The Dark (A Detective Alice Madison Novel)(90)

She didn’t like the idea of climbing after them and being a perfect target; however, her options were limited. She swore, stepped onto the platform and then onto the metal stairs, holding the guardrail with her left hand and the Glock with her right, pointing at the fast-moving shadows below her. This was not about calling out and giving notice; this was about catching up.

All their footsteps clanged on the metal, and Madison was sure they’d heard hers. In a few seconds they’d reach the ground. What then? She climbed down as fast as she could, once or twice losing her footing and gripping the rail with all her strength to keep from falling.

Madison didn’t want to shoot blindly at the men below her, and clearly they had decided that taking a shot at her would represent a small gain against the major drawback of attracting the attention of the other cops.

Madison’s feet hit the ground, and she spun around. The men were already heading for the trees.

“Stop!” she yelled. “Seattle Police.” The muzzle of the gun tracked the silhouettes, but Madison didn’t squeeze the trigger. Too dark to know what she’d be hitting. She pointed her piece at the ground a few feet away and let out one shot—just a quick warning to let everyone else know where the action was.

She was about to follow the men into the darkness, when she stopped. Her priority was Vincent Foley. Vincent, who was not in his room, who had been missing from the head count. Madison needed to think clearly, and the chase had scrambled her logic. Vincent. The perspiration was cooling on her skin now that she had stopped; her clothes clung to her with sweat, and her chest rose and fell. Vincent.

Madison had been inside and had seen the rooms. The staff had gotten patients out carefully, likely making head counts every step of the way. What if Vincent had gone wandering once he was already out of the building, once the staffers had relaxed for a moment because the grounds were safe from the fire and help was on its way? And poor Thomas Reed had gone back to look for him. Vincent, Madison thought, with grime under his nails even after his hands had been scrubbed clean.

Madison looked around and tried to orient herself, to remember the structure of the clinic’s gardens as she had seen it from Dr. Peterson’s office, and she took off at a dead run.

She had no idea where Conway’s men were or where anybody else was, but she had a rough idea of where she might find Vincent. The fire was still blazing on the first floor of the east wing as she turned around the side of the building and her hearing caught up with her.

The light from the fire played among the shadows of the firs as the cool scent of the damp earth mixed with the smoke. At first the glow showed her the way as the path meandered away from the open and farther from the brick structure. After a few seconds Madison reached into her pocket and twisted the cap of her flashlight; it wasn’t ideal, but she had to see where she was going. She kept the pool of light right in front of her feet; her steps were overly loud and clear to her restored hearing.

She heard him before she saw him: a low keening and shuffling only yards away from her. The beam of the light found Vincent Foley crouching in the dirt and digging with his bare hands by the bush of Dicentra formosa. The hole was already a couple of feet wide and a foot deep. For a moment Madison couldn’t speak. Vincent’s high-pitched wail rose through the air and fluttered with each breath he took.

Madison came back to herself. “Vincent,” she whispered.

He looked up, and she wasn’t sure whether he really saw her or anything else around them: his face was smudged with dirt, and his wide blue eyes shone with purpose. He went back to raking his fingers through the ground.

“Vincent,” Madison repeated.

His hands never stopped, and the soft whimpering resumed like a chant.

Madison turned toward the building: orange light flickered through the shadows, dimmer now than it had been before. The firefighters were winning their battle. Occasionally a vehicle, invisible through the undergrowth, would roar past on the nearby driveway.

She had to make a decision about what to do with Vincent Foley now that she’d found him, and she had to do it quickly.

“It’s not safe here,” she said.

Vincent looked up, and for the first time his gaze flitted around her, found Madison, and focused on her.

“No, it isn’t,” he replied. “It isn’t.”

“Who are you afraid of?”

“The man.”

“Which man?”

“The man.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

The very act of digging seemed to ease his anxiety, as if the compulsion was relieved by the action; however, it only lasted for a moment, and though he kept checking, it wouldn’t keep the darkness around them at bay for long.