The Hollow Ones(7)

“Here we go!” he said, sounding muffled and far away.

Odessa’s ears were ringing, not from the sound of the gunshot, but from the adrenaline surging through her bloodstream, a muffled rhythm, bhmpp-bhmpp. She waited for Leppo, only to see him run past her up the driveway. She raced after him, gun aimed down and away.

The side storm door was closed, the interior door open. Leppo went in first. Odessa listened for voices, footsteps, anything—but the noise in her head was too loud. Her own voice rose sharply so that she could hear herself over the din.

“FBI! FBI!”

Leppo was yelling the same ahead of her. “Drop your weapons, FBI!”

Odessa heard no response. She didn’t believe Leppo did, either. He pushed on ahead into the kitchen, Odessa following, slowing at a closed closet door.

She shoved open the door with her foot, gun forward. Not a closet but a walk-in pantry. On the floor before her lay an adult female, arms straight down by her sides. Her throat had been cut. The flesh on her palms was slashed with defensive wounds.

Odessa yelled “BODY!” alerting Leppo, but she did not expect him to return. Odessa followed her training to the letter. She went around the spreading pool of blood to check the woman’s pulse, finding her throat warm still, but no throb whatsoever, no sign of life. The act of pushing her thumb up under the woman’s chin caused the neck wound to open a bit. Air or gas gurgled out of the gap in a big, bright bubble of blood.

A warm wave of nausea surged from Odessa’s torso right up into her throat, and she staggered backward. The sick feeling lingered but she did not lose it. She felt weightless, numb. Odessa was certain she knew the woman’s face. It was Peters’s estranged wife.

The identification brought her back into herself. One thought occurred to her:

Three children.

Suddenly she was sharp again. She had to be. Her senses cleared—and at once she heard screaming. Coming from upstairs.

Odessa hurried out of the pantry. She made her way through the kitchen, finding the bottom of the stairs, looking up. “LEPPO!” She called Walt’s name again, wanting to know his location, and also needing him to know she was coming up the stairs. Friendly fire was something they had drilled on at the FBI Academy every week.

More screaming now. Odessa started running up the steps two at a time.

“LEPPO!”

She scanned the hallway; it was vacant. Blue light pulsed through a street-facing window: local police support arriving out on the street. The cop lights should have been reassuring, but instead the flashing blue gave the second-floor landing a disorienting fun-house effect.

She moved into the first doorway she saw. The room was peach and pink, all soft colors, ruffle on the comforter of the unmade bed.

Next to the bed, under a bloody sheet on the floor, lay a small human form.

Not real, it can’t be real.

Odessa flipped the sheet back from one end, just enough to view a small bare foot, ankle, and thin calf. She didn’t need to see the wounded body. She didn’t want to see the face.

Back out into the hallway. Hyperventilating, ears screaming, her vision rising and falling like a ship in a storm. “LEPPO!”

A second bedroom waited ahead. Inside the open door, a New York Rangers hockey poster hung on the wall, splattered with thick arterial spray. The faint scent of iron hung in the air…

The bed was empty, no body on the floor. Odessa’s eyes darted frantically about the small, dark room.

The closet. A sliding door, half open. Odessa shoved it fully open, fast—

A young boy’s body was inside, slumped like a rag doll against the rear wall, dead-eyed, staring.

Not real, it’s not real—

Odessa spun around, gun up. The room was empty behind her. It was all happening too fast.

A hard thumping against the wall from the adjoining room to her left caused a picture frame to fall off and shatter. Yelling, a struggle—another bump against the wall.

A fight?

“LEPPO!”

Odessa tore out into the flashing blue hallway. As soon as she turned toward the next door, two adult men came crashing out of the adjoining room.

Odessa went into a three-point stance. She made Leppo immediately in the crazed blue light. He was struggling with a male assailant. The assailant turned his head enough so that Odessa recognized Cary Peters’s face. He was wearing track pants and there were bloodstains on the knees and the tops of his bare feet.

A knife. The blade glinted, glowing blue. It was a kitchen carving knife with a thick handle. Odessa saw it in Leppo’s hand. This didn’t make any sense in her split-second read.

A knife, not a gun? Where is Leppo’s Glock?

“DOWN ON THE FLOOR—NOW!—OR I’LL SHOOT!” she yelled.

Leppo was behind Peters, gripping him with both arms, one fist gripping the knife. They grappled. Peters was shoving the heel of his left hand up into Leppo’s chin and mouth, trying to push him off. His right hand gripped Leppo’s wrist, holding back the knife. With great effort in the middle of this life-and-death struggle, the disgraced ex–deputy chief of staff twisted his torso around in order to look at Odessa with an expression she would never, ever forget.

Not the rage-eyed, lunatic aggression that she expected. He looked to her for help. A pleading expression. He appeared bewildered and desperate, even with his wife’s and children’s blood smeared on his face, on his hands.