The Night Stalker_ A Novel Of Suspense Part 35

"Because we're going into a hole in the ground. You can't turn around in a confined s.p.a.ce with a shotgun. Sidearms only."

Burrell's jaw clenched, and I saw her blink.

"Anything else you'd like to share with me?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. "LeAnn told me when Heather left the house, she went to get something for Jed. I'm guessing it was food."

"So?"

"Yesterday I spoke with the father of Mary McClary, one of the victims at the landfill. He told me his daughter was looking for work, and had worked as a waitress."

"I'm still not reading you."

We came to the corner and both stopped. I was going to make Burrell understand if it was the last thing I did, and I turned so I was facing her.

"Our killer works in a restaurant," I said.

The Dodds lived in a tiny bungalow made of cinder blocks. The front yard was a jungle, the gra.s.s knee-high. I banged on the front door, and, when no one came out, checked the mailbox. It was filled with promotional flyers.

"Looks like they're away," I said.

I led Burrell to the back of the property. The lot was long and narrow, and had several ripening citrus trees. I picked up a stick and began poking at the soggy ground.

"What are we looking for?" Burrell asked.

"A septic tank," I replied.

We searched the property. Several times, I saw Burrell drop to her knees and dig in the earth, only to turn up a water sprinkler, or something hidden in the dirt. Soon we were done.

"Are you sure this is the place?" Burrell asked.

"Yes," I said. "Keep looking."

There was an art to finding a concealed s.p.a.ce, and even the best searchers missed things. I retraced my steps while tuning out the storm. Buster was lying beneath a lemon tree, and raised his head each time I pa.s.sed him.

"Some help you are," I said.

My dog let out a whine, and began to dig with his front paws. Etched in the dirt beneath the tree was the faint outline of a small door. I'd pa.s.sed the spot several times, yet somehow missed it. Kneeling, I dug my fingers into the dirt, and the door came free.

"Over here," I said.

Burrell came over, and stared into the hole with her flashlight. She pulled out her cell phone.

"I'm calling Whitley," she announced.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because he's in charge."

"Are you afraid of bringing Jed in yourself?"

"Of course not."

"Then call Whitley when you're done," I said.

Burrell acted like I'd slapped her across the face.

"You're out of line, Jack," she said.

She started to make the call. I picked Buster up in my arms, and held him over the opening. The drop looked about five feet. I lowered him as far as I could without falling in, then released him. He landed on all fours, and took off running.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

I followed my dog down the hole. I was inside an empty septic tank. The air was toxic, and I tried not to puke.

"Wait!" she said.

Burrell jumped down the hole so she was standing beside me.

"Don't do that again," she said.

I pointed at the pa.s.sageway on the other side of the tank.

"That way," I said.

"Jack, I'm warning you. Don't do that again," she said.

"Yes, ma'am."

We went down the pa.s.sageway. The ceiling was low, and we both walked like crabs. It led to another septic tank with bleached walls and breathable air. A Coleman lantern hung from the wall; beneath it several pieces of mismatched furniture were arranged like a living room. Hanging from the walls were posters of James Dean and Kurt Cobain, and I spied an old bong on the coffee table with cobwebs on it.

Burrell pointed at a black door on the other end of the tank. It had a half moon painted on it, and appeared to be a bathroom. She drew her weapon, and aimed at the door.

"Don't shoot him," I whispered.

"Don't tell me what to do," she whispered back.

"Does this look like a killer's lair?" I asked.

Burrell glanced around the tank. "No."

"Let me open the door."

"Go ahead."

I went to the door and jerked it open. The bathroom was empty.

"Where the h.e.l.l is he?" Burrell asked.

I looked around the tank. There had to be another way out, only I wasn't seeing it. Then I realized that I didn't know where Buster was.

"Where's my dog?" I asked.

"He was ahead of me, then disappeared," Burrell said.

I let out a shrill whistle. Through the walls I heard a sound that was half whine, half dying breath. I tore through the living room, and did not stop until I found a secret door hidden behind a piece of cloth painted to resemble the wall. Tearing the cloth back, I stared down another pa.s.sageway, and made out two forms at the other end: Jed Grimes, dressed in a pair of blue jeans and nothing else, and Buster. Jed had gotten a chain around my dog's neck, and was strangling him. Buster's tongue was sticking out of his mouth, his body hanging limply by Jed's side. My head sc.r.a.ped the ceiling as I ran toward them. "Let him go!" I shouted.

Jed released my dog, and scurried up a ladder against the wall. Reaching him, I grabbed his bare foot, which was dangling above me.

"He's here!" I yelled.

Jed kicked me in the face. I heard my nose break and saw pools of black before my eyes. I fell onto my dog, and tried to regain my senses. Buster lay beneath me, his body limp. I found his face in the dark, and ran my hand across it.

He was dead.

Burrell's voice brought me back to reality.

"He's getting away!"

I forced myself to stand. My head felt like a balloon, and I was having a hard time seeing clearly. Burrell stood in the pa.s.sageway with her weapon drawn. There was not enough room for her to pa.s.s, and she grabbed my shoulder and shook me.

"Wake up, Jack!" she said.

I filled my lungs with air. A ladder was attached to the wall, and I grabbed a rung and started climbing until I was standing in an unfamiliar backyard. The rain was coming down in sheets, and I spotted Jed scaling a picket fence. I took off after him.

"Jed! Stop!" I shouted.

He looked over his shoulder at me, then disappeared. I hurled my body over the fence, and landed in a flower bed. Jed was twenty feet ahead of me, and running for a gate that led to the front of the property. I yelled for him to stop, and he ignored me.

I came through the gate running as fast as my legs would go, and found Jed standing on the front lawn of the house, surrounded by five FBI agents. The agents were pointing their weapons at him, which consisted of three rifles, one shotgun, and one pistol. Jed was dancing around like a boxer, trying to find an opening to escape through.

"No!" I screamed.

One of the agents' heads snapped in my direction. It was Whitley. He was holding the automatic pistol, and had his free hand stuck in the air. When he dropped his hand, the agents were going to fire. His eyes met mine, and I saw him squint.

Whitley's arm came down as I jumped. I tackled Jed directly above the knees, and brought him down hard. Jed grunted, and I felt his body go still. I hugged the ground as bullets flew around me.

"Get up," Whitley shouted.

My ears were ringing as I rose to my feet. Whitley pulled me to the side while two of his men frisked and handcuffed Jed, who remained facedown on the ground. The air was thick with gunpowder, and I was having difficulty breathing.

"You're a stupid son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h," Whitley said.

I tasted blood, and brought my hand up to my face. It was trickling out of my left nostril. I'd gotten my nose busted a few times as a kid, and it hadn't killed me.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Whitley asked.

I shook my head. The agents pulled Jed to his feet, and walked him to the curb.

A black SUV pulled up, and Jed was hustled into the backseat. As the door was closed, his eyes met mine. He looked terrified. I hadn't wanted Jed to get shot, and although the price had been more than I'd bargained for, I'd succeeded.

"Did you find his wife or son?" Whitley asked.

I shook my head. Whitley climbed into the pa.s.senger seat of the SUV. Its tires squealed as it pulled away from the curb.

I found Burrell in the backyard next door. She was sitting on the ground and had something furry clutched in her arms that looked like a giant teddy bear.

"The FBI has Jed," I told her.

"Is he alive?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Good. Now help me."

I got up next to her, and saw that she was holding my dog.

"He's still got a pulse," she explained.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE.

I gathered up Buster in my arms, and carried him down the street. He was out cold, his breathing faint. Burrell made a call on her cell, and a police cruiser appeared. I loaded Buster into the backseat. gathered up Buster in my arms, and carried him down the street. He was out cold, his breathing faint. Burrell made a call on her cell, and a police cruiser appeared. I loaded Buster into the backseat.

"Where do you want me to take him?" the driver asked.

As a cop, I'd taken injured animals to different clinics around the county, and one clinic had stood out above the others for the care it had shown.

"Hollywood Animal Clinic on Hollywood Boulevard," I said.

"Will do," the driver said.

I watched the cruiser drive away. I'd always ridiculed people who were overly attached to their pets, but now that I was close to losing mine, I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Burrell edged up beside me.

"I won't be offended if you leave," she said.

I loved Buster, but I also had a job to do, and it wasn't finished.