Chapter 39

The faded sign in front of the deserted storefront read BRILLIANT CLEANERS, MAKING YOUR WORLD BRIGHTER, ONE SHIRT AT A TIME. The place looked like it had been out of business for a generation or more, the windows boarded up, a rusted security gate across the door, weathered ad bills and flyers trapped between the bars. The rest of the block looked much the same—shuttered stores, with handmade signs tacked to them, hawking everything from authentic Memphis barbecue to human hair, all now defunct, abandoned, left to rot at what felt like the end of the world, where even light refused to come.

There was an overgrown lot next to Brilliant with weeds and nettles almost as tall as me. It was likely overrun by vermin, which the city couldn’t keep on top of. There were hundreds of lots just like this all over town. I eyed the sign, the boards, the lot, and shuddered, recalling the last lot and the shoes I’d ruined.

No sign of Allen or Elliott or the limo. No Chandler, either. What if I’d guessed wrong? Miscalculated? What if Allen was just out here somewhere living her life, minding her business? What if Chandler had run and eluded Tanaka and the others?

I dug my flashlight out of the glove box, got out, locked up. There was a rusted Master lock securing the banged-up security gate. I tugged at it. Solid. The gate, too. The entrance between gate and door was strewn with yellowed newspapers and garbage that had blown in on a gritty gust and gotten stuck. The cheap plywood over the windows had been inexpertly nailed up, and there were gaps between the rough planks. I peeked through but couldn’t see anything inside. Somewhere a dog barked, then howled, but I didn’t see anything out on the street that could have riled him up.

I hit the high-beam button on the flashlight and started around the side, sweeping the light across the snaggy weeds at me feet and ankles. There were bars over the glass-block windows running along the foundation—a basement or storeroom. I stopped every third or fourth step, just to get a bead. The rustling from the weeds wasn’t coming from my footfalls. Rats. I picked up my pace, practically ran the last few yards, then whipped around the corner and came face to fender with Allen’s limo, parked at the back door.

For a moment, I stood there staring at it, as though it were some figment of my imagination. But if the car was here, that meant Allen was here. I placed a hand on the hood, found it cold. It’d been here awhile.

The limo doors were open; the keys, still in the ignition. Bad sign. I opened all four doors, checked the car, then popped the trunk, hoping I didn’t find Allen’s body stuffed in it or Elliott’s. I approached the back of the limo, took a breath, then slowly lifted the trunk and peered inside. No bodies, just the spare tire and an emergency roadside kit. I let out the breath I’d been holding.

The dog down the street began to bark again. I went back to the ignition and pulled the keys out, stuck them in my pocket, then headed for the back door. The security gate was open, and the back door, cheap pressed wood, was held ajar by a chunk of concrete block, which acted as a makeshift doorstop. I pushed the door in with my foot, and it creaked back, the beam of my flash catching skittering vermin, whose beady eyes reflected in the light. I shuddered. Rats. This looked like a job for the cops. I dug my phone out of my pocket to call Tanaka.

“Help!”

It was a man’s voice coming from inside. Elliott? The dog stopped barking. I watched the rats scurry around inside. How many were there?

“Help!”

I took a breath, pushed through the door, hoping I didn’t come to regret it.

* * *

Must, funk, and urine, mixed with the smell of cleaning solvent, crawled up my nose as I stepped lightly over a blanket of broken glass, dirt, used hypodermic needles, and discarded bits of desiccated clothing. I could see just enough from the light of the open doorway to register the disaster that Brilliant had become. The gang graffiti scrawled over the walls testified to its current use. The length of each side was pocked with fist- and foot-size holes deep enough to reveal wood and plaster underneath. This was a flop, a drug den. I could hear the rats running along the walls, and I jumped and hopped, letting out a desperate shriek at one point, when a few of them raced across my shoe tops.

I moved farther in, keeping to the center, pausing every few steps, checking my feet, before starting again. It looked like someone, or several someones, had taken a wrecking ball to the counter. The center of it had caved in, and the sides stuck out like bat wings, splintered shards of plastic and Formica studded with bent nails. I stared up at the clothes carousel, frozen mid-lap. No clothes hung from the hooks, ready for pickup, just a few wire hangers inside dusty cleaning bags. The bags, tattered and suspended haint-like, swayed spookily whenever the filthy air shifted.

I kept moving at a fast clip back toward the rear. When I spotted an interior door about thirty feet in front of me, a sliver of light peeking out from underneath, I stopped. This place had been abandoned for years. Why was there light anywhere in here? I backed up, checked for a light switch, and found one back the way I’d come. I flicked it up. Nothing happened. No electricity, but light coming from under a door. Yeah, that ain’t happening. I backed up, turned for the back door. I’d call Tanaka from outside and let her get nibbled on by rats. I was not too proud to tap out. Not that I was a chicken or anything, but light where there shouldn’t be light, a killer on the loose? Nope. I reached the door, had one foot over the threshold.

“Help.”

It was a woman’s voice that had called out this time. Allen? I could feel fresh air on the back of my neck, hear the night—the dog barking, the rats running in the weeds. My car was parked at the curb, waiting for me. One more step and I was home free. I’d call the cops; they’d come. Sure, my inner idiot said. But will it be in time?

“Help!”

Dammit. I flicked a look of longing at the limo, the outside. Then turned and went back. Gun up, flashlight on and up, moving fast, past the wrecked counter, the rats, the ghostly carousel to the door. I turned off my flashlight, slid it into my pocket, then yanked the door open. Worn wooden steps led down to what appeared to be a basement. The source of the light was at the bottom of the stairs. I didn’t take time to overthink it, or think about it at all. I’d already committed myself. I took a deep breath, tightened my grip on my gun and started down the steps, quickly, alert eyes adjusting to the dim light, mouth dry, my jaw clenched.

Allen was not my favorite person. By rights, I should have strangled her myself days ago, but I did not want to be the one to find her lifeless body at the bottom of these stairs. And I didn’t want to die here, either. I wanted to grow old enough to play strip poker at the retirement home. I had a Labor Day cookout planned at my place tomorrow, and I did not want to have it turned into an impromptu wake. You will not die in this skeezy basement, I promised myself. You will not die in this skeezy, rat-infested hellhole of a basement. You will not die . . .

I was halfway down, just getting a good look at the room. Wasn’t much to it. It looked like there’d been some kind of laundry operation down here at one point: a line of outlets and dangling connectors ran along a niche against the back wall, the machines long gone. A couple of long tables had been overturned, half the legs missing. No sign of Elliott or Allen. Two doors off to the side. Storage? Only place anyone could be. I resumed my descent, heading there. I will not die in this skeezy basement with beady-eyed rats crawling all over me. I will not die . . .

I felt something grab me by the ankles from under the stairs. I had just enough time to register that the something was a pair of human hands before I lost my footing, tumbled the rest of the way down, and crashed to the concrete floor. The back of my head made a sickening sound when it hit the floor, and all I saw for a fraction of a second was blinding light dancing behind my eyelids. The basement had gone dark.

Shock quickly gave way to alarm, alarm to panic, and panic to a desperate desire for survival. I scrambled to my feet, afraid of the rats, my head pounding. Thankfully, I had managed to hold onto my gun as I fell, and I aimed it now into the dark, eyes peeled, waiting for whoever was standing in the shadows to come at me, but not even the rats made a sound.