The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(71)

“Yes, yes, of course. I don’t believe we spoke long, though.”

“No, I’ve mostly been with Frank and Alice Mercer. They’re devastated with the loss of their daughter.”

He closes his eyes in sympathy.

Which is when Watts and Captain Scott come around the corner. Ramirez discreetly shifts across the doorway to where she’s actively holding the door open rather than preventing its close. I step around Mr. Davies so I’m at his back, loosening my gun in its holster just in case. Soft and sweet does not mean unarmed.

“Mark Davies,” calls Watts.

His eyes snap open to stare at her in confusion. He doesn’t seem to register that Ramirez and I have moved.

“I’m Agent Watts with the FBI; this is Captain Scott of Richmond PD. I am hereby placing you under arrest for the kidnapping of Brooklyn Mercer and the kidnapping and murder of sixteen other girls. Their names are listed in our warrant.”

“Wh-what? I’m sorry?”

An ambulance races down the street to park in the driveway, probably held back on the next street so it was out of sight.

“You have the right to remain silent,” Watts continues. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

Davies backs away from her, stumbling over the edge of his house slipper. He turns sharply, his back to her, and faces me standing a foot away. He flinches and sways with a low moan. “No . . . you’ve made a mistake. I’m sorry, I don’t have time for this. My daughter . . . my daughter is ill, she needs me.”

Captain Scott reaches out to clasp the first cuff around Davies’s wrist. He’s careful not to cinch it too tightly, and he’s visibly holding back strength—and probably fury—as he gently tugs Davies’s other arm behind him to the second cuff. Watts nods at me and continues Mirandizing the man while Captain Scott turns him and leads him out of the house. Almost as an afterthought, Watts throws a stuffed puppy over her shoulder for me to catch.

Two paramedics run up to the house, a gurney bouncing between them. “Where is she?” the older one asks straight off.

“We’re not sure yet. Now that we’re in, we can search.”

“Want we should wait here?”

“Please,” Ramirez answers. “Trust me, we’ll yell.”

It’s a two-story house, with a living room right up at the front and the bedrooms tucked up over it, a narrow hall leading to the kitchen and dining room on one side and the stairwell and a bathroom on the other.

“I’ll take upstairs,” Ramirez says, and heads up quickly.

I glance through the downstairs rooms. It’s a rental property; he can’t make many changes. No secret rooms, no hidden doors. My fingers run over a coat closet in the hallway, kind of a weird distance away from the door, and I open it. Yes, a coat closet. But the next door, set into the wall under the stairs, opens to a dark stairwell. I flick the light switch near the door, and a single, swaying bulb casts more shadows than light across the steep steps.

Pulling the flashlight off my belt, I carefully descend. Technically I should have my gun out, but there’s no indication that Davies ever worked with a partner, and if Brooklyn’s down here, I don’t want her first sight of me to be with a gun in my hand.

At the base of the stairs, floor-to-ceiling heavy fabric divider panels block off all but the narrow path leading to the laundry room. My high school had those in the band and chorus rooms to absorb the sound and save the other classes from being driven mad by the cacophony. Near the middle, there’s a narrow crack of light.

“Brooklyn?” I ask cautiously. “Brooklyn, are you down here?”

I hear a muffled sniffle, then a quavering “Hello?”

I clip the flashlight back to my belt and get my hands into that crack, shoving the panels apart. More fabric sections line the walls to create a basically soundproof room. The insides of the dividers have pictures and posters pinned in place. There are even curtains around a window frame that has a galaxy poster behind the narrow crossbeams. There’s a light pink toy chest spilling over with stuffed animals, a child’s desk with boxes of crayons and markers lined against the back edge, and a white dresser with pink drawers.

And there, on the pink-and-yellow bed, a wide-eyed, pale Brooklyn Mercer shakes in fear. A bucket nearby smells unpleasantly of vomit, but all the tubing of the homemade IV stand is dry and draped over thin hooks.

“Brooklyn.” I walk forward, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and slowly reach a hand to her clammy forehead. “Oh, Brooklyn, sweetheart, we have been looking for you. I’m so glad we found you.”

She starts crying and struggles against the weight of the blankets over her. I help her fold them back and suddenly find myself with an armful of sobbing little girl. I hold her close and gently rock her back and forth.

“I have to let the others know you’re down here,” I tell her after a minute. “I’m going to pull away just for a second so I’m not screaming in your ear, okay?”

At her nod, I lean back, covering her exposed ear with one hand for good measure. “Down here!” I yell. “She’s down here! Down in the basement!”

Footsteps thunder down the stairs, and Brooklyn tenses, her hand closing hard around my arm.

My bandaged arm. I swallow against the flare of pain and the unpleasant squish of blisters bursting.