Inheritance: A Novel Part 37

Silence.

Anderson turned around, pointing his flashlight back the way he'd come.

"Mike?" he said.

He peered into the darkness, trying to make out the shapes that were just beyond his flashlight beam.

"Officer Henninger?"

No answer.

"Hey guys?"

He trotted a few steps in the direction he had come and emerged into the open area where he had last seen the two patrolmen.

"Hey! Where are you guys?"

Nothing.

He turned his flashlight in every direction, but saw absolutely nothing-only metal and dirt and trash.

"Mike?" He was yelling now. "Officer Henninger?"

Still nothing.

He felt the heat of panic rising in his cheeks. A darkness had settled over the corridor. It was a darkness so heavy the flashlight beam could barely reach into it.

"Hey guys?"

His voice sounded small and weak in the darkness. He felt the sudden urge to run, but fought it down. That wouldn't do here, not as dark as it was. He'd pitch over the edge of a catwalk and drop G.o.d knows how far down to his death. Probably find out what happened to all the junkies who didn't make it out of here alive.

Out of the corner of his eye, something moved.

He spun on his heel and turned his flashlight beam down one of the corridors.

"Mike? Officer Henninger?"

He took a few steps into the darkness, walking slowly, his right hand resting on his gun. Except for some trash and old rotten blankets and a few makes.h.i.+ft lean-tos, the corridor was empty. At least the little of it he could see was empty. He followed the path to another corner, rounded it, and stopped. His mouth fell open in shock. There, standing not fifteen feet from him, was Bobby Cantrell. He was nude, his chest st.i.tched in black from his autopsy, but it was Bobby Cantrell. He stared Anderson square in the eye, his face an absolute blank, no emotion whatsoever.

"Bobby?" Anderson said.

He was surprised he wasn't scared. Confused, a little dizzy, and he was even a little giddy at seeing his friend again. But he wasn't scared.

Cantrell said nothing. His eyes gave away nothing. They stared into Anderson's, but there was no recognition there, no mirror of the emotion Anderson was feeling. It was like looking into a bottomless hole.

"Bobby?"

Cantrell turned and walked off into the darkness. Anderson trotted after him, his flashlight bouncing around the man's bare shoulders and back and he called out his name, begged him to stop.

"Jesus Christ, Bobby. Stop, would you?"

He never even stopped to think that this couldn't be happening. That part of him that knew this man was dead, that had seen the body carved up on the autopsy table, was silent. Instead there was simply a need. He needed to talk to the man. He needed to hear his friend's voice, and that need was too powerful to shake off.

"Wait a minute, Bobby. Stop, please."

But the dead man kept on walking. He stepped over debris and stepped through holes in the walls and even climbed a ladder onto a catwalk like it was perfectly natural. He didn't need a light to show him the way. He moved like a man at perfect ease with his surroundings. They emerged onto a catwalk, away from the rest of the superstructure. They were walking towards the dark gray smokestacks that loomed over the rest of the factory. The catwalk was rickety and whole sections were missing, eaten through by the rust. It leaned precariously to the right, and there was no handrail.

Had Anderson been looking anywhere but at Cantrell's back, he would have seen the ground was at least sixty feet below them. Had he not been so lost in the haze of confused feelings that had overtaken him, he would have felt a rough, hot wind whipping dust all around him, rippling his white golf s.h.i.+rt and khaki slacks like a flag in a storm. But he didn't see any of that. All he saw was what had been ripped from his heart, and he walked where his dead friend walked, followed where he led, calling his name the whole way.

Years of decay and neglect had collapsed an entire section of the catwalk immediately ahead of him, just beyond a metal stairwell. The collapsed section was a ma.s.sive tangle of rods and wires and metal lattice works far below him, and had he looked down he would have seen it there, yawning up at him. Cantrell paid no attention to the missing section. He walked across the air to the middle of the gap between the sections and turned around. He beckoned to Anderson.

He followed eagerly. He didn't see anything but the dead man, and he was oblivious to the shouting beneath him.

Paul was the first one up the stairwell. The detective was already dangerously close to the edge. Another few steps and he'd go tumbling to his death. Paul watched him getting closer and knew this was what was supposed to happen, that his father intended for this man to die in this way. He knew it in the same way he had known Magdalena was meant to die.

Though now he was not so sure. He hadn't felt the need to stop Magdalena's death from happening. She had known what she was doing when she defied his father. This man, he didn't know the truth.

He and Mike had been searching for him for the last ten minutes. Or rather, Mike had been searching for him. Paul knew exactly where he was. He had climbed the stairs to this point knowing that the detective would be here. Now he was only a few feet away from him, fighting with himself about what to do. Mike was still below, yelling up at Anderson to stop. Paul glanced down at Mike, then back to the detective. He watched the man staggering forward in a trance, his flashlight swinging uselessly by his side, and he said, "Stop, Anderson. Come on, hear me. Stop."

But the detective kept walking.

"Stop him, Paul!" Mike shouted. "Stop him!"

Mike's voice was like a siren in his mind. It shook him loose from his own trance, and he ran forward just as Anderson stepped over the edge of the catwalk.

Paul dove for him and caught him by the foot. Most of Paul's upper body was hanging over the edge. He held Anderson's ankle in his right hand, the metal lattice of the catwalk with his left. A furious voice in his head was ordering him to let the man fall, to just let go. Drop him, d.a.m.n it!

Paul felt the man's foot sliding through his fingers. He could feel his body armor sliding over the jagged edge of the catwalk, the b.u.t.tons popping off his s.h.i.+rt one by one. Anderson was dead weight. His body spun like the corpse of a hanged man, rotating slowly one way then the other, a plaything in the breeze. Paul was breathing hard now. His eyes were rolling from Anderson to the twisted metal on the ground below them. He heard Mike yelling.

"Help me," he yelled, and as he did he felt his voice growing stronger. "Mike, I'm slipping."

"I've got you," Mike said. And the next moment Paul felt Mike's powerful grip on the back of his gun belt. "Just hold him tight," he said, his voice strangely quiet and calm. "Don't let go. I've got you."

Paul groaned from the pain in his arm. He could feel his muscles screaming at him, almost like a force was trying to pry his fingers loose.

"I can't hold him!" Paul screamed.

"Don't let go, Paul," Mike said.

Mike ran his hand down Paul's arm and grabbed hold of his wrist. He pulled up, then grabbed hold of Anderson's leg with both hands.

"Stay still," he said to Paul, and a moment later was hoisting Anderson's inert body over Paul's back.

Mike pulled Paul up onto the catwalk next, and afterwards, they sat there, inches from the edge, looking at each other. Paul was breathing hard, his eyes half-closed. He was exhausted. Mike had Anderson's unconscious body across his legs. He was breathing hard, too.

Mike said, "Holy s.h.i.+t, dude. That sucked."

And they both laughed.

Chapter 18.

Thirty minutes later, Anderson was standing next to his car, trying to rea.s.sure the two young patrolmen that he was feeling fine.

Mike looked at him doubtfully.

"Really," Anderson said, "I'm okay."

Mike had practically carried him down from the superstructure, and even now, as they stood at the remnant of the gate that marked the south entrance, the night winds blowing dust clouds down the road below them, he was still trying to hold his elbow. It made Anderson feel like an old man whose grandkids are afraid he might fall down the stairs.

He gently, but firmly, pulled his elbow away from Mike and straightened himself up.

"Really," he said. "It's okay."

"You sure?" Mike asked.

"I'm sure. I should have known better than to go crawling around up there as tired as I am. I haven't gotten much sleep since all this started."

It sounded lame and Anderson knew it, but luckily Mike didn't try to take it any further.

"I owe you guys," he said. "I really do."

He looked at Paul. Henninger looked unfocused, like he was thinking about something else and wasn't quite able to get his mind around it.

"Especially you, Officer Henninger. Thanks."

Paul merely nodded.

The three of them stood looking at each other in an uncomfortable silence, then Anderson said, "All right, well, I'm gonna take off. Thanks again, guys."

"Not a problem," Mike said.

Anderson nodded, got into his car, and got out of there as fast as he could.

But he didn't go home. Instead he headed to a little Dunkin Donuts stand at the corner of Rigsby and Houston and ordered a large cup of coffee and sat in a booth and drank it black and thought about what had just happened.

He tried to think anyway. But what came to mind was all the senseless, ign.o.ble death he had seen in his long police career. All the hacked up, burned, raped, strangled, mutilated, and decomposing bodies strolled through his mind like the cast of a Romero movie on parade.

For a long time he sat there thinking about murdered hookers and gang members shot full of holes and wives strangled by their husbands and babies beat to death by their parents and he felt some essential, deep down part of himself going numb. He had seen so much, so much misery and grief, and for the longest time he had managed to keep it separate from his own soul. But he wasn't so sure he was succeeding anymore.

And then he thought of Bobby Cantrell on the autopsy table, his chest opened up so that he looked like a canoe, and it occurred to him that the essential thing that death denied to the dead was their dignity. You could live with dignity, and many people did, but you could never die with it. Even the best of us get treated like meaningless meat on the autopsy table.

He looked up at the counter, and Bobby Cantrell was standing there in a white ap.r.o.n, wiping down the counter with a dishrag.

"You need something, buddy?" Bobby Cantrell said.

Anderson just stared at him. He stared into Cantrell's eyes and a long moment pa.s.sed. The light around Cantrell's face turned from a soft blue to an aqua green, like the ocean with sunlight pa.s.sing through it. Bobby Cantrell's mouth was moving, but there were no words coming out. Anderson didn't try to answer back. He couldn't anyway. There wasn't enough air in his chest for that.

"Hey look, man, if you're drunk you're gonna have to leave."

The sound startled him.

"What?" Anderson said. The man behind the counter wasn't Bobby Cantrell anymore. He was just some guy, the guy who had sold him the nearly untouched cup of coffee on the table in front of him.

"If you're looking to sleep it off, you're gonna have to do it someplace else."

"I'm not drunk," Anderson said. He shook himself mentally. "I'm sorry. I...just had kind of a hard day. I'm okay now."

The man behind the counter seemed to consider him, then shrugged. "Whatever," he said, and went back to wiping the counter.

He was sitting in his car in the Dunkin Donuts parking lot when his cell phone went off. It was Levy, and for a moment he thought about not answering, but that didn't last long.

"Keith, you there?"

"Yeah, I'm here," Anderson said into the phone. "What's going on, Chuck?"

"Where are you?"

"The corner of Rigsby and Houston, the Dunkin Donuts."

"What are you doing out? It's three in the morning."

"I know what time it is, Chuck."

A pause.

"Well, seeing as you're already over here, I need you to come by 642 Utley Street."

Anderson closed his eyes and sighed. He slid down into the seat and thought of Bobby Cantrell.

"You there, Keith?"

"Yeah, I'm here. Where in the h.e.l.l is Utley Street?"

"Well, from where I'm standing in the front yard I can see the smokestacks of the Morgan Rollins Iron Works."

Anderson sat up straight.