Killman Creek (Stillhouse Lake #2)(38)

We move around the side. Wherever the corrugated siding might have peeled away, it has been nailed back; the nail heads are still bright, no sign of corrosion. Windows way up high, broken, but also unreachable; no handy stacks of crates or discarded ladders we could use to boost up to them, and even if I get on Sam’s shoulders, I’ll be several feet short of the goal. This is starting to look like a waste of time, I think, and then I see a side door. Like the back, someone’s put a new lock in place; unlike the back, they didn’t bother to swap out the original steel clasp. The nails look old. Rusted.

I point it out to Sam, and he nods. He reaches into his backpack and pulls out the kind of multitool pocketknife they don’t allow at airports anymore; he chooses the thickest blade and uses it to pry the nails, and it doesn’t take much for the entire clasp, lock still stoutly fixed, to swing away. It’s almost silent.

Sam stops me and hands me a pair of blue nitrile gloves; he puts on a pair himself. Smart. The last thing we want to do is leave fingerprints here. The fewer traces, the better.

I open the door and step inside, carefully and as silently as I can manage, and despite all my focus and control, I can feel sweat beading on my forehead, under my arms, on my back. I’m trembling with the thunder of adrenaline dumping into my body, and I’m flat-out terrified that I’m about to see Melvin’s pallid face looming out of the shadows, eyes as empty as a doll’s as he reaches for me. The fear is so real that I have to take a second to imagine locking it behind a door, where it can pound and rage without damage.

He’s not here.

But if he is here, I’ll kill him.

It’s a mantra I think to myself, and it helps.

The floor is gritty, cracked concrete, but at least I don’t need a flashlight to see my footing; the milky light that filters in shimmers on floating dust, but it provides enough light to see that this part of the warehouse is open space, littered here and there with rusted parts, a discarded engine, and a pile of old debris.

“Watch your feet,” Sam whispers to me, a thread even I can barely catch. “This place is a tetanus factory.”

He’s right. We’ve both got on thick-soled boots, but I keep watch for nails, broken glass, anything like that. Broken glass is often used as a cheap alarm system by squatters in these places, and nails are hammered through boards and placed points-up as home defense. Last thing I want to do is step on one of those improvised booby traps.

We stop and listen. Except for the whistle of the breeze blowing and creaking through the roof and windows, there isn’t much to hear. No movement at all. But there’s a smell. Rust. Blood. Decay. It’s so familiar, so loathsome, that I feel dizzy.

Melvin’s signature perfume.

There’s an open doorway ahead, and I make my way carefully toward it. I stay out of the line of sight of anyone on the other side, and I halt when I see what looks like a pile of clothes along one side of the wall beyond. I draw my gun, and Sam does the same. He moves to flank me on the other side of the door and raises three fingers. He counts down, and we both pivot in, smooth and quiet.

I almost run into the dangling chains. I flinch back at the last second, and I can’t help the silent explosion of breath that comes out of me, but at least it isn’t a cry. I look down. More chains, anchored in fresh, shiny steel loops driven into the concrete. The chains above are hooked to a pulley system, and I follow the line of the rope back to a tie-off on the wall beyond me.

The floor is thick with old blood, long ago clotted and dried to a rough, flaky crust of black. Still some flies, but nowhere near as many as would have stormed this place when the gore was fresh. I’m trying not to feel anything, but the door I’ve shut on my fear is breaking under the strain. I’m sweating, shaking, and I feel like I can’t breathe. I’m a second away from hyperventilating, and I know I need to calm down.

Focus, I tell myself. Lock it up. Don’t think about it. I know why I’m freaking out. It’s too similar to what I saw in my husband’s garage, even down to the smell. I’m having flashbacks, and I just want to leave here.

But I can’t.

“Gwen,” Sam says. He isn’t bothering to be quiet this time. When I turn, he’s crouching over the pile of clothes, and I move to join him.

The smell of decomposition hits me within one step, far worse now, and I know what I’m going to see before I make it out in the dim light.

The body’s been here a long time, long enough to have been reduced to ragged, chewed meat by scavengers. About half skeletonized. What skin remains on him—I assume it’s the same man we saw on that video—is thin and dry as wax paper, and the maggots are long gone. They’ve left their pupa casings in a scatter like dropped rice.

“How long—” My voice isn’t steady. I stop talking. Sam looks up at me.

“The weather’s cold now, but it was probably still warm when he was killed. So maybe a couple of months.” Sam is silent a moment, head bowed, and then he gets up. “Look around. If there’s anything else here—”

I try to ignore the corpse, but it’s difficult. I feel it constantly, as if its dead, empty eye sockets are tracking me. The rest of this part of the warehouse consists of a pile of old desks that yield nothing but rat droppings and a curling, ancient stack of forgotten invoices twenty years old, and probably of no interest.

But there’s an office at the far end, and as Sam checks his side of the room, I head for it. There’s a metal door with a wide glass panel, reinforced with wire mesh; it’s been pocked and cracked, but it’s still holding firm. I try the door handle.