‘Spit on it,’ Emma commands.
Linda spits. With saliva and the sweat on Linda’s skin, they make progress. The ring slides, scrapes over the knuckle. Pops suddenly off, flies and clinks against the dashboard. Rolls somewhere into the front passenger footwell.
Linda wails abruptly, loud in the car.
‘Okay, it’s gone, it’s gone.’ Emma hugs Linda as she cries. The disposal of the ring feels like a relief for both of them.
Linda’s voice is hiccupping. ‘I want to get this dress off, too.’
‘I know,’ Emma says, ‘but we don’t have a blanket. The dress is keeping you warm. Wait, this might help.’
She removes her green padded vest, helps the girl ease into it.
‘He hurt me.’ Linda says suddenly. Her voice is hoarse and she clutches Emma tight. ‘He hurt me, oh god …’
‘I know.’ Emma’s eyes are wet, too. She hugs and hugs. ‘I know. I’m so sorry. It’s awful. But it wasn’t your fault. And you’re here now. You’re safe.’
Linda’s distress hitches, slows, becomes more coherent. They calm a little together. Emma has to keep blinking tears away. Nobody gave her those words when she needed them. But she can give them now to another girl, and feel them unfurl inside, feel them take root.
‘Are you …’ Linda wipes her nose on her sleeve, takes a shuddering breath. ‘You’re a cop? The guy, is he a cop?’
‘I’m Emma.’ She smooths her hands down Linda’s biceps. It’s a miracle they got her out alive. ‘I’m not a cop. I’m just a girl like you. He’s Travis, and yes, he’s a cop.’
‘Okay,’ Linda says, cheeks chafed red. ‘Is he coming back?’
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Jogging to the outbuilding, Travis considers the risk that Kirke might still be here. He goes through everything he knows about solo-officer response tactics: silent approaches, threshold evaluation, blind corners. Approach, assessment, and firing accuracy are important. But solo entry is dangerous, and officers are frequently shot.
He is not fully trained; he has never done this before. His gun hand is trembling a little, and he tries to control it.
Not wanting to walk in completely exposed, he circles the big shed quickly, looking for windows – there are none – and entry points: there are two doors, front and rear, as well as a roller door. Moonlight washes everything of color, deep shadows are like vaults. His shoes are soundless on the grass. Finally, there’s nothing to do but go inside.
Travis listens, inhales deep, opens the door, and ducks through the entry.
All quiet. He closes the door. It’s dark as hell in here. He keeps his gun forward, feels with his free hand. Metal corners; a shelf. Concrete gritty underfoot. The smell of rust. After a few seconds, his eyes adjust. The front area here is full of industrial junk andbuilding materials. A pile of bricks, a mound of boxes, a big shape that looks like a car covered with a drop cloth. In the corner, a drill press. There’s a cleared path through the mess, and Travis takes it, picks his way forward.
The space is big. Up ahead, the junk thins out under a high skylight. Toward the back of the building, just past a piano, a wide set of metal steps is offset on the right. It leads up to a loft area, where a light is glowing.
Travis listens. Quiet. The occasional scurry, probably mice. He inches forward –
A thin scream.
Travis startles, moves swiftly, gun down, two-handed grip. Scans for movement. Nothing. His mind is racing.Another girl? Where’s Peter Kirke?He almost trips over a bunch of cement bags, corrects.
He skirts left, then crosses past an old armoire and a rolled carpet and a huge pile of folded canvas tarps, reaches the foot of the stairs. Behind him, the piano and a pile of rebar. Another sound, like crying.Where the hell is the noise coming from?
He’s halfway up the stairs when he realizes: there’s a television set up in the loft. He can see the top edge of it, alongside an old standing lamp with a heavy shade. That’s where the glow is coming from, and also the noise. He should –
Flash of movement.
Downstairs on the left, the rear door opens, admits a shaft of moonlight, closes.
Travis backtracks swiftly and follows. Under the loft, around a coil of wire and a pile of boxes, careful toward the door. He’scovering the door with his weapon, doing the wide swings left to right, like he was taught. No tall furniture or shelves nearby, which is good – no hiding spaces, no deep shadows.
But he has to go out that door.
No point in delay; he takes a low side position, turns the door handle, and pushes – the door swings out. Take a peek, retreat. No suspect. Now, a fast lateral movement straight out, making a moving target. He’s outside again, spinning.
