She turned her head violently away; heard herself scream, then scream again.
There was a grunt and she now saw himfor the first time, coming around the corner and advancing toward her, a long, bloody knife in one hand, something wet and red in the other.
He was smiling and singing to himself.
The scream died as her throat closed involuntarily at the sight.
That face—!
Fifty-Four
Hazen stood before the assembled law enforcement officers. What he had to say wouldn’t take long: it was a good crew, and they had a good plan. McFelty wouldn’t stand a chance.
There was only one problem. Tad hadn’t yet returned from the plant, and radio communications were down. Hazen would have preferred to hand off control directly before leaving, but he could wait no longer. Medicine Creek was well secured and properly hunkered down: Tad had clearly seen to that already. It was already a few minutes to ten. He didn’t want McFelty slipping away under cover of the storm. They had to go. Tad would know what to do.
“Where’s the dogs?” he asked.
Hank Larssen spoke up. “They’re bringing them straight to the Kraus place. Meeting us there.”
“I hope to hell they got us some real dogs this time. Did you ask for that special breed they’ve been training up in Dodge, those Spanish dogs, what are they called?”
“Presa canarios,” Larssen said. “I did. They said their training wasn’t complete, but I insisted.”
“Good. I’m through playing around with lap dogs. Who’s the handler?”
“Same as last time. Lefty Weeks. He’s their best.”
Hazen scowled, shucked out a cigarette, lit it.
Now he raked the group with his gaze. “You all know the drill, so I’ll be brief. The dogs go first, then the handler—Lefty—then me and Raskovich.” He pointed at the KSU security chief with his cigarette.
Raskovich nodded, his jaw tightening with the gravity of the situation.
“Raskovich, you know how to use a twelve-gauge?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I’ll issue you one. Behind us, as backup, there’ll be Cole, Brast, and Sheriff Larssen.” He nodded to two state troopers dressed in full raid wear: black BDU pants bloused over Hi-Tec boots, blacked-out bulletproof vests. No more Boy Scout hats—this was going to be the real thing. Then he turned back to Larssen. “That okay with you, Hank?”
The Deeper sheriff nodded.
Hazen knew it was important to play the political game, keep Hank in the loop, make sure he was part of the team. Hank clearly wasn’t happy about it, but there wasn’t much he could do: this was Hazen’s turf, and until the operation was finished and outside communication was restored, it was completely his show. In the end Hazen would make sure Larssen looked good. They’d all share credit—Raskovich, too—and there wouldn’t be any backstabbing when it came to trial.
“The rules of engagement are simple. You’ve all got riot guns, but don’t use them unless your life is directly threatened.Is that absolutely crystal clear?”
Everyone nodded.
“We’re taking our man out aliveand unhurt.We’re going in nice and easy, disarm the guy, bring him out shackled and cuffed, but with kid gloves. He’s our star witness. If he panics and starts shooting, you stay backand let the dogs take care of him. And dogs like these can take a major round or two and still work.”
Silence, nods.
“If any of you’s thinking of coming out a hero, forget it. I’ll arrest you myself. We work together.”
He glared at each one in turn. It was Raskovich he was most worried about, but so far the man had been cool. It was worth taking the chance. Hell, he was willing to let Raskovich take all the damn credit if it meant the experimental field came to Medicine Creek.
“Shurte and Williams, you two will stake out the cave entrance. I want you to give yourself a good field of action, which means no lounging in the entrance where you could be surprised. If we flush McFelty and he tries to take off, you need to be ready to take him. You, Rheinbeck, you’re going into the Kraus mansion to serve the warrant and drink tea with Winifred. Be prepared to back up Shurte and Williams if they need it.”
Rheinbeck’s face betrayed nothing, just a faint twitching along the jawline.
“I know, Rheinbeck, it’s a tough assignment, but the old lady’s bound to be upset. We don’t want any heart attacks, right?”
Rheinbeck nodded.
“Remember, we’ll have no communication to the outside world down there. And if we get separated, there won’t be any communication between us, either. So we stay together. Got it?”
He looked around. They got it.
“All right, Cole’s going to tell us about the night-vision goggles.”
Cole stepped forward. He was Mr. State Police himself, tall, muscular, crew-cut, deadpan face. Funny how the Staties were never fat. Maybe it was a rule. He was carrying a gray helmet with a large set of goggles fastened beneath it.
“In a cave,” he said, “there’s no light at all. None. For that reason normal NVGs won’t work. So we’re going in with infrared illumination. The infrared light works just like a flashlight. This is the bulb, right here, on the front of the helmet. Here’s the switch. It’s got to be turned on to work, just like a regular flashlight. You can’t see the light with the naked eye, but when you put the NVGs on you’ll see a reddish illumination. If your infrared headlamp goes off, your goggles go black. Understand?”
Everyone nodded.
“The purpose of the NVGs is so we don’t make ourselves targets by carrying flashlights. He can’t see us. We’ll keep the overhead lights off and go in silent, and he won’t know how many we are.”
“Is there a map of the cave or something?” It was Raskovich.
“Good question,” said Hazen. “No, there isn’t. A wooden walkway’s been erected through most of it. There are a few rooms in the back, two or three at most, beyond. One of these rooms has the old still in it, and that’s probably where we’ll find our man. This isn’t Carlsbad Caverns we’re talking about. Just exercise common sense, stay close, and you’ll be all right.”
The security chief nodded.
Hazen went to the weapons locker, removed a shotgun, broke it open, loaded it, slapped it closed with a flick of his wrist, and handed it to Raskovich. “You’ve all checked your weapons?”
There was a general shuffling, a murmur of assent. Hazen did a final check of his service belt, counterclockwise: extra magazines, asp baton, cuffs, pepper spray, sidearm all in place. He took a breath, snugged his armored vest up tight beneath his chin.
At that moment the lights in the office flickered, brightened, and went out. A chorus of groans and murmurs went up.
Hazen glanced out the window. No lights on the main drag, or anywhere else for that matter. Medicine Creek was blacked out from front to back. No surprise, really.
“This doesn’t change a thing,” he said. “Let’s go.”
He opened the door and they stepped out into the howling night.
Fifty-Five
As he pulled into Medicine Creek, Special Agent Pendergast slowed the big Rolls, then plucked his cell phone from his pocket and made another attempt to call Corrie Swanson.
The only reply was a steady beeping, no longer even a recorded message. The relay stations were down.
He replaced the phone. The police radio was also down and the lights of the town were out. Medicine Creek was effectively cut off from the outside world.
He drove along Main Street. The trees were lashing back and forth in a frenzy under the angry wind. Sheets of rain swept across the streets, forming muddy whirlpools in drains that a few hours before had been choked with dust. The town was locked down tight: shades drawn, shutters closed. The only activity seemed to be at the sheriff’s office. Several state police cars were parked outside, and the sheriff and state police were moving around outside, loading equipment into a state police van and getting into squad cars. It looked like some operation was afoot, something more than the usual storm detail.