickened him. Blood pooled beneath him, oozing toward his face.
The pain in his side had initially sent his mind into a blackened spiral.
When he’d come to, he’d immediately heard his attacker’s labored breaths.
Ted had the presence of mind not to move, and to let his eyes remain at half-mast. He could hear the man wiping his face, sniffling, as if he’d been crying.
That couldn’t be. Ted was sure it was his mind playing tricks on him, but he remained still, his breathing shallow.
The pain had subsided to a constant, sharp pain, as if he were lying on a knife.
Just as he was beginning to doubt his ability to remain still a moment longer, the man turned to leave.
Ted watched as he lumbered down the hall, disappearing into the darkness.
What had he been thinking? Ted wondered.
He was an accountant, not a vigilante. The metallic smell of blood reached his nose, and he knew he had to stop the bleeding if he was to save his own life.
He didn’t dare move, for fear the man would come back.
He stared into the blackness, every second feeling like an hour, every moment driving the fear of death further into his nerves.
Chills ran through his limbs. He’d heard of people getting cold before dying. He didn’t want to die.
An image of Mimi swam into his mind, bringing with it a surge of adrenaline.
He had to get up. He had to find her. Ted lowered his hand, which had been outstretched along the floor above his head, and found, with trembling fingers, the open gash near his side.
Panic flooded his veins at the feel of the wet, hot blood oozing from his body.
He reached behind him, still lying prone.
Blood oozed through his fingers as he felt along his back—another hole.
The bullet had gone right through his side.
His broken hand throbbed. Darkness clouded his thoughts.
He fought to remain aware and concentrated on breathing, his eyes trained on the darkness.
He had to get up. He had to stop the bleeding.
Ted closed his eyes and gathered his strength.
He knew nothing about anatomy. They didn’t cover that in business classes.
His experience could be compiled into a neat little list of suffering a broken finger in grade school, and a few shaving nicks.
If he moved, would it do something bad? Would the bleeding worsen?
How could he fasten a tourniquet to his side?
His heart raced. He had to calm down. He closed his eyes, breathing steadily, and tried to come up with a plan.
He was in no shape to save Mimi from that maniac, but he might be her only hope.
Detective Grant was on the roof, and might not reach her in time.
He had to find her. A surge of bravery lifted him to his feet.
He staggered, crashing into the wall. The pain in his side and back radiated down his legs and up into his chest. He clenched his teeth against it, and removed his blood-soaked jacket and long-sleeved shirt.
He wrapped the shirt around his waist, covering the gunshot wound on both his front and back, and pulled the sleeves so tightly together, he could hardly breathe.
Best to stop the blood. Blood quickly saturated the blue, cotton shirt.
His wet, bloody jacket was his only means of warmth.
He slipped his arms into the sleeves, flinching at the frigid temperature of the material.
He dropped his eyes to the puddle of blood on the floor. Feeling dizzy, he leaned against the wall, then remembered the gun. He scanned the floor in the darkness. The gun was gone.