Merry Christmas, Alex Cross

CHAPTER 60

Seeing that the grate above the stall in the men’s restroom had no screws holding it to the wall, I stepped up on the toilet and yanked at it. It was exactly 6:57. It had taken us that long to clear the restroom and search it.

The grate didn’t budge. I used Mahoney’s flashlight and shone it through the slats before looking back at him, Bobby Sparks, and Captain Johnson. “Where do these ducts go?” I asked Johnson.

The Amtrak cop squinted at me in disbelief. “You think she got in there?”

“I don’t know how else to explain that the grate’s been wired shut from inside. So where do they go?”

Johnson looked confused. “I don’t know. And I don’t think there’s anyone from maintenance who can tell us until-”

“Wait, why don’t you know this?” Bobby Sparks asked incredulously.

“We control the gate areas and the tracks,” the Amtrak cop retorted hotly. “The station’s interior is the responsibility of a private management firm in Virginia, but everyone there’s got the night off. It’s Christmas, for God’s sake.”

I gestured angrily at the duct. “Where could it go? Or, better, what places would be vented by this ductwork?”

Captain Johnson thought a second, said, “Sbarro, the pizza place that’s around the corner here, and then the U.S. Postal Service facility, I guess.”

“How big is that?” Bobby Sparks asked.

“Big enough to handle everything coming off Capitol Hill, House and Senate side, and all the federal agencies around here.”

“There’s no chance anyone from the U.S. Postal Service is working on Christmas,” Mahoney said.

“As a matter of fact, there’s a skeleton crew in there right now,” Johnson said. “I saw them on the loading dock. They’re on until ten.”

I thought about that a second, then said, “Does the loading dock face First Street or the terminal?”

“Both,” the Amtrak officer said. “There’s a single steel roll-up door facing the street, and a double that allows access to the tracks.”

“She’s either escaping to the street or trying to get to the trains,” I said, moving toward the door. “Get men to the west end of that terminal, inside and outside. Tell them she’s dressed as a male, an Amtrak worker, and should be considered armed and dangerous.”

Captain Johnson began to sweat again as he barked orders into his radio. So did Mahoney and Bobby Sparks and I as we all sprinted to the security entrance that led down to the terminal, the loading platforms, and the train tracks.