Lethal Legacy

FORTY-FIVE

“He’s alive,” Mike said.

I looked up to see Mercer and Shalik standing over us. Mike was already dialing 911 to ask for an ambulance and backup.

“Move the kid, Mercer. Get him out of here.”

There was something white on the ground, next to the man’s head. It was a handkerchief, and when I picked it up-ignoring all crime scene protocol-it reeked of sickly sweet chloroform.

I told Mike and stuffed the cloth in my pants pocket, then reached for the card in the man’s outstretched hand. It identified him as a caretaker of the New York Marble Cemetery.

“Figures,” Mike said. “They’d need a guide to find the old Hunt property. Also useful for Travis Forbes, the chloroform kid, to be in a cop’s uniform to get close enough to knock the guy out, probably before Minerva stepped out of the car.”

Mercer was on the ground, trying to do CPR on the fallen man before the medics arrived. He took a pen-size LCD flashlight from his pocket and passed it to Mike, who was on his way toward the opening. I hurried after him.

“You’re not gonna like this, Coop. I’ll go alone.”

We had been in claustrophobic situations often enough for Mike and Mercer to know they were a problem for me. But I couldn’t imagine letting Mike, who had covered my back more times than I could count, go down without a partner.

He took his blazer off and threw it on the ground, unholstering his gun as he put his hand on the top of the hatch.

Mike started down into the entrance shaft of the burial space and cleared the short staircase. I listened for voices, but heard none.

I put my foot on the top step and, afraid to lose the light that Mike was leading with, hurried down ten more until I touched the earthen floor.

I stood up straight and looked around the grim necropolis. On either side of me were narrow passageways that led between enormous stone vaults. Long slate shelves supported some of the coffins, mostly made of stone, which were stacked on top of one another.

I stayed as close to Mike as I could get while he moved the light over the dirt, then up and down among the coffins, looking for names of the dead and numbers of their vaults.

We had passed the forties, seen the markers for Deys and Cruikshanks, Wetmores and Wheelocks-adults and far too many infants, typical of the mortality rates of that century.

As we came to the intersection that marked the divide between the vaults numbered in the fifties from those in the sixties, Mike’s flashlight framed a woman’s face.

Minerva Hunt was seated on the ground, her hands tied behind her with a length of rope. A silk scarf-probably her own-served as a gag between her teeth, wrapped around the back of her head.

Next to her, Travis Forbes was holding a taxidermist’s skife-the sharp tool designed to skin dead animals.

“Forget it, Forbes,” Mike said.

“No, you forget it.” He pressed the edge of the blade to Minerva’s slender neck and the first drops of blood spurted out. “I can end it for her much faster than you can shoot.”

“I have no doubt you can. I’ve seen your work.”

I could picture the deep, gaping wound in Tina Barr’s neck.

Minerva Hunt’s eyes were opened wide with fear, flitting between Travis Forbes’s hand and something behind me.

I turned to look but saw only the massive outlines of stone caskets and slate shelves.

Travis pulled at Minerva’s arm to get her to her feet. “Give me the gun, Detective, or I’ll cut her throat.”

“Did you get what you wanted?” Mike asked. “Can’t kill her before she lays the golden egg, can you?”

Again Minerva Hunt’s eyes darted from Forbes to the staircase through which we had entered. I glanced back, hoping to see Mercer and the cops he had summoned, but no one was there.

“Make yourselves comfortable, Mr. Chapman,” Forbes said, positioning the terrified woman between himself and Mike. If Mike had considered firing his gun at Forbes, he had missed his brief opportunity.

“Ms. Hunt and I have to go,” Forbes said, pushing Minerva to take baby steps forward. “We haven’t finished our conversation. Pick yourself out a slab and get some rest while we find a less crowded place to talk.”

Minerva looked to the staircase again, then jerked back her head, just as I heard the hatch crash to a close.

This time, Mike flashed his light in that direction. Against the blackness of the wall, it caught Alger Herrick’s shiny chrome hook.