The light froze on the gate bottom. The boy's attention was drawn to Maslow's sneakers stuffed under the gate and the gap where a spoke had been.
"What the fuck!" he said again. He shone the light into the cave looking for Maslow and didn't locate him at first.
Maslow had thrown himself down in the corner, trying to look as if he had given up and died hours ago. The boy kept the light on him, shifting it back and forth from the shoeless feet to his hands buried in dirt, to his head. Maslow saw the light move and kept still. He had a wild hope that the boy would think Dylan was dead and he was dead, and that he would just go away.
But the boy was angered by what he saw and squatted down to assess the situation. He saw the sneakers and the digging that Maslow had done in his attempt to free Dylan's leg. Then he shone the light on Dylan more carefully this time and saw that her hands were no longer bound. He swore again.
Maslow held his breath as the boy poked Dylan's foot. She groaned. That galvanized him. The rock was still wedged against the gate. Now he picked it up and moved it. Then he wrenched the gate away. Dylan was not so out of it that she didn't feel the metal tearing her flesh. She screamed.
Maslow screamed, too, but the boy didn't hear him. Thunder was booming in the sky, and he had something else on his mind. He entered the cave, bending low to get inside. He shone the light on Maslow. Maslow held his breath and didn't move as the boy half-walked, half-crawled closer to get a better take on him. He poked Maslow with his foot, curiously, as if he were some thing, not a person. When Maslow didn't move, he kicked him in the ankle, then in the side. The breath was knocked out of him, and still he didn't move.
Maslow hurt in new places now, and he was enraged by the arrogance of the boy. The kid didn't see them as alive, as people. He didn't give a shit what he was doing to them. The arrogance and the raw sadism was more than Maslow could bear. If he had been strong enough to kill, he would kill now. But he was afraid to move, afraid of what the boy would do to him next.
Satisfied that he was no threat, the boy turned around and concentrated on Dylan. She was weeping feverishly, talking gibberish a few feet away. The boy was interested in her.
"Turn over," he said.
She didn't acknowledge him. This annoyed him. "I want you to turn over." She didn't comply, so he rolled her over himself.
Maslow thought he would lose his mind as he saw the boy talking to her, moving her arms and her legs to suit him.
"No, no." She muttered something inaudible.
The boy paid no attention to her. "Put your arms around me and hug me," he said.
He got down on his knees. He didn't like her position and moved her body around some more. Maslow couldn't figure out what he was doing.
"Hug me."
The boy lay down beside Dylan and started pulling at her clothes.
Maslow's heart pounded. No. No! He was choking on his indignation, his rage. The boy was pure evil. Never had he seen such evil. He could not lie there and watch when the boy pulled up Dylan's skirt and rolled on top of her. Maslow rose up out of the ground and struck out like a pit bull attacking a lion.
Sixty-five
The orange glow of Zumech's SAR jumpsuit was way ahead of April as Peachy reversed direction again, and turned northwest back toward the lake. The air was heavy and the grass was wet. The temperature had dropped a few more degrees and the mist had turned into a fine drizzle. April was in pretty good shape, but hadn't hunted at night for a long time. Ten years ago this would have been nothing. Her first job had been in Bed Stuy, where she'd been on the streets day and night for eighteen difficult months in a really rough neighborhood where she'd felt small and defenseless, but had never bothered much about her physical comfort in the heat, wet, or paralyzing cold.
Now she was no longer used to running at night with her gun at her waist and her extra equipment slamming against her side with every step. She perspired in the vest and waterproof windbreaker, hampered by her own precautions. This night maneuver was coming to nothing, and she was sorry that she'd worn the vest. It was one of the new ones, cost nearly four hundred dollars, and fit her small frame nicely. It was supposed to breathe and be cooler than the older models but still be strong enough to stop any bullet out on the street. The first two claims were proving false. She hoped she'd never be a test for the third.
She was winded and discouraged as the dog changed direction yet again and the weather worsened. Mike was ahead of her, and it annoyed her that he was moving faster now than she was. Woody straggled along at her side. She felt horrible. She'd made another tactical error, trying this search at night. They were idiots, out in a storm with all four people they were looking for way off their radar screen, somewhere in the wind.
Trotting northwest after the dog, she was furious at herself. Suddenly Woody's light went off beside her. The fog closed in to a tighter circle. Lightning hit, cracking the sky. A boom of thunder followed.
"Shit." Woody stumbled and swore as the sky opened up and the rain hit with full fury, almost knocking them over with its force.
Monsoon time in Manhattan; it always happened in summer and early fall. Dry in her jacket, April's head and feet were drenched in seconds. Their search party was over. The park was empty, the sky as dark as deepest night. The dog was moving west.
Ahead, Mike stopped to zip his jacket. Then he moved on, his flashlight pointed down at the path. April kept a slower but steady pace, her eye on Peachy's orange necklace and John's jumpsuit just visible and still moving west, now at a run. April checked her watch. They'd been out an hour and forty-five minutes.
The dog and trainer raced on in the rain. And April ran after them, panting and exhausted. She was certain that the dog was heading back to the haven of the red Jeep Cherokee. They were rained out. No dog could smell through a hurricane. She was deeply disappointed at their failure, and she was also ashamed because she, too, yearned for rest and warmth and praise from her boyfriend. Peachy would get her treats whether she'd lost the scent or not. But April had messed up, she'd lost all three of her suspects and was in big trouble. Big.
In six minutes, they were back almost to where they'd started. But Peachy did not stop at the cars. April saw Peachy's orange necklace as she skirted the water's edge on the east side of the lake, traveling north along the patch of water until it became shallows and finally grass. Water poured down on their heads, muting John's excited cry of victory as Peachy hurled herself into the grass and disappeared.
Sixty-six
In a crack of thunder, Maslow grabbed the boy by the back of his jacket and jerked him off Dylan. Unlike the boy and Dylan, he made no sound. All his effort went into the attack, and the boy was caught by surprise.
"Hey!" The boy pushed the sobbing girl from him like a rag doll that had gotten in his way. He tried to get up. As he unfolded his body, his forehead smacked a rock jutting from the ceiling.
"Shit." He swore and held his head. His foot knocked the flashlight over, dousing the meager light.
Dark took over the cave again but for the lightning outside, flashing like a strobe in a downtown club. Inside, it smelled of rain, sweat, blood, and fear. Maslow went for the boy's knees. Cursing some more, the boy fell hard, and the two grappled on the sharp, stony cave floor, struggling for advantage. Maslow tried to kick his opponent in the balls but couldn't get to him. So he pummeled with his fists as hard as he could from above, landing his blows on the boy's head and neck.
"Cut that out!" The boy's cry was high-pitched and carping. He was actually complaining.
Maslow tried to pin him, but the younger man outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. He flipped Maslow off him, and with one cuff, exploded Maslow's head with a thousand excruciating pin lights of pain. Maslow lay where he had fallen, stunned and immobilized.