Snake Skin (36 page)

"That's when you transferred to Atlanta, to
the SAFE unit down there?"

"Yeah. Fresh faces, fresh start." He fiddled
with the AC control. "Didn't do much good. Still live for the work,
just like always. Think I'd have learned my lesson, wouldn't you?"
He shrugged, more a shifting of his mood than an actual
acknowledgment of emotion. "Take a warning from someone who's been
there. Don't let it happen to you, Lucy."

She snorted. "You mean like hunting for a
sick bastard like Fletcher when my daughter's sick in the
hospital?"

"The doctors tell you what's going on
yet?"

"No. They're in a wait and see stage—could
be nothing more than a virus, or they might have to slice out one
of her lymph nodes and do a biopsy."

"They're worried about cancer?"

"Worried about everything it seems. Just no
fucking answers." She rolled her shoulders back and tried to ease
the tension from her neck and jaw. "Let's focus on Fletcher. At
least we can do something good for one kid."

"If she's still alive."

"I think she's alive. Just like Alicia
couldn't let go of her James, I think our Jimmy can't let go of
Ashley."

"It's weird that she and Alicia were both
fourteen when they met the men in their lives."

"Seems like Alicia saw James Fletcher as her
savior, her rescuer."

"Might have been an abusive household.
Isolated farm, way back then, who knows what went on?"

"Maybe Arthur Moore can tell us."

"Think Jimmy ever knew his maternal
relatives? Could this uncle of his be helping him?"

"The way Alicia got out of there, I doubt
she ever went back with her son."

She turned onto a weed-choked dirt road.
Drove another half mile and saw an old two-story farmhouse with a
single steeply-pitched gable in the middle and windows arranged to
look like two eyes above and three teeth below.

A small barn sat twenty yards from the
house. There were no vehicles, no movement, no signs of anyone
living. She exited the vehicle, her hand on her weapon. Walden
joined her, his lips tightened into a single straight line—as close
to anxious as she'd seen him.

It was cooler out here away from the city,
but still unseasonably warm. The sun was low in the sky, filtered
through the trees as if through dirty windows. There was no wind,
the trees that surrounded the clearing and lined the road stood
still, drooping with dust-covered leaves.

And it was quiet. Way too quiet, even to
someone who'd grown up in the country like Lucy. As if birds and
animals and stray breezes all avoided this place. No movement came
from either building.

Lucy bent down, ignoring the fresh wave of
pain rippling through her back, and examined the ruts in the dirt
lane. "Someone's been here recently. Tire tracks are fresh."

"Maybe he's gone out for Sunday dinner?
Think our Mr. Moore is a big bingo player or the like?"

"Nothing says we can't take a look around."
They were still standing near the cover of their own vehicle, a
good forty feet from either the house or barn. "Which first?" she
asked. "House or barn?"

Walden drew his weapon—a sure sign of how
wrong this place was. You didn't go calling on tax-paying citizens
with your gun drawn, even if they may be relatives of a killer. You
also didn't need a locked and loaded forty caliber Glock to go
knock on a door of an empty house.

"There may be a vehicle in the barn," he
said, removing his sunglasses and letting his eyes adjust to the
eerie half-light. "If he's here, he may be waiting for us to go to
the house, make a break for it."

Prepare for the worst, hope for the best and
everyone goes home in one piece—typical cop philosophy. Lucy
grabbed a pair of binoculars from the tactical gear in the rear of
the Blazer. They both donned tactical vests, the weight pulled on
Lucy's injured shoulder like a slaughter house hook hoisting a side
of beef.

Together, they avoided the lane and cut
across the knee-high weeds to approach the house. They circled it
warily, stopping to examine the porch and the front entrance from
ten yards away.

"Cameras," she pointed as she squinted
through the binoculars. "One on the corner of the porch roof, aimed
at the driveway, one on that post aimed at the front steps. I can't
see inside, there are curtains over the windows."

"Let's try around back."

They continued to circle the house. All the
windows were covered, there was no other entrance apparent until
they reached the rear of the house. Now they were draped in shadow.
Lucy shivered, wished for a jacket.

"What are those?" Walden asked, pointing to
several greyish blobs sitting in the yard.

Lucy glanced away from her scrutiny of the
house. "You're such a city boy. Those are salt licks. For the
deer." She focused on the back door. "Wait here."

"What are you doing?"

"He wouldn't have any traps outside, not if
he's willing to attract wild animals close to the house. I think I
can get a look through a slit in the curtains over the door."

"Maybe the uncle put out the salt licks and
Fletcher doesn't give a shit about blowing up a bunch of deer."

She kept walking, slowly, scanning every
inch she could see. A camera aimed out from above the door, but it
was easy to outflank it and ease her way against the building,
staying in its blind spot.

She pressed her body against the door,
angled her view through the small slit in the curtains. "It's dark
inside," she yelled to Walden. "No movement. Some pots and pans
left out, a few cans in the trash, can't make out much—"

She stopped, tried to get a better look. A
jacket hung on a hook beside the door. She couldn't see all of it,
but one sleeve was bunched up, sticking out far enough to be in her
field of vision. It was dark inside, but not pitch black, more of a
murky grey.

The jacket was black, cheap cotton, but what
caught her eye was the silver stitching on the sleeve. With the
help of the binoculars' magnification, the pattern jumped out at
her: the Statue of Liberty.

"I've seen that jacket before," Lucy told
Walden as she edged away from the house, avoiding the camera's
sight lines. "Vera Tzasiris was wearing a jacket like that when I
interviewed her. Right before she went missing."

She handed him the binoculars and leaned
over as if catching her breath, but really to hide her face from
Walden for a moment. How blithely she'd assured Vera that the worse
was over, that no more harm would come to her—right before she'd
handed her into the arms of a killer.

"Vera Tzasiris?"

Lucy blinked hard, ignoring the sting of
unshed tears and straightened, pain lancing through her shoulder.
"Call Taylor, have him pull the files for Operation Triple-play, it
was a joint DEA, ICE, FBI op, went down last year. Fletcher was
involved.

"We're going to need warrants for the house,
the barn and a BOLO for any vehicles registered to Arthur Moore."
Lucy paced as she spoke, the long grass whipping at her legs,
movement her best defense against her emotions.

"Get the Allegheny County bomb-dogs up here
and their EOD team to clear the buildings. And we'll need the ERT."
She paused. Once the explosive ordinance disposal guys handled any
nasty surprises Fletcher may have left behind, the FBI Evidence
Recovery Team could then search the house in safety. The sun was in
her eyes, nicking the tree line with a sharp orange blaze. It'd be
dark by the time they cleared the buildings.

"We'll need lights," she added, her gaze now
on the barn. She jogged towards it, wanting to get a good look
before they lost the light.

It wasn't very large, maybe twenty feet by
thirty. Traditional frame, white-washed with peeling paint and a
wooden roof. Not quite two stories high. A pair of half doors on
one side below the roof eaves, a ladder standing beside them was
the only access to the hay loft she could see. She didn't see any
cameras on this side, so ventured closer to check the ladder. It
was aluminum, looked fairly new. But it had been sitting there long
enough to leave indentations in the ground. Only one set, so it
hadn't been moved.

Finally she approached the front side of the
barn. Over the door, fixed to the metal frame of the spotlight was
a camera. Just the one. She edged close to the wall, staying out of
its field of vision. The barn doors weren't locked, although a
heavy clasp and padlock hung from one door. The doors were cracked
open, not wide enough to see through but enough to give her a whiff
of an unpleasant and all too familiar scent. Decomp.

Damn, damn, damn. She swiped her face with
her palm, felt the tension in her jaw go supernova. It couldn't be
Ashley.

Which was a lie. Not as hot as it had been
lately. She pressed her palm against one door.
I'm so
sorry.

Whoever was in there, it was too late to
help them, but maybe they could help her find Fletcher.

A loud thump reverberated through the
silence. Lucy jumped, drew her gun without even realizing it.
"Anyone there?" she shouted. "In the barn, anyone there? FBI!"

Another softer sound, more of a rustle than
a thump. Lucy's heart went into overdrive. Maybe Ashley was alive,
just a few feet away from her.

Walden came running just as she reached for
the door. "Stop there," she told him, pointing to the camera. He
had his gun out as well. "I heard something. Inside the barn."

He eased his way along the wall to join her,
his nose wrinkling in distaste as the smell of decomp hit him. "We
should wait for EOD."

He was right. And she knew it. It was
exactly what the Operations Manual, the FBI's Big Book, would tell
her to do. She clenched her jaw, not even feeling the stabs of pain
radiating down her neck. What if Ashley were hurt? What if she
waited and they found her dead when they finally got to her?

"Go, wait by the car," she told him in a
strained voice. The sun was almost gone, all that remained were a
few brave streams of light battered and broken by the trees.

"No. Lucy, you can't go in there. It's
exactly what Fletcher wants."

"Special Agent Walden, I know what I'm
doing. Go wait by the car." He ignored her, his face stony. "If I'm
wrong, one of us has to be able to get help. I can't leave her in
there. Not if there's a chance."

"I'll go in."

"I gave you an order, now follow it." She
put every ounce of authority she had behind her words. He narrowed
his eyes, frowning even as he gave her an infinitesimal nod, and
finally obeyed. She waited until he was clear, all the way back at
the car before opening the barn door.

The door swung out, so she could only open
it a little less than a foot without risking the camera picking up
the movement. She clicked on the Surefire light mounted below her
gun barrel, poked her head through the opening.

A wall of hay bales stood about five feet in
front of her. They rose to the rafters above. Strange way to store
hay. The odor of decomp was overwhelming, as if the straw had
absorbed it and concentrated it. She searched for signs of any
booby traps and after finding none, she stepped inside.

Listening, she heard another rustle.
Something moving against the straw. It sounded as if it was coming
from the other side of the wall of hay bales. She paused. If it was
Fletcher making the noise—no, that made no sense. He could have cut
and run while they were out of sight at the house. If he planned an
ambush, there were much better ways to arrange it. Logically, it
couldn't be Fletcher setting a trap.

Logic wasn't helping the churning in her gut
or the adrenalin-frayed nerves sputtering beneath her skin. She
forced herself to breathe, choking down the cloying stench, and
stepped forward.

She scanned the darkness ahead. One step,
then another into the blackness. Soon she was at the end of the
wall of hay. There was a small gap, maybe a foot, before the next
wall, this one perpendicular to the first and following the outside
wall of the barn.

Lucy remembered the corn mazes she used to
run through at Halloween. Farmers would mow labyrinths into their
fields, leading kids down spooky paths where anything could be
hiding in the towering corn stalks beyond. She'd always emerge,
shrieking with laughter and terror, clutching the hands of her
friends, frightened to their bones and loving every minute of
it.

Somehow, this grown up, indoor version
wasn't quite as much fun. She stepped between the two perpendicular
rows of hay, now entering the interior of the ring of straw
bales.

The space opened up. It was total darkness,
but with the help of the Surefire she could see a vertical pole
eight feet in front of her. Beside it was an overturned bucket. She
took another step.

Stumbled as her foot fell on something soft
and moving. Gasping, she lurched to one side, hitting the wall of
straw. A heavy weight thudded against her shoulders. She leapt
back, reached for whatever had hit her from above. Her hand closed
on a writhing mass of muscle, cold, scaley and flailing against her
back.

Hell. Not again. She whipped the snake away
from her body, shuddering in revulsion. More rustling came from the
darkness, it seemed to surround her. She stood rigid, trying to
still the pounding of her heart.

The pale circle of light carved out glimpses
in the darkness. The ground before her was littered with snakes—one
of whom took that instant to slither over her foot. She kicked it
away, hearing the thump as it hit the ground.

Her Glock-22 held seventeen bullets and she
had two spare clips on her vest. She swung the light around.
Everywhere she looked, the ground was moving. There were snakes
clinging to the bales of hay, snakes dropping onto the ground,
snakes in front of her, snakes behind her, snakes everywhere.