A Fountain Filled With Blood

He fell far enough to regret his impulsiveness, but he had been taught how to land from a fall when he was young, and his body remembered the lessons, even if, thirty years later, he lacked the natural bounce that had once enabled him to jump up and keep running. He didn’t spring up from the wooden floor where he had crumpled and rolled, but he did manage to keep rolling toward the nearest loom and tuck himself under its shadowed side.

“Elliott McKinley!” he yelled. “Police! Lay down your weapon and come out into the open with your hands raised!” The effort of shouting made his ribs hurt. Now he heard the clear sound of footsteps thudding, but he couldn’t orient himself enough to discover the direction the sound was coming from. He rolled away from the loom, staggered to his knees, and rose cautiously, easing the Glock out again. Nothing in sight but rows and ranks of antiquated machinery and chains and block and tackle that would never be used again. He walked forward lightly, rolling from his heels to the balls of his feet, trying to make as little noise as possible. He heard another scuffle and a clank—ahead of him. They had to be close to the river by now.

“McKinley!” He crouched again, making himself less of a target. “We’ve got squad cars sealing off the other entrances to the mill, and a boat on the water to pick up anyone who goes in. You understand me? You’re not getting out of here. Come on out and we’ll wrap this up and nobody gets hurt.”

Nothing. He stood up. There was a clank and a rattle, and he turned just in time to see an iron hook and a chain as thick as his wrist swinging straight at him, slithering through its pulley, sounding like the creak of the gates of hell opening. He lunged to the side, missing the hook, but the chain lashed across his shoulder and arm, hurtling his gun out of reach, knocking him off balance. He bounced off the nearest loom, staggered, then scrambled backward out of the way as the last of the chain tore through the pulley and fell over the iron machines and the wooden floor in a shattering clang that left him half-deaf. He looked around frantically for his gun, for McKinley, for another sign of movement among the chains and ropes hanging like malignant seaweed from the rafters. He caught a flash out of the corner of his eye. McKinley broke cover and bolted toward the far door, his head bobbing above the machinery in a weird, disembodied way.

Russ took off after him, any aches and pains wiped out for the moment in a surge of anger and adrenaline. He ran like a linebacker through an offensive field, dodging this way and that, trying to keep away from the machines. He could see the top of the door fling open, reached it on McKinley’s heels, and made a flying tackle. He hit McKinley square across his midsection and they both went down, skidding and twisting across the wooden floor. The younger man struggled, lashing out ineffectually with his hands and feet, but Russ had at least thirty pounds and several inches on him. He rolled McKinley beneath him, facedown, and straddled him, his elbow pressing hard into the nape of McKinley’s neck while he yanked at the pair of lightweight handcuffs snapped to his belt.

McKinley bucked, trying to throw him off. “Lie still or I’ll smash your head into this floor, you little scum sucker,” Russ roared. He hauled the young man’s wrists together and cuffed him, then sat straddling his still-flailing legs. He patted his waist, grateful to feel the radio still clipped to his belt. He didn’t relish the idea of wrestling McKinley out of the mill unaided. He keyed the mike. “Eric? Noble?”

“Chief? What’s up? Where are you?”

“In the mill. First floor. I’ve got McKinley, but I could use some help moving him.”

“I sent Mark to get the keys from the town offices.” Russ knew the town kept copies of keys to all the abandoned mills, in case the police or the volunteer fire department needed them. “He just got here. We’ll be right in.”

“Bring Mark on in, too. We’ll need two people for McKinley here. And I”—he pushed the bridge of his glasses against his face—“I think I’m going to need a little help finding my gun.”

Chapter Eighteen

“He wants a lawyer.” Lyle MacAuley reached across a litter of mugs and crumpled napkins and grabbed the coffeepot.

“Of course he wants a lawyer. They all want lawyers. It comes from watching too much television.” Russ started to take a mug, winced, and shifted it to his left hand.

“You oughtta get that looked at.”

“I’m a little banged up, that’s all. I’ll look like an Oriental rug in a couple of days, but I’ll live. Who’s he called?”

The deputy chief grinned. “Geoffrey Burns.”

Russ choked on his coffee. “That asshole? Since when does he pick up work from a bottom-feeder like McKinley?”

“I guess there aren’t enough car wrecks in the summer to keep him busy.”

Russ put his mug on the dispatcher’s desk and painstakingly poured the coffee wrong-handed.