The Devil's Labyrinth

CHAPTER 48

STEVE MORGAN PARKED the patrol car and switched off the headlights. “Let’s make this quick, okay? See if you can resist the urge to start thinking up new questions.”

“Just a signature,” Matt McCain agreed, opening the door to step out into the drizzling rain.

Morgan adjusted his hat, and together the two officers walked up the driveway to the front door. The house was still ablaze with lights; nothing seemed to have changed since they’d left less than an hour ago. Yet even as they mounted the steps to the front porch, McCain’s gut began to burn, always a sure sign that, despite appearances, something had, indeed, changed.

Morgan pressed the doorbell and they listened to it ring hollowly inside the house.

They waited, but there were no footsteps, no “I’m coming!” call from inside.

Just silence.

A silence as hollow as the chimes a moment ago.

Morgan pressed the doorbell again. “Maybe she went to her boyfriend’s for the night.”

Morgan shook his head. “The boyfriend’s car’s still in the driveway.” He opened the screen door and knocked loudly on the wooden door. “Mrs. McIntyre?” he called.

Matt McCain stepped off the front porch into the flower bed and peered through the picture window. Though the curtains were drawn, they were sheers, and he could clearly see into the living room. Probably one of the reasons the house had been hit — anyone watching it for more than a few minutes would have been able to see that no one was home. “Sure doesn’t seem like anyone’s in there,” he said, though the burning in his gut was getting worse, belying his own words. Someone was in there, all right. They just weren’t answering the door.

“Crap,” Morgan muttered. “Now we’ll have to come back in the morning and get this thing signed before we can turn it in.” He knocked again, harder.

McCain leaned closer to the window, shading his eyes from the porch light, then he picked his way through the garden to the other side of the picture window.

And he saw something.

Feet.

A pair of women’s feet, still wearing high heels. Someone was lying on the floor in front of the fireplace.

Face down.

“Jesus,” he whispered, unsnapping the leather safety strap from his.45 and pulling it from its holster. “She’s in there, Steve. And it looks like she’s hurt. Call for backup and an ambulance.”

Morgan keyed the microphone on his shoulder and started talking rapidly even as he drew his own weapon.

“Stay here,” McCain said. “I’m going around the back.” Moving in absolute silence, he slipped around the corner of the house, shining his flashlight ahead, alert for any movement.

Several houses away a dog’s furious barking suddenly exploded the quiet of the night, and McCain knew instantly what had caused it: Teri McIntyre’s boyfriend was gone, but not in his car — he was taking an invisible route through the backyards until he got to the park only a few hundred yards away. And just outside the park was a subway station. From there, he could go anywhere.

No longer worried about keeping silent, McCain hurried along the side of the house and through the open gate to the backyard, then crossed the patio and — after a last glance around — went through the kitchen door that was not only unlocked, but stood wide open.

A few seconds later he opened the front door for Steve Morgan, and was crouching by Teri McIntyre, feeling her neck for a pulse.

Though her head was bleeding, and she was unconscious, she was still alive.

“Search the house,” McCain told Morgan, even though he was certain that Teri McIntyre’s assailant had already vanished into the night.

His weapon still in his hand, Steve Morgan headed upstairs to search as McCain crouched by Teri McIntyre, talking softly to her, telling her that everything was going to be all right.

But even as he spoke the words, he knew everything was not going to be all right. His gut was telling him that this was more than just a simple burglary.