The Bone Collector

Sachs crouched beside her and swept the basement again with her light. No sign of the unsub.
    “It’s okay, honey. We’ll have you home soon. You’ll be all right. That man here? You remember him?”
    She nodded.
    “Did he leave?”
    “I don’t know. I want my mommy.”
    She heard the other officers call in. The first and second floors were secure. “The car and taxi?” Sachs asked. “Any sign?”
    A trooper transmitted, “They’re gone. He’s probably left.”
    He’s not there, Amelia. That would be illogical.
    From the top of the stairs an officer called, “Basement secure?”
    She said, “I’m going to check. Hold on.”
    “We’re coming down.”
    “Negative on that,” she said. “We’ve got a pretty clean crime scene here and I want to keep it that way. Just get a medic down here to check out the little girl.”
    The young medic, a sandy-haired man, walked down the stairs and crouched beside Pammy.
    It was then that Sachs saw the trail leading into the back of the basement—to a low, black-painted metal door. She walked to it, avoiding the path itself to save the prints, and crouched down. The door was partly open and there seemed to be a tunnel on the other side, dark but not completely black, leading to another building.
    An escape route. The son of a bitch.
    With the knuckles of her left hand she pushed the door open wider. It didn’t squeak. She peered into the tunnel. Faint light, twenty, thirty feet away. No moving shadows.
    If Sachs saw anything in the dimness it was T.J.’s contorted body dangling from the black pipe, Monelle Gerger’s round, limp body as the black rat crawled toward her throat.
    “Portable 5885 to CP,” Sachs said into her mike.
    “Go ahead, K,” Haumann’s terse voice responded.
    “I’ve got a tunnel leading to the building south of the unsub’s. Have somebody cover the doors and windows.”
    “Will do, K.”
    “I’m going in,” she told him.
    “The tunnel? We’ll get you some backup, Sachs.”
    “Negative. I don’t want the scene contaminated. Just have somebody keep an eye on the girl.”
    “Say again.”
    “No. No backup.”
    She clicked the light out and started crawling.
    There’d been no courses in tunnel-rat work at theacademy of course. But the things Nick had told her about securing a unfriendly scene came back to her. Weapon close to the body, not extended too far, where it could be knocked aside. Three steps—well, shuffles—forward, pause. Listen. Two more steps. Pause. Listen. Four steps next time. Don’t do anything predictable.
    Hell, it’s dark.
    And what’s that smell? She shivered in disgust at the hot, foul stink.
    The claustrophobia wrapped around her like a cloud of oil smoke and she had to stop for a moment, concentrating on anything but the closeness of the walls. The panic slipped away but the smell was worse. She gagged.
    Quiet, girl. Quiet!
    Sachs controlled the reflex and kept going.
    And what’s that noise? Something electrical. A buzzing. Rising and falling.
    Ten feet from the end of the tunnel. Through the doorway she could see a second large basement. Murky though not quite as dark as the one Pammy had been in. Light leached in through a greasy window. She saw motes of dust pedaling through the gloom.
    No, no, girl, the gun’s too far in front of you. One kick and it’s gone. Close to your face. Keep your weight low and back! Use your arms to aim, ass for support.
    Then she was at the doorway.
    She gagged again, tried to stifle the sound.
    Is he waiting for me, or not?
    Head out, a fast look. You’ve got a helmet. It’ll deflect anything but a full-metal or Teflon and remember he’s shooting a .32. A girl gun.
    All right. Think. Look which way first?
    The Patrolman’s Guide wasn’t any help and Nick wasn’t offering any advice at the moment. Flip a coin.
    Left.
    She stuck her head out fast, glancing to the left. Back into the tunnel.
    She’d seen nothing. A blank wall, shadows.
    If he’s the other way he’s seen me and’s got good target positioning.
    Okay, fuck. Just go. Fast.
    When you move  . . .
    Sachs leapt.
    . . . they can’t getcha.
    She hit the ground hard, rolling. Twisting around.
    The figure was hidden in shadows against the wall to the right, under the window. Drawing a target she started to fire. Then froze.
    Amelia Sachs gasped.
    Oh, my God. . . .
    Her eyes were inexorably drawn to the woman’s body, propped up against the wall.
    From the waist up she was thin, with