The Lonely Mile(61)
Bill allowed himself a pleasant, momentary vision of Krall off somewhere else, like he had thought before, at a job or shopping or even searching for another victim. In this scenario, Bill would waltz down the stairs, find his little girl safe and sound, untie her, and bring her home. He would be more than happy to let Special Agent Angela Canfield handle the job of hunting down and arresting Martin Krall.
It was a nice dream. But Bill knew it was an unrealistic one as well.
He repeated his exercise of a few minutes ago, leaning up against the door and pressing his ear against it, straining to hear voices or footsteps or any other sound that would give him some indication of whether anyone was there or not, and if they were, what they might be up to.
He could hear nothing but the relentless pounding of the wind and rain against the house and the occasional terrifying crash of thunder and lightning. Once more, he grasped a brass doorknob with a sweaty hand and eased the door open, praying to God that his luck would hold.
Bill exerted a steady upward pressure on the knob, hoping the added tension would prevent the door’s hinges from squeaking excessively and alerting Krall, if he was there, to his presence. The door slipped open, revealing a wooden stairway disappearing into the gloomy semi-darkness of the basement.
These stairs, like everything else in the home, appeared badly in need of repair. One tread, about halfway down the stairs, had come loose and been thrown haphazardly onto the riser. He’d have to be careful not to trip on that or some other loose tread on his way down.
He took one step, then two, then a third, and slowly descended into the stifling humidity of the cellar. Shadows moved below, and Bill knew he had been right. Whatever was happening in this house was happening down here.
One more step, and Bill’s eye level was finally below the first floor joists, allowing him a view of the entire basement. He stopped in his tracks, horrified. Chained to a bed, lying on a ratty, filthy mattress, was his little girl. Dried blood crusted one side of her head, running from her scalp, creating a mass of hopelessly clumped and knotted hair, down her face and onto her Avril Lavigne t-shirt. Her jeans were a filthy mess, stained with dried blood and urine. But all he cared about at this moment was that she was alive! She’s alive! Carli’s alive!
A man—undoubtedly Martin Krall, although his back was to Bill, so he could not say for certain—approached Carli from the left of the stairs. His right arm was swathed in bandages and Bill flashed on all of the blood he had seen on the kitchen floor. Was it possible Carli had inflicted that injury on Krall? His heart swelled with pride for his gutsy child.
Krall knelt next to the cot as Carli cringed back against the grungy black iron bars of the headboard. Her eyes were screwed shut and her mouth drawn down in a grimace of fear and disgust. The man fumbled with her belt buckle and unsnapped her jeans, mumbling to her in a low voice. Bill could just make the sound out over the noise of the storm, although he couldn’t tell what the man was saying.
Every fiber of his body was screaming at him, Shoot! Shoot him! Do it now before he turns and sees you! Before he does any more damage to your little girl! Bill raised the Browning Hi-Power and sighted down the barrel, then shook his head in mute frustration. Krall’s body was positioned directly in front of Carli. If he took the shot and Krall moved at the last second, or if Bill missed—his hands were shaking badly, it was a definite possibility—or if he hit Krall, but the round went through his body, it would strike Carli. There was no question about it.
Bill wanted to scream, and would have, if there was any way to do it without alerting Krall to his presence and giving up the advantage of surprise. He moved down another step and then another, somehow remembering in the tension and fear to step over the faulty stair tread. In a few seconds, he had reached the bottom of the stairway. Krall still hadn’t heard a sound.
He took two steps and reached a position immediately behind Krall as the man was unzipping his little girl’s jeans. Bill lifted his gun to blow Martin Krall to Hell and—
CHAPTER 54
May 28, 4:17 p.m.
HE HEARD THE DISTINCTIVE sound of a slide being racked, the heavy, metallic ka-chink that was at once menacing and unmistakable. A split second later, he felt the deadly mass of a handgun barrel pressed into his ear. “Drop it,” commanded a voice so softly that Bill could barely make it out over the shrieking noise of the storm outside.
For a moment, nothing happened. The wind howled and the thunder crashed and the rain pelted the casement window, and Bill Ferguson knew, if he surrendered his weapon, he was condemning himself and his daughter to death. Confusion battled frustration in his head—fear was running a distant third—and Bill tried to imagine how someone had managed to sneak up behind him after he had just finished clearing the entire house.
“I said, drop the gun,” the voice repeated. “You have two seconds before I blow your meager brains all over your little girl.” In front of him, Krall had finally realized something was happening, and he turned slowly. The initial look of concern etched on the face of the I-90 Killer, of barely controlled panic, was replaced by a sly smile as he completed his turn and took in the scene.
Something was wrong here, something more than the fact that Bill had botched his rescue attempt. Something about that disembodied voice behind him sounded chillingly familiar. It was disorienting. He reluctantly held the Browning out to the side with two fingers on the butt of the pistol.