Page 68 of Traces of Kara

Morris’s champagne colored Mercury Marquis sped down the driveway behind the ambulance, whipping into the parking place beside Grant’s car. Morris stepped out, gun in hand. “Okay, boss, whatcha’ got?” He reached up and pulled off his tie, tossing it onto the front seat. He pulled a blue police slicker over his dress shirt and zipped it up.

Officer Smith’s car came into view.

“Didn’t Smitty fill you in?”

Morris shoved his hands in his pocket. “Chambersburg cop is laid up out back, killer’s inside with Mimi Stone and Kara Knight.” He lowered his voice, leaned his shoulder toward Grant. “What’s behind it?”

“Guy’s a maniac.” Grant shook his head. “It’s his birthday. This is his birthday present, killing his twin sister.”

“Word travels fast. The whole town will know about this in an hour, and then we’ll have civilians to contend with.”

Smitty jogged to the men, pulling a hood over his head, and ducking so his eyes could meet theirs.

Grant looked up at him. He was dwarfed by the six-foot-seven officer. Smitty was just a kid, twenty-eight years old, and one of the most reliable cops on staff.

Smitty took a step and stumbled. Morris grabbed his arm and shot a look of concern at Grant, who shrugged. He was clumsy, but still a great officer.

He filled in the EMTs about Sergeant Agnew’s whereabouts, and instructed them to wait until Grant and his men could cover them before heading within the fence’s perimeter to get Mark.

Grant, Smitty, and Morris jogged down the path toward the makeshift entrance. Grant looked at his watch. It had been seventeen minutes since he’d left Mark. He hoped that seventeen minutes hadn’t cost Mimi or the others their lives.

Grant stood just outside the sill of the broken window with his back to the building, gun held close to his chest, the barrel pointing up toward the crying clouds. Morris stood ready on the other side of the opening.

Smitty moved in an arc around them, his legs bent at the knees, his gun stretched out before him. A small area just inside the broken window was barely visible in the moonlight, but the rest of the room remained dark. Smitty signaled the EMTs. The three men ran in an even, practiced trot under the umbrella of the trees, their shoulders hunched, stretchers and medical bags in hand. Smitty fell back to cover them as they made their way to the back of the building.

The four men moved the tree limb with relative ease.

Mark let out a yelp, then clenched his teeth and sucked in a breath when the weight lifted from his broken leg.

Smitty remained with them while they ran Mark’s vital signs and prepped him for the stretcher. Once securely strapped down, Smitty headed back to the side of the building and followed the same arcing path, making sure the EMTs were out of danger. Grant and Morris were nowhere in sight.

Chapter Fifty-One

The drop to the floor was only a few feet. Grant landed with the agility of a thirty-year-old and spun around, gun ready, knees bent. The smell of wet coal mixed with the fetid odor that had lain dormant in Grant’s nose since discovering the seared body.

Morris landed behind him and stumbled to the side, quickly righting himself, readying his stance next to Grant. He flipped on a small flashlight and held it against the barrel of his gun, running it along the concrete walls to his right and across the floor toward the opposite side of the room.

“Jesus Christ.” Ted’s body lay still against the wall. His clothing was bloodied, his face ghostly white. Grant felt for a pulse. “He’s alive.”

Morris took out his phone.

Grant shook his head, pointed to the window.

Morris climbed back up to the window. Smitty crouched by the entrance.

“Tell the EMTs,” Morris whispered, “Ted Stone’s down. He’s in bad shape. It’s too dangerous for them to get him now. Stand by.”

Grant stared at Ted, consumed with guilt at the relief that swept through him—it wasn’t Mimi’s body. “Send them in after we’re clear for four minutes,” he directed Morris.

Morris relayed the command to Smitty.

Grant’s muscles were taut, his mind alert. His gut pulled at him to move quicker. He and Morris slinked through the darkened hallways. They’d forgone the flashlight, afraid Greer might see them before they saw him. Grant’s emotions tugged at him. He was too close to this investigation and he knew it. He salivated at the thought of killing Greer without warning. He knew that was wrong, yet hatred pulsed through his blood with every beat of his heart. He’d find that son of a bitch and he’d spare no mercy, even if it cost him his badge. The thought of that prick hurting Mimi or Kara brought bile to his throat.

He listened for the EMTs, hearing nothing but the pounding of his heart in his ears. He trusted Smitty. The young officer would keep them guarded and ensure their silent retreat. He glanced back to Morris. His face was pinched tight; his eyes wide. Creases marked his forehead where his eyebrows drew together. A formidable man at fifty-five, Morris knew the rules of the game. Grant had worked with Morris for over twenty years. He was as solid an officer as they came, and Grant was thankful he had his back. Something told him he’d need Morris’s skill and decisiveness behind him.

At the end of the hall, where it forked into two equally dark and menacing avenues, Grant listened. Each hastened breath felt like an announcement of their presence. Grant slipped around the corner to the left, quietly following the sound of water running.

Morris walked backward, his gun facing the opposite direction, covering Grant as equally and silently from behind. Grant stopped. Morris’s back pressed against his for a split second before he whipped his body—and his gun—around, the barrel pointing into the pitch blackness.