A few drops of water struck the windshield, fat and loud, advance scouts for the army of rain that was undoubtedly about to follow. Great. Angela Canfield cursed again, hoping she would not be forced to run through the rain but accepting that she probably would. It was just her luck.
She rounded a corner going much too fast and nearly plowed into the back of Bill Ferguson’s van. She stood on the brakes, watching as the other vehicle loomed in the windshield, becoming cartoonishly large, certain she would not be able to stop in time. She envisioned herself stuck inside the wreckage of the car as the drama played out a couple of hundred feet away inside Martin Krall’s home, and she cursed again. Then her Caprice bounced to a stop, the front bumper just kissing the rear of the van, both vehicles lurching once before settling.
Special Agent Canfield leapt out of her car almost before it had stopped rocking, drawing her weapon and cutting across the deserted road at an angle, moving toward the dilapidated house ahead in an all-out sprint.
CHAPTER 51
May 28, 4:05 p.m.
A QUICK INSPECTION OF the window frame through the dirty glass showed thumb locks securely fastened on both windows, but Bill could find no contacts or any signs of wiring that would indicate the presence of an alarm system. He set his backpack down on the ground and knelt next to it, unzipping the canvas bag and rummaging through the items he had taken from his store less than an hour ago. The moist wind whipped his hair, and his sleeves flapped uncontrollably.
He found his glass cutter and lifted it out of the bag, then stood and faced the window to his left. He pressed a small suction cup to the pane of glass directly above the lock’s thumb latch, adjusted a small screw setting, then quickly ran the razor-sharp diamond-tipped blade of the glass cutter in as wide a circle as possible.
He dropped the glass cutter into the backpack and took out a small hand towel. He wrapped the towel around the knuckles of his right hand and tapped sharply on the window pane in the center of the circle he had just scored. A small piece of glass roughly the size of an Olympic medal popped out of the window and dropped to the cement floor on the inside of the garage. Bill cringed, waiting for the glass to shatter and for Martin Krall to come running into the garage to investigate, undoubtedly carrying the Glock he had brandished last week at the rest stop.
Neither happened. The glass struck the floor on its side like a coin being spun on a table, made several wobbly revolutions, and came to rest under the window. Bill quickly reached through the hole he had just made and thumbed the latch, then pushed up the entire bottom unit. He picked up his backpack and put it back on, then hoisted himself up and clambered inside the garage, hoping he had been right about the lack of an alarm system.
His feet hit the floor, and he stood silently, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the murky dimness of the garage’s interior. Although it was daytime, it had gotten so dark outside that precious little light penetrated the windows.
Before trying to get into the house, Bill thought he’d better check the interior of the truck, on the off chance Carli was being held inside the enclosed cargo box. It seemed unlikely, but who knew how Martin Krall’s disturbed brain worked? He walked to the box truck, Browning held in his right hand, backpack slung over his shoulder. He pulled open the back door of the cargo box, and his jaw dropped in amazement. Now he understood the significance of the truck to Martin Krall.
Inside the cramped space, Krall had custom-built his own, portable, mini torture chamber. On the right side of the cargo area, a small metal-framed cot sat bolted to the wooden floor, outfitted with sturdy leather straps with adjustable buckles which, presumably, were used to immobilize the arms and legs of his victims. A ball gag, attached to an adjustable Velcro strap designed to fit around the backs of his victim’s head, hung on the side wall next to the cot. Traces of a stain, faded to a dull, brownish color but still clearly recognizable as blood, covered the cot’s thin, filthy mattress.
Bill thought about Carli and his blood ran cold.
Rage and fear jockeyed for position as the dominating emotions inside Bill Ferguson’s skull. The fear was sickening, paralyzing. It screamed at him. Carli’s dead. You’ve found her too late. She suffered degradation and humiliation and terrible debilitating pain at the hands of the sick bastard. You’re too late! He bent over, hands on his knees, and thought he might be sick right there on the floor of Martin Krall’s rolling torture chamber.
Then he refocused his mind on Carli, on the sweet, all-American Girl exterior that belied the tough little fireplug within. If anyone could go up against this perverted sociopath and come out alive, it was Carli. He would not believe she was dead. He would not acknowledge that possibility until he saw the evidence with his own two eyes. Carli’s alive, I know she is, and I will get her back. Right now.
Bill’s hands were shaking, and his stomach rolled and churned like the storm clouds outside. He hoped he would be able to hit what he was aiming at with the Browning if it came to that—when it came to that. Determined, he strode toward the doorway that would bring him inside the home of Martin Krall.
On cue, as if underlining the significance of the moment, the storm outside broke with a vengeance. A crash of thunder shook the entire house as lightning struck a tree that must have been just outside, maybe in the very spot Bill had occupied mere moments before. A half-second flash of brilliant, white light shot through the two windows behind him and he jumped in spite of himself, nerves jangling, thankful he had engaged the safety on the Browning. He reached for the knob on the door that opened into Martin Krall’s house, fearing it was locked, praying it would not be.
It was time to find Carli.
CHAPTER 52