Chapter 3 - THE SHADOW IN THE RAIN
The abandoned New Dawn Health clinic sat at the end of 16th Street like a hollow, rusted skeleton.
Chain-link fencing lined with barbed wire surrounded the weed-choked parking lot, though a six-foot section of the mesh had been peeled back near the loading dock. Rain poured down the rusted iron gutters, overflowing onto the cracked asphalt below with a heavy, hollow splashing sound.
Rachel Brooks stood near the open tear in the fence, her flash-light beam cutting through the thick curtain of rain.
Detective Vance stepped up beside her, his service weapon already drawn and held low at his side in a low-ready position. Behind them, two additional patrol cars sat idling on the street, their light bars turned off to avoid illuminating the dark facade of the building.
"Dispatch says she came through here three hours ago," Vance said, his voice barely audible over the sound of the wind. "Keep your light low. If Raymond Vance or his people are inside, they’re armed and they know this building better than we do."
Rachel clicked off her primary flashlight, switching to her smaller, tactical rail-mounted light attached to her Glock 17.
They stepped through the tear in the chain-link fence, their boots sinking three inches into slick, black mud.
The loading dock door hung open three inches off its steel frame, swinging slightly in the wind with a screech of rusted hinges that sounded like a dying animal.
Rachel reached the metal platform first. She used her gloved thumb to signal Vance, then placed two fingers on the cold edge of the door, sliding it back just far enough for a person to pass through.
The interior smelled of ancient mold, damp drywall, and the unmistakable, sweet chemical tang of burnt industrial solvents.
"Police," Vance called out into the darkness, his voice cold and echoing down the long, empty corridor. "Sarah Miller? Is anyone inside?"
No answer. Only the rhythmic drip-drip-drip of water falling from broken ceiling tiles into puddle-covered linoleum floors.
They moved down the main hallway, passing broken reception desks, overturned filing cabinets, and scattered medical charts that had turned into brown pulp on the floor.
Rachel kept her light sweeping the floorboards.
Near the entrance to the basement stairwell, she stopped.
"Vance," she whispered.
The detective stepped up beside her.
On the dusty floor near the top step, a fresh smear of dark, wet blood cut through the layer of grime. Beside the blood lay a small, crumpled object.
Rachel knelt down, her gloved fingers picking up the object.
It was a small, plastic bottle of pediatric liquid amoxicillin. The cap was cracked, and half of the pink syrup had spilled out onto the concrete, mixing with the blood.
"She made it here," Rachel whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs. "She had the medicine."
"Look at the stairs," Vance said grimly.
The wooden steps leading down into the pitch-black basement were splintered. Two of the vertical balusters had been snapped off clean, as if a heavy body had been thrown forcefully against the railing.
Vance led the way down, stepping slowly to avoid making the old pine boards creak.
At the bottom of the stairs, the basement expanded into a vast, cavernous boiler room filled with dead iron pipes, rusted water tanks, and discarded medical crates.
In the center of the room, illuminated by a single battery-powered construction lamp sitting on an upside-down bucket, was an old oak desk.
Sitting behind the desk was a tall, thin man in a dirty leather jacket, his graying hair slicked back with rain. He was holding a heavy silver revolver in his right hand, resting it on top of a steel lockbox.
Standing near the wall, her hands bound behind her back with heavy yellow nylon cord, was Sarah Miller.
Her face was badly bruised, her lip split and bleeding down her chin, her heavy wool coat torn open at the chest. But her eyes—pale blue, exactly like Lily’s—were bright with an absolute, unyielding fury.
"That's far enough, Detective," the man at the desk said. His voice was smooth, cultured, and completely devoid of panic.
Doctor Raymond Vance.
"Put the gun down, Raymond," Detective Vance said, raising his weapon until the front sight post was aligned directly between the doctor's eyes. "The building is surrounded. There are six patrol units outside."
Doctor Vance let out a dry, rattling laugh that turned into a wet cough.
"Six units for a missing clerk?" the doctor said, glancing over at Sarah. "She really is resourceful, isn't she? I spent three years looking for her across three states. And she was living two miles away in a rat-infested apartment complex, hiding behind an eviction notice."
"She didn't tell us where you were, Raymond," Rachel said, stepping slightly to the left to split the doctor's field of view. "Her seven-year-old daughter called 911 because her brother was dying of a 104 fever."
Doctor Vance blinked, a momentary shadow of genuine confusion crossing his pale face before his jaw tightened back into a cruel line.
"She came here to steal from me," the doctor said, tapping the silver revolver against the steel lockbox. "She knew I kept my old inventory reserves in the floor safe behind the furnace. She broke into my clinic to take antibiotics for a sick brat."
"I didn't steal from you!" Sarah screamed, her voice hoarse and raw from crying. She lunged forward against her bonds, her boots scraping against the concrete. "You took everything from me! You threatened my kids! You sent your muscle to my door two nights ago!"
"Silence, Sarah!" Doctor Vance barked, raising the revolver three inches.
"Raymond," Detective Vance said, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly low, steady register. "Look at me."
May you like
The doctor shifted his eyes back to the detective.
"If you pull that trigger," Detective Vance said, "you die in this basement in the next three seconds. There is no deal. There is no bail. You are sixty-two years old, and you are surrounded by officers who have been watching a seven-year-old girl cry for her mother for the last four hours. Give me a reason."
