At First Light(Dr. Evan Wilding #1)(92)

She lifted her binoculars. Across the water, the Chicago skyline rose in a jumbled silhouette against a blustery sky. Closer by, the fifteen-story Damen Silos loomed like industrial castles, lording over the twenty-four-acre lot, their rounded bases covered in brilliant graffiti—gang signs and pleas for peace along with advice to fuck the police, praise Jesus, say no to drugs, and eat vegan. Outlying buildings—warehouses and structures that might have served as administrative offices—were little more than ruins with gaping holes and empty windows. The Chicago River flowed indifferently past all of it, a silky gray-green current.

If Raven was here, he’d picked himself quite a fortress.

Patrick snugged on a hat and wound a thin wool scarf around the lower half of his face before joining Addie on the passenger side of the vehicle.

“You think he’s in there somewhere?” she asked.

“Now that we pulled up like Alexander’s army?” He snorted. “I’ll tell you one thing. If he’s still here, he’s watching us with joy in his black little heart. Probably happy as a mouse in a cracker box because he’s made us jump through all these hoops for him. But as soon as we get close”—Patrick snapped his fingers—“guaranteed he’s got some hellhole where he can pull the dirt in after him and disappear.”

“We have a good perimeter in place,” she pointed out.

“That we do.” He glanced sideways at her. “You think it’s enough?”

She didn’t answer.

They’d closed off all access points to both vehicular and pedestrian traffic, including South Damen Avenue, South Ashland Avenue, and the Canalport Riverwalk. If Raven bolted for freedom in any direction but the river, patrol would see him. And grab him.

But if he had river access, their plan fell apart.

“I don’t see the K-9s,” she said. “We’re going to need the dogs.”

“They’re on the way.”

The SWAT teams had broken into two groups of four, each group headed toward one of the two immense structures, walking in tight phalanxes along the gravel path that ran between the silos. To Addie, they appeared to be moving with all the forward momentum of glaciers as they hugged the concrete walls and watched for any movement.

Addie bounced on her toes, and Patrick patted her shoulder.

“Easy, partner. It’s a lot of space to clear.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“Plus, you gotta figure there are homeless people living around here. Can’t be shooting at everything that pops up.”

The teams came to a halt. Addie walked out onto the gravel rut, staring down the lane with her binoculars, trying to see what was happening.

She passed the glasses to Patrick, who peered through them and said, “Speak of the devil.”

An old woman had appeared suddenly next to one of the silos, almost as if she’d sprung from the ground. Her spine was bent and twisted, her steps slow and uncertain. Someone on the first SWAT team shouted something that the wind carried away, and the woman came to a shuffling halt. There was another shout, and a few seconds later, she raised her hands.

One of the SWAT members moved toward her, stopping a few feet away. The woman lowered her hands, and the two seemed to confer. She pointed toward the base of one of the curving silos. The man nodded, then motioned for one of the patrol officers to come forward and escort the woman away from the area. The man jogged back to his group, and the two SWAT teams reconverged.

A minute later, six men broke away and ran toward the silo where the woman had emerged and stopped at the base. They appeared to be studying the ground.

“Looks like with all the doors bricked up, the squatters have dug their way into the place,” Patrick said.

She grabbed the binoculars back from Patrick.

The SWAT guys drew back, and a moment later, there came a boom and a flare of light. A flash-bang grenade. Addie raised the binoculars again, and now, with the men standing distant and smoke rising, she could make out a pile of excavated rubble and a hole leading into the dark.

The men regrouped and dropped one by one into the hole and vanished. For a time, there was only the sound of the wind howling around the towers and the hushed breath of thirty men and women, waiting. Through the binoculars, Addie watched the two SWAT team leads, who were in radio communication with the men inside. Their faces gave away nothing.

Forty minutes went by. Then another twenty. Lieutenant Criver arrived and told Addie and Patrick that—according to the incident commander—the men were still searching the underground area.

“Our guys say there are so many tunnels down there, it looks like a rabbit burrow,” he said. “Miles of them.”

Patrick kicked the gravel. “Hellfire and damnation.”

Addie remained silent; her throat was closed as if with metal wire. Raven was little more than a needle in an industrial haystack.

She flashed to the photos left in Helskin’s truck. If Raven was in the silos, if he was, in fact, the Viking Poet, was he already at work on his third victim?

Fifteen minutes later, one of the men who’d gone into the silos finally emerged. He spoke to the team leads, then gestured for Addie and Patrick and the lieutenant to join him.

“Sergeant Ray Trujillo,” he said, shaking their hands. Beneath his green helmet, his expression was tight. “There’s a hell of a lot of territory down there. But we did find where someone’s set up a permanent home. He’s got a generator running power to a pair of light bulbs. Plenty of bottled water and nonperishables. Even got himself a cot and a table. Nice and cozy.”