You Don't Want To Know - By Lisa Jackson Page 0,184

were bone-dry and covered with dust that clogged Dern’s nostrils. The scratch of tiny nails indicated they weren’t alone, that rats or mice or God knew what else were keeping residence in the cobwebby bowels of the old institution, but they found no footprints or other evidence that a human being had walked these twisted corridors any time recently.

Nonetheless, the search was nerve-wracking and Dern’s pulse was elevated, his eyes straining, his muscles tight, and he wished to heaven that he’d been allowed his service pistol.

They reached a room Dern hadn’t been able to break into, and the female deputy, using Crispin Church’s keys, opened the door. It swung open noiselessly, and the minute they stepped into the large mechanical room, the temperature and smell of the area warned them that things had changed.

Dern noticed Burly draw his weapon from its holster, though he assumed the cop had enough brains not to fire the Glock if at all possible. Ricocheting bullets were far more dangerous than the killer.

The beams of their flashlights illuminated the area where huge heat ducts rose to the ceiling and heavy water pipes climbed up the wall. Electrical junction boxes were visible near huge waste bins, and several disabled furnaces stood next to what once had been an active incinerator, its iron doors black, the smokestack rising upward.

The place was quiet, not a sound as they fanned out, weapons drawn, nerves strung tight. Dern’s ears strained, but he heard nothing other than the other cops as they moved through the area and his own galloping heartbeat.

Carefully he stepped around a furnace. There, blocked by the huge firebox, was the heart of a camp, presumably Reece’s. Got you, you son of a bitch! He motioned to one of the deputies, who shined her light over the filth of a dirty sleeping bag, camp stove, clothes, and garbage scattered in one corner. A couple of pails, one with clean water, one fouled with waste.

But no Reece.

They combed the area.

“He’s gone.” A male cop sounded disgusted. “In the wind.”

“Looks recent,” another one said, shaking his head.

Dern touched the camp stove. “Still warm.”

“Where the hell could he go?” Another cop shined his flashlight over the walls. “Looks like only one way out of here.”

“Heat vents,” another said.

“They go straight up. He couldn’t climb up sheet metal, and they’re not big enough. Reece is over six feet.”

“Shit!”

Dern eyed the cavernlike room, looking up at the ceiling until finally his gaze landed on the incinerator. They’d already looked inside, of course, but something about it bothered him. The big firebox seemed out of place. And there were a few ashes on the outside floor. He opened the door again, but the bin was empty. Shining his flashlight upward, he noticed the interior ladder, used probably for cleaning the chimney.

“He’s on the roof!” Dern was already running for the exit.

“Hey!” Burly shouted after him. “We already checked up there.”

“I know, but he heard us and waited, then climbed into the incinerator and used the ladder. He’s on the friggin’ roof!” Rather than wait for the ensuing discussion, Dern flew up the stairs. He heard boots clattering behind him, even a curse or two, but he kept running, taking the steps two at a time and hoping that at least a couple of the cops climbed the incinerator ladder.

“He’ll be trapped up there!” someone behind him said as Dern reached the first floor.

“Unless he decides to take a flying leap!”

“Oh, Christ! Well, he wouldn’t survive. It would serve the bastard right and save the state a whole lotta money!”

Taking the steps two at a time, Dern flew by the second floor, passed the third, and reached the roof access. It was locked. Probably by Reece, from the other side. “Bastard!” he muttered.

Grabbing both handrails of the stairs, he swung his body and, using momentum and all the strength he could muster, kicked the door with his feet.

BAM!

Frame shattering, the door flew open, banging loudly as a rush of wind whistled down the stairwell. Hearing the thunder of footsteps from the group of cops behind him, Dern scrambled to his feet and flung himself onto the roof. Once again he wished he had his pistol as he walked slowly around the stairwell to the perimeter of the building, his eyes searching as he fought the screaming wind and heavy rain.

“What the fuck?” someone behind him said.

Dern turned to see the disgust on Burly’s face.

“He’s not here! He’s flown the damned coop, I tell ya.” The