Page 61 of Traces of Kara

A shuffling sound below them sent a spear through Grant’s nerves. They spun around, each wielding his gun, crouching slightly, legs apart. Grant pointed to the grate, a few feet away. They moved slowly, quietly, toward the grate. Mark turned from side to side, keeping Grant covered as they moved.

The shuffling sound continued, moving away from where they stood. The sound of the rain faded away, replaced with the pounding of Grant’s heart in his ears. His arms tensed as he listened. He desperately wanted to call out Mimi’s name, but he knew better. He bit back the urge and scanned the darkness for steps to the basement. There were none in sight. The shuffling was fading quickly, moving deeper into the viscera of the building. Grant felt something he hadn’t felt in years: fear. He didn’t fear for his own life, but he feared for Mimi’s. They would never be a couple, he’d come to accept that years ago. He’d settle for just knowing she was nearby, seeing her around town, at community events, or in his office. Wait—his office. She’d come to him. Of course, why hadn’t he seen that before? She hadn’t gone to Ted, she’d come to him. Maybe those old feelings hadn’t diminished after all.

Grant headed toward the elevators, his gun remaining trained on the level below. Mark followed.

The elevators were dead. The overhead light quickly dissipated, leaving the bottom half of the hallway dark. Grant followed the ceiling light, looking for a doorway. There had to be an egress to the floor below somewhere around there.

Mark bumped Grant’s arm with his elbow, motioning toward the opposite side of the hall. They hurried across the concrete floor and found a closed door. Mark positioned himself to the left of Grant, his gun aiming in the darkness toward the door. He’d have a clear shot once the door was open.

Grant looked at him, measuring his readiness, and preparing his own courage. He reached for the doorknob and wrapped his palm around the cold metal. He gave Mark a last look, nodded, and turned the knob.

It didn’t turn.

Grant pulled. The door didn’t give. He pushed. It was locked. He shot a look toward Mark, who eyed his gun. He couldn’t shoot the door open. They had no idea where Mimi and Jackson were, or who, if anyone, had been shot. He assumed the worst. If it had been Greer who was shot, then surely he’d hear Mimi and Jackson scrambling to get out of the building—unless they’d also been killed.

Ted lay on the floor in a pain-filled fog, his attacker standing beside him. Who was he, and why was he after them? What did this have to do with his wife and stepdaughter? The thought sickened him. Blood pooled beneath him, oozing toward his face. The pain in his side had initially sent his mind into a blackened spiral. When he’d come to, he’d immediately heard his attacker’s labored breaths. Ted had the presence of mind not to move, and to let his eyes remain at half-mast. He could hear the man wiping his face, sniffling, as if he’d been crying. That couldn’t be. Ted was sure it was his mind playing tricks on him, but he remained still, his breathing shallow. The pain had subsided to a constant, sharp pain, as if he were lying on a knife. Just as he was beginning to doubt his ability to remain still a moment longer, the man turned to leave. Ted watched as he lumbered down the hall, disappearing into the darkness.

What had he been thinking? Ted wondered. He was an accountant, not a vigilante. The metallic smell of blood reached his nose, and he knew he had to stop the bleeding if he was to save his own life. He didn’t dare move, for fear the man would come back. He stared into the blackness, every second feeling like an hour, every moment driving the fear of death further into his nerves. Chills ran through his limbs. He’d heard of people getting cold before dying. He didn’t want to die.

An image of Mimi swam into his mind, bringing with it a surge of adrenaline. He had to get up. He had to find her. Ted lowered his hand, which had been outstretched along the floor above his head, and found, with trembling fingers, the open gash near his side. Panic flooded his veins at the feel of the wet, hot blood oozing from his body. He reached behind him, still lying prone. Blood oozed through his fingers as he felt along his back—another hole. The bullet had gone right through his side. His broken hand throbbed. Darkness clouded his thoughts. He fought to remain aware and concentrated on breathing, his eyes trained on the darkness. He had to get up. He had to stop the bleeding.

Ted closed his eyes and gathered his strength. He knew nothing about anatomy. They didn’t cover that in business classes. His experience could be compiled into a neat little list of suffering a broken finger in grade school, and a few shaving nicks. If he moved, would it do something bad? Would the bleeding worsen? How could he fasten a tourniquet to his side? His heart raced. He had to calm down. He closed his eyes, breathing steadily, and tried to come up with a plan. He was in no shape to save Mimi from that maniac, but he might be her only hope. Detective Grant was on the roof, and might not reach her in time. He had to find her. A surge of bravery lifted him to his feet. He staggered, crashing into the wall. The pain in his side and back radiated down his legs and up into his chest. He clenched his teeth against it, and removed his blood-soaked jacket and long-sleeved shirt. He wrapped the shirt around his waist, covering the gunshot wound on both his front and back, and pulled the sleeves so tightly together, he could hardly breathe. Best to stop the blood. Blood quickly saturated the blue, cotton shirt. His wet, bloody jacket was his only means of warmth. He slipped his arms into the sleeves, flinching at the frigid temperature of the material.

He dropped his eyes to the puddle of blood on the floor. Feeling dizzy, he leaned against the wall, then remembered the gun. He scanned the floor in the darkness. The gun was gone.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Ted moved slowly through the hallways, stopping to lean against the wall every few steps. He had to get to Mimi, or maybe he had to get help first. He was unsure of the right thing to do. He knew the direction to escape was behind him. If he could get to his car, he could get help.

Thunder boomed. An ominous echo moved through the plant. Ted’s heart leaped. His breathing was too fast. He needed to gain control. Weak or not, he needed to find Mimi. He leaned back, suppressing the desire to cry out in pain. He took a few deep breaths, letting the air out of his lungs slowly. What the hell had Kara—or Mimi—done to that guy?

He pushed himself forward, staggering to the left, then keeling to the right. Finally, he centered his weight and found his balance. Ted listened for the man’s steps, some indication of which direction he’d gone. But all he could hear was the hum of the generator and the faint sound of trickling water. He reached the end of the hall, afraid to peer beyond. Doing so could be the death of him. He could not withstand another run-in. He breathed through his nose, wishing he had taken some sort of self-defense class, taken part in sports, done anything to prepare himself for a physical confrontation.

What did it matter? He hadn’t. He was a washed up, middle-aged accountant. He’d always be just Ted, nothing special, not a man who turned a lot of heads. If he admitted to himself what he’d been fighting for the past several years, it would be that he wasn’t Detective Grant—his wife’s schoolgirl crush that he was worried had never gone away. He saw it in her eyes when they ran into him on the street, and felt her bristle when he mentioned his name. Yet she’d never been anything but loving toward Ted. Maybe it was his own insecurity that was the elephant in the room. He needed to be a man. He needed to save her. And he had to do it before Grant did, childish as that seemed even to him. He wrapped his arms around his body to lessen the chill that chased the pain up his spine.

The generator-driven light flickered, then faded. Ted stopped, his heart in his throat. He stared into the pitch-black hall. The wound on his side squeezed to the point of pain. Droplets of blood seeped onto his jeans. Ted reached his hands out in front of him, and made his way into the darkness.

The deeper into the plant Ted traveled, the less he could hear the generator, or the storm. He had to be heading the wrong way. The smell of wet coal became stronger as he progressed down the hall, or perhaps his sense of smell was simply keener in the darkness. His fingers reached the end of a wall. Ted stood stock still, trying to hear past the pounding of his heart. Water trickled. He wondered where there could possibly be trickling water.

“Help!” a male voice rang out.

Ted stumbled backwards. It was a trick. He was sure of it. He’d seen too many movies where people walked right into traps. Things never ended well for the unsuspecting victim. He stared with wide eyes in the direction of the shout, his nerves afire, his side pulsating with pain.

“Help! Someone help!”

Jackson?

Ted sucked in a breath. Shit. Even if it was a trap, how did you turn your back on a friend? He turned around, thinking about the light at the end of the dark passageway. A glimmer of hope. Why did light make him feel safe? He’d seen the size of his attacker, and he knew if he ran into him again he was a dead man.

“Help!” Jackson screamed.

“Goddamn it,” Ted mumbled, and begrudgingly inched forward. He opened his mouth to call out to Jackson, then stopped himself. Shit. His hands fisted by his sides. The hall ended, intersecting another hallway. To his right it was pitch-black; to his left, a bulb illuminated the far end of the hallway and the entrance to a room that was barely visible. Ted felt as if he were wading through smoke. The air was thick with the stench of wet coal.

Silence.

Ted stopped. Listened. He couldn’t stifle a cough, sending renewed agony through his side and back.

“Help! Please help me!” Jackson’s voice shook.