Page 55 of Traces of Kara

“We gotta get him outta there.”

“It’s evidence, man. We’re tampering with evidence.” Mark protested.

“If we don’t, there’ll be no evidence to verify.”

Mark ran his hand through his hair and coughed.

“Let’s get this shit over with,” Grant said.

Mark pulled his shirt over his nose, his face pinched with distaste.

Grant looked at the beet red skin on his hands, the hair already singed and shriveled, then let his eyes shift to the smoking, scorched body before him. “Poor son of a bitch.” He rubbed a mixture of sweat and rain from his face, and breathed a heavy sigh. His heartbeat was slowing to normal. He looked around for someplace to put the disfigured body where it wouldn’t be rained on. Beneath the duct appeared to be the only viable option. Its massive breadth would provide an ample umbrella.

Grant leaned over, resting his hands on his knees while he caught his breath. Moving the body had proven to be far more trying than they had imagined. The victim’s skin sloughed off where touched. The driving rain made it difficult to keep a grip on his body.

“Shouldn’t we call for backup?” Mark asked.

Grant could no longer hope this was nothing more than a scare. “Call it in.” He tossed Mark his cell phone.

Mark reached out with one hand and caught the phone. “Right.” He dialed 911 just as thunder crashed above, and two great flashes of lightning lit up the interior of the plant, vanishing as quickly as they had come. He pulled the phone from his ear with a yelp.

Grant turned around.

Mark rubbed his ear. “That can’t be good. Damn thing made a piercing sound.”

The discovery of the body had shifted Grant’s worry into overdrive. His senses heightened. The smell of the burning body had taken up residency in his nose. Every sound echoed in his ears—the cars on the road outside the perimeter of the plant grounds, the rushing water of the canal. Grant heard each sound as if it were magnified.

He calculated his next move. The two structures needed to be secured. “We’re on our own here.” Grant nodded toward the building.

Mark must have read his mind. He turned to Grant and said, “You want to take one? I’ll take the other?”

Grant shook his head and drew his eyebrows together, as if the statement had no credibility. “I don’t know what you learned in Chambersburg, but around here, you don’t fly solo on these missions.” He tapped his head. “This guy’s no dummy. He staked out his territory. We need to figure out where he’s hiding.” He looked around the enormous rooftop. “A frickin’ needle in a haystack.”

Mark sighed. “Basement?”

Grant shook his head. “We work top down. Where’d you learn police work?” He motioned with his gun for Mark to follow his lead, and dashed across the roof to the first door. They pressed their backs against the brick of the next level of the building, out of breath and shivering, guns pointing at the sky.

Mark glanced beyond the edge of the structure. The rooftop had no railing. “If I fall, it’s on your shoulders.”

Grant rolled his eyes, swiftly moving to the other side of the door. He looked down toward the parking lot and saw Ted step from his car.

Chapter Forty-Three

Roland stepped into the narrow, darkened hallway behind the diminutive man. He grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him backward. The man’s sheet-white face was contorted with fear. Roland grabbed the front of his shirt before he could run. He pulled the man to within inches of his face, the urge to punch him evident in the pulsating veins in his neck and fisted hands.

“Please!” cried the man. “Please, don’t hurt me. I have a wife. Please!”

The man’s breath stunk of coffee. Roland stared into his beady eyes. The building breathed around them with each crash of thunder. Roland lifted him off the floor and pushed his back against the wall; his chest was heaving, and his eyes locked on the man’s trembling body.

The man turned his face to the side and squeezed his eyes closed. “Please,” he whispered.

Roland’s breath came in fast, hard spurts. His fingers were clasped tightly around the man’s shirt, his fist pressed against his small, heaving chest. He could kill him, smack his head against the wall and toss him like a rag doll. Roland pushed his fist harder against the man’s chest. He could feel his heart beat against his knuckles.

A weeping sound came from the man’s pinched lips. Tears streaked his aged, hollowed cheeks.

Roland pushed him harder against the wall.

The man held his breath. Roland cocked his fist. Thunder boomed outside the walls. Roland tilted his head, listening to the voice in his head. He squinted, feeling the man’s shaking body beneath his fist. You’re so stupid! His father’s voice rang in his mind—or was it Mr. Lowrey’s? He couldn’t be sure. Confusion tangled his thoughts. He blinked away the voice and clenched his teeth. “Shut up!” he said, spittle flying with each labored breath.