“Look at the lid,” he says rigidly, looking directly into her eyes as he does.
Wren’s worst fears are confirmed as she sees lines of scratch marks chaotically crisscrossing the ancient wood. It looks like something out of a horror movie. Like The Silence of the Lambs. The broken fingernail embedded in the stone of the infamous pit Buffalo Bill used to store his victims is forever ingrained in Wren’s memory, and now she’s confronted with a similar reality off-screen. Some of the marks have traces of blood smeared across them, and a quick look at the victim’s hands shows that she had used them to claw and scratch until they bled. At some point in her entombment, she was conscious enough to realize where she was. She had spent who knows how long trying in vain to scratch through the wooden lid that closed in on her, perhaps not even knowing about the three feet of earth waiting for her on the other side.
“She’s alive, John,” Wren says finally, though finding herself unable to look away from the scratch marks. “She’s got a pulse, and she’ll know who this guy is. That’s what matters.”
Leroux loosens his tie. His jaw clenches, and the desperate hope in his eyes from moments earlier is long gone, replaced by a shattering flash of defeat.
“Did you see what I saw, Muller? She might as well be dead. I wouldn’t be surprised if she ends up on one of your gurneys later tonight,” he spits and turns around to half-heartedly toss a clod of dirt to the ground. “He fucking played us, and we fell for it.”
Wren doesn’t disagree. She felt the pulse with her own hand, and it was weak at best. There is little chance that the victim’s brain is going to be able to recall anything with full clarity if she wakes up. But Wren doesn’t say that. “You’re wrong. He didn’t play us.”
Leroux turns quickly to face her. “How can you even bullshit me right now, Muller? He didn’t play us? We look like fools, racing against some clock that he laid out for us to find. That’s exactly what he wanted.”
His voice takes an aggressive tone Wren has never heard before. She isn’t scared of him, but she is scared for him. She takes a slow, deep breath and then responds.
“No, John. He meant for her to be dead. He meant for us to be filled with false hope, prying this lid open with time to spare only to find a dead girl inside. That’s what he planned, and it didn’t happen.” Leroux softens, and she continues, “We opened that lid, and we found a living human being inside. Someone who saw him, heard him, and, hell, probably smelled him. And even if she can’t point us in the right direction when she wakes up, we’ll still have saved her. A person. He failed. No matter what happens next, he already failed.”
Wren climbs out of the hole they’ve both been standing in and bends over to dust the dirt from her pants. Leroux tilts his head back and groans, his old self again. He stands and follows Wren to the entrance. They match strides, both ragged and weary from their lifesaving efforts. More hair has escaped Wren’s bun than is still contained by it. Her skin is flushed and painted with a sweat-soil paste. Leroux’s hair is unruly and damp. Sweat has soaked through his dress shirt. They both try to believe the day’s efforts were worth something as they walk away from this moment.
“The idea that he meant for this to go down differently. That he didn’t get his moment, that’s nice,” Leroux concedes. “But it’s like a participation trophy. I can put it on my shelf and it’s an ego boost in the moment, but it’s nothing like the real thing. A real win. We’re no closer to nailing him. Any further loss of innocent life is on my hands.”
PART
TWO
CHAPTER 23
JEREMY LEANS AGAINST A NEARBY tomb. It is humid this morning, and he uses his forearm to wipe beads of perspiration from his forehead as he lets his head fall back to look up at the clear expanse of the sky above. The St. Louis Cemetery is silent, even when full of tourists. Now, almost a full day after they dug up his victim and branded him a failure, this place somehow feels even more isolated from the world of the living.