Henry’s mouth flattened and he snatched the radio receiver off the dash console and called for backup.
Goose bumps rose on Susan’s arms. Wheat-pasted along the entire length of the building’s buckling loading dock were posters for the upcoming Gretchen Lowell episode of America’s Sexiest Serial Killers.
Henry hung up the radio and looked over at Susan. “Let me go in first. Stay in the car with the doors locked. Don’t touch anything.” And then, as if anticipating her protest, he threw a glance back at Pearl. “You need to stay with the girl.”
Susan held her purse tighter and looked out the window at the building, Gretchen’s face on the posters, the axe on the old sign. If Archie was in there, he needed help. There wasn’t time to argue.
She bit her lip and nodded.
Henry unholstered his gun, treated her to one last stern look, and then got out of the car.
She didn’t take her eyes off Henry as he walked toward the building in a low crouch, gun angled at the ground in front of him.
The loading-bay door was open a foot and she watched as Henry pounded on it and shouted something and then, with one last glance back at the car, slipped inside.
They were alone. A trickle of fear inched down Susan’s arms and she reached into her bag and got out one of the spray cans and pushed the purse on the floor in front of her.
Susan glanced in the car’s rearview mirror, looking for telltale flashing blue and red lights. There would be sirens any minute. There were probably dozens of cop cars headed to that intersection.
Henry would secure the situation. You could count on Henry for that—securing situations. Jeremy didn’t stand a chance. She almost smiled. She’d like to see him try to pierce Henry.
“Jeremy has a gun,” Pearl said from the backseat.
Susan snapped her head around. “What?”
Pearl sat, cross-armed, slumped in the back, her goggles on the top of her head like a pair of sunglasses. “I just thought of it,” she said. “He showed it to me once. Said he got it from his father.”
Susan lifted her hand over her mouth and sank into her seat, unsure what to do. Henry had gone inside. Did she roll down the window and yell? Get out of the car? Did she call him on his cell phone? Figure out how the fuck to use the radio?
She twisted around and looked out the back windshield. Where was the backup?
Then she heard it.
If she’d been walking by, she would not have known it was a gunshot. It was a dull pop—the kind of thing that could be easily explained away by a car backfire or a firecracker.
But it wasn’t either of those things.
Someone inside had been shot, or someone had tried to shoot someone.
“Shit,” she said.
“Was that a gun?” Pearl asked, suddenly sounding her age.
Susan needed to go inside.
There was no choice now. Henry could be shot, lying in there, bleeding. She grabbed her purse off the floor and tossed it back to Pearl. “Stay in the car. When backup gets here, tell them what’s happening. There’s mace in the bag if you need it. Don’t touch anything else in my purse.”
Pearl looked pale. “Okay,” she said.
Susan started walking to the loading-bay door. She moved quickly, the spray can in one hand, thumb on the nozzle. Her entire focus was on the door. Get to the door. Go inside. Don’t get shot.
Four people were killed every hour in the U.S. by guns. It made her feel better. What were the odds one of them would be Henry? Archie? I mean, four people. It was a big country. Over 300 million people. There were people shooting at each other right this minute in much bigger cities—spurned lovers, crazed high school students, bank robbers, you name it.
She got to the door. It was still open a crack, but it was dark inside and she couldn’t see anything. “Henry?” she croaked. “Are you okay?”
No one answered.
She lifted the spray can and went inside. She was getting to be an expert at entering dirty, unlit rooms, and she paused for a moment just inside the door to let her eyes adjust. There were some broken windows that let in shards of light, and once her pupils dilated, Susan could actually make out quite a bit. Pieces of rotting wooden pallets scattered the floor. Whatever they had made there had once been stored in boxes in this room, then loaded through the door onto trucks and shipped off to long-dead customers.
She stood perfectly still and listened. Every hair on her body lifted.
Someone coughed. It was Archie. Susan didn’t know how she
knew. She didn’t question it. It was Archie’s cough. She was certain of it.
Susan searched for the origin of the sound and identified a door that stood open on the opposite wall. She hurried to it, not even trying to dodge the splintered two-by-fours in her path.
From outside, one siren wailed its approach, and then there seemed to be a thousand all at once.