Page 54 of Traces of Kara

“Ted, this isn’t personal. This is real.”

Mitch watched Ted slink back to his car. His vehemence left an acidic taste in his mouth. There was no time to worry about hurt feelings. He headed toward the rear of the building.

Grant wasn’t taking any chances. If Greer was in there, they needed the element of surprise, and if he wasn’t, they had to rethink their path. Police surrounding the building would bring the whole town down to the plant. He’d postpone calling backup until he was certain Greer was inside. He headed for the back stairs that led to the roof—top to bottom, that was the best course of action.

Rain whipped against Detective Grant’s face and chest. Gusts of wind pushed against his sternum. His foot slipped from the metal steps. He cursed his muddy shoes. His muscles tensed with each treacherous step as he pulled himself up the stairs toward the roof. He held tight to the last bit of railing, looking over the unprotected edge of the roof. Williamsport fell away in the distance.

“There’s no way in hell this guy is up here. What’s the plan?” Sergeant Agnew hollered.

“Find the son of a bitch.”

“Right.”

The wet gravel crunched beneath their feet as they moved, guns drawn, behind a maze of massive ductwork, surveying the surrounding rooftop. Without a flashlight, the rain and darkness melded together. Grant pushed his back against the wet steel, taking the cold air into his lungs in deep breaths. He felt his way along the edge of the duct to where it met the roof. Before them were two enormous metal tanks. Where the tanks ended lay the expanse of the roof. Detective Grant crouched, letting the bulk of the duct take the beating of the rain. Mark crouched beside him.

Grant scrunched his nose. “Smell that?”

Mark shook his head.

Grant breathed in through his nose again. “Burning flesh. Can’t be mistaken for anything else.” Grant surveyed the roof, looking for where the smell might be originating from. The flashing red light of the stack that sprung up behind them cast an eerie blinking shadow over the roof.

Grant pointed to two small buildings built into the roof, one on either side, both with accessible doors. Neither could be the source of the smell. They were too far away. He remained crouched, and moved in small steps around the immense duct. The smell became stronger on the opposite side.

Mark inhaled deeply. “How’d you know it’s flesh?”

“Had a guy torch himself once, right in front of me.” He looked away, then back again. “Druggie. High on meth. You never forget that smell.”

“The meth or the flesh?”

Grant shook his head. He followed the duct across the back of the roof as it snaked over another story that protruded from the roof like a top hat. The duct trailed around the side, and then back toward the center of the roof again.

Mark followed, gun drawn, covering Grant.

Grant followed the duct to where it met the roof. The nauseatingly sweet and rancid pungent odor assaulted his senses. He buried his face in the crook of his elbow.

“It smells like burnt steak, or…or leather being tanned over a fire.” Mark said, covering his nose.

“You’ll never forget that smell. The question is, who’s in there?” Grant’s stomach sunk. Kara? The possibility sent a wave of nausea through him. He put his hand on the duct. The heat of it against the cold of the night brought a shiver to his spine.

“Let’s open it up.” Mark moved toward the metal hatch.

Grant knew he had to open the duct, but the thought sickened him. If Kara was in there, he didn’t want to know. He held up his hand, warding off Mark. “I’ll do it.” He slid in front of Mark, eyeing the hatch. “When I open this, the stench is going to be overwhelming.”

“It’s frickin’ cold. Let’s just get it over with,” Mark said.

Grant took a deep breath and tried to pull the hatch up. It was jammed. “Gimme a hand,” he said to Mark.

Mark put his gun in his holster and placed his hands on the hatch.

Grant nodded. They pushed their fingertips under the hatch, and heaved upward. The hatch pushed open. A rush of heat seared through their wet clothing, wafting up their necks. Both men jumped back. The hatch slid down, stopping a few inches from the bottom.

“Shit.” Mark brushed his shirt off, as if he could brush away the heat and stench. “That smell is nasty.”

“Trust me, this isn’t the type of smell you ever get rid of.” Grant pulled his shirt over his nose. “Help me,” he said.

The hatch lifted with their efforts, revealing a badly scorched man, his hair singed to the root. The smell of sulfur and burnt flesh filtered out of the duct, stealing the air around them. Relief swept through Grant, followed by a wave of guilt, heavy and unshakable.

“Ugh, Jesus,” Mark said, taking three steps backwards.