Hearing shouts behind him, Charles felt a surge of panic. He had to find a place to hide. He was convinced that these Recycle people were crazy and that they were planning to kill him. Charles was certain they had hoped to force him into the chemical lagoon, hoping perhaps to make it appear as an accident. He was, after all, a trespasser who could conceivably slip into that cesspool in the dark. And if they were willing to dump poisons into a public river, morality was not high on their priority list.
Charles came to a corner in the wall he was following. He strained to see but he couldn’t even detect his own hand moving in front of his face. Bending down, he gathered a few pebbles and tossed them around the corner to see how far away the next wall was. He waited for the sound of the stone to hit a wall, then a floor. There was neither. After a long delay, Charles heard the distant splash of water. He shrank back. Somewhere immediately in front of him was a void, perhaps an old elevator shaft.
Guessing that he was in a hallway, Charles threw some pebbles perpendicular to the wall he’d been following. The stones hit immediately, and stretching out in the darkness, Charles felt the opposite wall.
With his foot Charles began to kick loose plaster ahead of him to be sure that he’d pass the shaft. It worked, and he slowly moved ahead, gaining a certain amount of confidence. He had no way of judging the distance he’d traveled, but he felt it was significant. Then his hand touched another doorjamb. Feeling ahead, his other hand grasped a wooden door, open about a foot. The knob was missing. Charles pushed and the door reluctantly opened, restricted by debris on the floor. With great care Charles inched into the room, feeling ahead with his right foot, and smelling a foul, musty odor. He encountered a bale of material, then realized it was an old, rotting rug.
Behind him he heard someone yell into the cavernous interior. “We want to talk to you, Charles Martel.” The sound echoed in the blackness. Then he heard heavy footsteps and voices talking among themselves. With a surge of new fear, he let go of the door and started across the room, his hands sweeping around in front of him, hoping to find some hiding place. Almost immediately he tripped over another rug, then hit up against a low, metal object. He felt along the top of it, deciding it was a cabinet of sorts that had been tipped over. Stepping around it, he ducked down among a pile of smelly rags. He burrowed beneath the rags as best he could, feeling some movement of little feet. He hoped it was mice he’d disturbed and not something larger.
Except for the luminous dial on his watch, Charles could see nothing. He waited, his breath sounding harsh in the stillness and his heart beating audibly in his ears. He was caught. There was no place else to run. They could do to him what they wanted; no one would find his body, especially if it were thrown down the old elevator shaft. Charles had never felt such limitless terror.
A light flickered in the hallway, sending tiny reflections into Charles’s room. The flashlights were moving down the hallway, coming in his direction. For a moment they disappeared and utter blackness descended. He heard a distant splash as if a large object had been thrown down the elevator shaft, followed by laughter.
The flashlight beams returned to the hallway, swaying and searching as Charles’s pursuers drew nearer. Now he could hear every footstep. With a sudden, grating noise, the old wooden door was shoved open, and a sharp ray of light played around the room.
Charles pulled his head down like a turtle, hoping that his pursuer would be satisfied with a cursory glance. But such was not the case. Charles heard the man kick the roll of old rug and saw the light going over every inch of the floor. With a stab of panic he knew he was about to be discovered.
Leaping from beneath his scant cover, Charles bolted for the door. The pursuer whirled his light, silhouetting Charles in the doorway. “Here he is!” the man yelled.
Intending to try to retrace his steps out of the maze, Charles started down the corridor. Instead he crashed into another pursuer coming down the hall who grabbed him, dropping his flashlight in the process. Charles struck blindly, desperately trying to free himself. Then, even before he felt the pain, his legs buckled beneath him. The man had hit Charles on the back of his knees with a club.
Charles collapsed to the floor as his attacker reached for his flashlight. The other man emerged from the room Charles had been hiding in and his light played over the scene. For the first time, Charles got a look at the man who’d hit him. To his astonishment he found himself looking at Frank Neilson, Shaftesbury’s Chief of Police. The blue serge uniform with all its bits and pieces of decoration, including holster and hand gun, never looked so good.
“Okay, Martel, game’s over, on your feet!” said Neilson, slipping his billy club into its leather holster. He was a stocky man with slicked-back blond hair and a gut that swooped out from his chest, then curved back just above his trouser tops. His neck was the size of Charles’s thigh.
“Am I glad to see you,” said Charles, with heartfelt sincerity despite the fact he’d been struck.
“I’ll bet you are,” said Frank, grabbing Charles by the collar and hauling him to his feet.
Charles staggered for a moment, his leg muscles complaining.
“Cuffs?” asked the deputy. His name was Bernie Crawford. In contrast to his boss, the deputy was tall an lanky, like a basketball forward.
“Hell, no!” said Frank. “Let’s just get out of this shithole.”
Bernie went first, followed by Charles, then Frank, as the trio made their way back through the deserted factory. Passing the elevator shaft, Charles shuddered to think how close he’d come to tumbling into the pit. As he walked, he thought about Bernie’s question of “cuffs.” Obviously Recycle had called the police and had made a complaint.
No one spoke as they marched single file out of the old mill, across the empty lot, and to the Dodge Aspen squad car. Charles was put into the backseat, behind the thick mesh guard. Frank started the car and began to pull away from the curb.
“Hey, my car’s back that way,” said Charles, moving forward to speak through the mesh.
“We know where your car is,” said Frank.
Sitting back, Charles tried to calm down. His heart was still thumping in his chest and his legs ached horribly. He glanced out the window wondering if they were taking him to the station. But they didn’t make a U-turn. Instead they headed south and turned in at the gate for the Recycle parking lot.
Charles sat forward again. “Listen. I need your help. I need to get some hard evidence to prove that Recycle is dumping poisons into the Pawtomack. That’s what I was doing here when they jumped me and destroyed my camera.”
“You listen, Mack,” said Frank. “We got a call you were trespassing here. And on top of that you assaulted one of the workers, pushing him into some acid. Last night you shoved around the foreman, Nat Archer.”
Charles sat back, realizing that he was just going to have to wait out whatever protocol Frank had decided on. Presumably Frank wanted some positive identification. With a certain amount of exasperation clouding his relief, Charles resigned himself to having to go down to the police station.
They stopped a distance from the front entrance. Frank blew the horn three times and waited. Presently the aluminum storm door opened, and Charles watched Nat Archer come out, followed by a shorter fellow whose left leg was swathed from the knee down in bandages.