Genesis (5 page)

The grade shifted, sloping downward, and though it was still far
away, Will could hear the usual sounds of a crime scene—the electric
hum of the generator, the buzz from the stadium lights, the pop of
camera flashes, the grumblings of cops and crime-scene techs occasionally
punctuated by surprised laughter.

Overhead, the clouds parted, sending down a sliver of moonlight
that cast the ground in shadow. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a
patch of leaves that looked disturbed. He crouched down, the weak
beam of the light not helping him much. The leaves were darker
here, but he couldn't tell if that was from blood or precipitation. Will
could definitely tell that something had lain in the spot. The question
was, had that something been an animal or had it been a woman?

He tried to get his bearings again. He was about halfway between
Faith's car and the crumpled Buick on the road. The clouds moved
again, and he was back in darkness. The flashlight in his hand chose
this moment to give up the ghost, the bulb going yellowish brown,
then black. Will slapped the plastic case against his palm, trying to
get some more juice out of the batteries.

Suddenly, the bright beam of a Maglite illuminated everything
within a five-foot radius.

"You must be Agent Trent," a man said. Will put up his hand to
keep his retinas from burning. The man took his time lowering
the flashlight to Will's chest. In the distant glow of the crime-scene
lights, he appeared to be the living embodiment of a Macy's Day
parade balloon—bulbous at the top, tapering to almost a point at the
bottom. The man's tiny little pinhead floated above his shoulders,
the flesh of his thick neck spilling up over his shirt collar.

Considering his girth, the man was light on his feet. Will hadn't
heard him making his way through the forest. "Detective Fierro?"
Will guessed.

He flashed the light into his own face so Will could see him. "Call
me Asshole, because that's what you're gonna be thinking about me
the whole lonely way back to Atlanta."

Will was still crouched down. He glanced toward the crime scene.
"Why not let me have a peek first?"

The light was back in Will's eyes. Fierro said, "Persistent little
fucker, aren't you?"

"You think she was dropped here, but she wasn't."

"You're a mind reader?"

"You've got an APB for all suspicious cars in the area and you've
got your crime-scene guys going over that Buick with a sieve."

"The APB is a code 10-38, which you'd know if you were a real
cop, and the closest house to here is an old geezer in a wheelchair
about two miles up." Fierro said this with a disdain that was more
than familiar to Will. "I'm not gonna have this conversation with
you, pal. Leave my scene."

"I saw what was done to her," Will pressed. "She wasn't put in a
car and dropped. She was bleeding from everywhere. Whoever did
this is smart. He wouldn't put her in a car. He wouldn't risk the trace
evidence. He sure as hell wouldn't leave her alive."

"Two options." Fierro held up his pudgy fingers and counted
them off for Will. "Leave on your own two feet or leave on your
back."

Will stood up, straightening his shoulders so that he was standing
at his full six-three. Pointedly, he looked down at Fierro. "Let's try to
work this out. I'm here to help."

"I don't need your help, Gomez. Now I suggest you turn around,
get back in your little girl car and go gentle into that good night. You
wanna know what happens here? Read a newspaper."

"I think you mean Lurch," Will corrected. "Gomez was the father."

Fierro's brow wrinkled.

"Look, the victim—Anna—probably lay down here." Will
pointed to the depression in the leaves. "She heard the cars coming,
and she walked onto the road to get help." Fierro didn't stop him, so
he continued, "I've got a canine unit on the way. The trail is still fresh
now, but it'll be gone with the rain." As if on cue, lightning flashed,
followed closely by a clap of thunder.

Fierro stepped closer. "You're not hearing me,
Gomez
." He thrust
the butt of his flashlight into Will's chest, physically pushing him
away from the crime scene. He kept doing this as he spoke, punctuating
each word with a sharp jab. "Get your fucking
GBI,
three-piece
fucking
undertaker
ass back in your little red toy car and get the
fuck
off my—"

Will's heel struck something solid. Both men heard it, and both
men stopped.

Fierro opened his mouth, but Will indicated he should keep quiet,
slowly kneeling down to the ground. Will used his hands to brush
away some leaves and found the outline of a large square of plywood.
Two big rocks framed the corner, marking the spot.

There was a faint sound in the air, almost a crackling. Will knelt
down farther and the noise turned into a few muffled words. Fierro
heard it, too. He drew his gun, keeping the flashlight alongside
the muzzle so he could see what he was going to shoot. Suddenly, the
detective no longer appeared to mind Will's presence; instead, he
seemed to be encouraging Will to be the one pulling back the sheet of
plywood and putting his face in the line of fire.

When Will looked up at him, Fierro shrugged, as if to say, "You
wanted on the case."

Will had been in court all day. His gun was at home in the drawer
by his bed. Fierro either had a large goiter on his ankle or he was carrying
a backup piece. The man didn't offer the gun and Will didn't
ask for it. He would need both hands if he was going to pull back the
plywood and get out of the way in a timely manner. Will sucked in
his breath as he moved the rocks, then dug his fingers carefully into
the soft ground, getting a good grip on the edge of the board. It was
standard size, roughly four-by-eight, and half an inch thick. The
wood felt wet under his fingers, which meant that it would be even
heavier.

Will glanced back at Fierro to make sure he was ready, then, in
one swift motion, pried back the sheet of plywood. Dirt and debris
scattered as Will quickly backed away.

"What is it?" Fierro's voice was a hoarse whisper. "Do you see
anything?"

Will craned his neck to see what he had uncovered. The hole was
deep and crudely dug, a thirty-by-thirty-inch square opening going
straight down into the earth. Will kept at a low crouch as he made his
way toward the hole. Aware that he was again offering his head as a
target, he quickly glanced inside, trying to see what they were dealing
with. He couldn't see to the bottom. What he did discover was a
ladder resting a few feet down from the top, a homemade deal with
the rungs nailed crookedly to a pair of rotting two-by-fours.

Lightning cracked in the sky, showing the tableau in full glory. It
was like a cartoon: the ladder to hell.

"Give me the light," he whispered to Fierro. The detective was
more than accommodating now, slapping the Maglite into Will's
reaching hand. Will looked back at the man. Fierro had taken a wide
stance, his gun still pointed at the opening in the ground, fear widening
his eyes.

Will shone down the light. The cavern seemed to be L-shaped,
going straight down about five feet, then turning into what must
have been the main area of the cave. Pieces of wood jutted out where
the roof was shored up. There were supplies at the base of the ladder.
Cans of food. Rope. Chains. Hooks. Will's heart jumped as he heard
movement down there, rustling, and he had to force himself not to
jerk back.

Fierro asked, "Is it—"

Will put his finger to his lips, though he was pretty sure that the
element of surprise was not on their side. Whoever was down there
had seen the beam of the flashlight moving around. As if to reinforce
this, Will heard a guttural sound from below, almost a moan. Was
there another victim down there? He thought of the woman in the
hospital. Anna. Will knew what electrical burns looked like. They
stained the skin in a dark powder that never washed away. They
stayed with you for a lifetime—that is, if you had a lifetime left in
you.

Will took off his suit jacket and tossed it behind him. He reached
toward Fierro's ankle and grabbed the revolver out of the holster.
Before he could stop himself, Will swung his legs down into the hole.

"Jesus Christ," Fierro hissed. He looked over his shoulder at the
dozens of cops who were a hundred feet away, no doubt realizing
there was a better way to do this.

Will heard the sound from below again. Maybe an animal, maybe
a human being. He turned off the flashlight and jammed it into the
back of his pants. There was something he should have said, like
"Tell my wife I love her," but he didn't want to give Angie the
burden—or the satisfaction.

"Hold on," Fierro whispered. He wanted to get backup.

Will ignored him, shoving the revolver into his front pocket.
Carefully, he tested his weight on the wobbly ladder, the heels of his
shoes on the rungs so he could face the inside of the cavern as he descended.
The space was narrow, his shoulders too broad. He had to
keep one arm straight above his head so that he could fit down the
hole. Dirt kept falling in clumps around him and roots scratched his
face and neck. The wall of the shaft was just a few inches from his
nose, bringing out a claustrophobia Will never knew he had. Every
time he inhaled, he tasted mud in the back of his throat. He couldn't
look down, because there was nothing to see, and he was afraid that if
he looked up, he might reverse direction.

With each step, the smell got worse—feces, urine, sweat, fear.
Maybe the fear was coming from Will. Anna had escaped from here.
Maybe she had wounded her attacker in the process. Maybe the man
was down there waiting with a gun or a razor or a knife.

Will's heart was beating so hard that he could feel it choking his
throat. Sweat was pouring off him, and his knees were shaky as he
took step after interminable step down. Finally, his foot hit soft
earth. He felt around with the toe of his shoe, finding the rope at the
base of the ladder, hearing the chain rattle. He would have to crouch
down to get inside, leaving himself completely exposed to whoever
was waiting.

Will could hear panting, more mumbling. Fierro's revolver was in
his hand. He wasn't sure how it had gotten there. The space was too
tight for him to reach the flashlight, and it was falling down the back
of his pants anyway. Will tried to make his knees bend, but his body
would not comply. The panting was getting louder, and he realized it
was coming from his own mouth. He looked up, seeing nothing but
darkness. Sweat blurred his eyes. He held his breath, then dropped
down in a squat.

No gun went off. His throat was not slit. Hooks were not jammed
into his eyes. He felt a breeze from the shaft, or was that something in
front of his face? Was someone standing in front of him? Had someone
just brushed their hand in front of his face? He heard movement
again, chattering.

"Don't move," Will managed. He held the gun in front of him,
sweeping it back and forth like a pendulum in case someone was
standing in front of him. With a shaking hand, he reached behind
him for the flashlight. The panting was back, an embarrassing noise
that echoed in the cave.

"Never . . . ," a man murmured.

Will's hand was slick with sweat, but it held steady to the grooved
metal grip of the flashlight. He jammed his thumb into the button,
turning on the light.

Rats scattered—three big, black rats with plump bellies and sharp
claws. Two of them went straight for Will. Instinctively, he backed
up, slamming into the ladder, his feet tangling in the rope. He covered
his face with his arms, and felt sharp claws dig into his skin as the
rats bolted up the ladder. Will panicked, realizing he'd dropped the
flashlight, and he snatched it up quickly, scanning the cave, looking
for other occupants.

Empty.

"Crap . . ." Will exhaled, slumping to the ground. Sweat poured
into his eyes. His arms throbbed where the rats had ripped the skin.
He had to fight the overwhelming urge to escape up after them.

He used the flashlight to take in his surroundings, sending roaches
and other insects scrambling. There was no telling where the other
rat had gone, and Will wasn't going to go looking for him. The main
part of the cavern was sunken, about three feet down from where
Will was sitting. Whoever had designed the structure knew what
they were doing. The depressed area would give a home-field advantage.

Will slowly lowered himself down, keeping the light trained in
front of him so there wouldn't be any more surprises. The space was
bigger than he expected. It must have taken weeks to excavate the
area, lifting out bucket after bucket of dirt, bringing down pieces of
wood to keep the whole thing from caving in.

He guessed the main area was at least ten feet deep and six feet
wide. The ceiling was about six feet overhead—tall enough for him
to stand up if he kept stooped over, but he didn't trust his knees to lift
him. The flashlight could not illuminate everything at once, so the
space felt even more cramped than it was. Add to that the eeriness,
the ungodly smells of Georgia clay mixed with blood and excrement,
and everything started to feel smaller and darker.

Against one wall was a low bed that had been thrown together
with what looked like recycled wood. A shelf overhead held supplies:
water jugs, soup cans, implements of torture Will had only
seen in books. The mattress was thin, bloodstained foam sticking out
of the torn black cover. There were chunks of flesh on the surface,
some of it already rotting. Maggots swirled like churning waters.
Strands of rope were bunched up on the floor by the bed, enough to
wrap around someone head to toe, almost like a mummy. Deep
scratch marks clawed into the wood on the sides of the bed. There
were sewing needles, fishing hooks, matches. Blood pooled onto the
dirt floor, running underneath the bed frame like a slow leak in a
faucet.