Had she really cleared the entire floor? Had she looked everywhere? Had she eliminated every possibility of threat?
'Patrick?' she said. Her voice sounded weak, plaintive.
No answer.
Cold sweat latticed her back and shoulders, trickling to her waist.
Then, loud, but not loud enough to frighten Sophie: 'Listen. Patrick. I've got my weapon in my hand. I'm not fucking around. I need to see you out here right now. We go downtown, we work this out. Don't do this to me.'
Cold silence.
Just the wind.
Patrick had taken her Maglite. It was the only working flashlight in the house. The wind rattled the windowpanes in their mullions, resulting in a low, keening wail that sounded like a hurt animal.
Jessica stepped into the kitchen, trying her best to focus in the gloom. She moved slowly, keeping her left shoulder to the wall, the side opposite her shooting hand. If she had to, she could put her back to the wall and swing the weapon 180, protecting her rear flank.
The kitchen was clear.
Before she rolled the jamb, into the living room, she stopped, listened, cocking her ear to the night sounds. Was someone moaning? Crying? She knew it wasn't Sophie.
She listened, searching the house for the sound. It was gone.
From the opening in the back door, Jessica smelled the scent of rain on early-spring soil, earthen and damp. She stepped forward in the darkness, her foot crunching the broken glass on the kitchen floor. The wind kicked, flapping the edges of the black plastic bag pinned over the opening.
When she edged back into the living room, she remembered that her laptop computer was on the small desk. If she wasn't mistaken, and if any luck could be found this night, the battery was fully charged. She edged over to the desk, opened the laptop. The screen kicked to life, flickered twice, then threw a milky blue light across the living room. Jessica shut her eyes tightly for a few seconds, then opened them. It was enough light to see. The room opened before her.
She checked behind the love seats, in the blind spot next to the armoire. She edged open the coat closet near the front door. All empty.
She crossed the room to the armoire that held the television. If she wasn't mistaken, Sophie had left her electronic walking puppy in one of the drawers. She eased it open. The bright plastic snout stared back.
Yes.
Jessica took the D-cell batteries out of the back, walked into the dining room. She slipped them into the flashlight. It blazed to life.
'Patrick. This is serious business.You've got to answer me.'
She didn't expect a reply. She received none.
She took a deep breath, centered herself, then gradually descended the steps into the basement. The cellar was pitch black. Patrick had turned off the Maglite. Halfway down, Jessica stopped, ran the flashlight beam across the width of the room, cross-handed with her weapon. What was ordinarily so benign-the washer and dryer, the utility sink, the furnace and water softener, the golf clubs and summer furniture and all the other jumble of their lives-was now fraught with peril, etched out of long shadows.
Everything was exactly where she expected it to be.
Except Patrick.
She continued down the steps. She had a blind alcove to her right, the recess that held the circuit breakers and electrical panel. She ran the light as far into the niche as she could, and saw something that made her breath catch in her throat.
The telephone junction box.
The telephone had not gone out due to the storm.
The wires dangling from the junction box told her that the line had been cut.
She eased her foot onto the concrete floor of the basement. She ran her light around the room again. She began to back up, toward the front wall, when she nearly tripped over something. Something heavy. Metallic. She spun around to see that it was one of her free weights, the ten- pound barbell.
And that's when she saw Patrick. He was lying facedown, on the concrete. Near his feet was the other ten- pound weight. It appeared that he had fallen over it as he was backing up from the telephone box.
He was not moving.
'Get up,' she said. Her voice sounded raspy and weak. She pulled the hammer back on the Glock. The click echoed off the block walls. 'Get… the fuck… up.'
He didn't move.
Jessica stepped closer, nudged him with her foot. Nothing. No response at all. She eased the hammer back down, kept it pointed at Patrick. She bent down, slipped her hand around his neck. She felt for a pulse. It was there, strong.
But there was also dampness.
Her hand pulled back blood.
Jessica recoiled.
It appeared that Patrick had cut the phone line and then tripped over the barbell, knocking himself unconscious.
Jessica grabbed the Maglite on the floor next to Patrick, then ran upstairs and out the front door. She had to get to her cell phone. She stepped onto the porch. The rain continued to batter the awning overhead. She glanced up the street. The lights were out on the whole block. She could see branches lining the street like bones. The wind picked up in a fierce gust, drenching her in seconds. The street was deserted.
Except for the EMS van. The parking lights were off, but Jessica heard the engine, saw the exhaust. She holstered her weapon, ran across the street, through the torrent.
The medic was standing behind the van, just about to shut the doors. He turned to face Jessica as she approached.
'What's wrong?' he asked.
Jessica could see the ID tag on his jacket. His name was Drew.
'Drew, I want you to listen to me,' Jessica said.
'Okay.'
'I'm a police officer. There is a wounded man in my house.'
'How bad?'
'I'm not sure, but I want you to listen to me. Don't talk.'
'Okay.'
'My phone is out, the power is out. I need you to call in a nine-one- one. Tell them an officer needs assistance. I need every cop and his mother out here. Call it in, then get over to my house. He's in the basement.'
A huge gust of wind blew a sheet of rain across the street. Leaves and debris swirled around her feet. Jessica found that she had to yell to be heard.
'Do you understand?' Jessica shouted.
Drew grabbed his bag, shut the back doors on the EMS van, held up his handheld radio. 'Let's go.'
73
FRIDAY, 9:45 PM
Traffic crawled up Cottman Avenue. Byrne was less than half a mile from Jessica's house. He approached a few of the side streets, found them blocked by branches and electrical wires, or too flooded to pass.
Cars were cautiously approaching inundated sections of the road, all but idling through. As Byrne approached
