Lost - Michael Robotham [103]
“There is a chain-link fence up ahead. I turned left and followed it until I reached the footbridge. He was giving me instructions on the phone.”
“You didn’t recognize his voice?”
“No.”
The fence appears, dividing the darkness into black diamonds with silver frames. We turn and follow it to an arched footbridge above the railway line. A generator rumbles and repair crews are working beneath spotlights.
In the middle of the footbridge, I peer over the side at the silver ribbons curving to the north. “I can’t remember what happened next.”
“Did you drop the ransom off the bridge?”
“No. This is where the phone rang again. I was traveling too slowly. They were tracking me. The cell phone must have had a GPS device. Someone was sitting in front of a computer screen plotting my exact position.”
We both peer down at the tracks as though looking for the answer. The breeze carries the smell of burning coal and detergent. I can’t hear the voice in my head anymore.
“Give it time,” says Joe.
“No. I can’t give it any more. I have to remember.”
He takes out his cell phone and punches a number. My pocket vibrates. I flip it open and he turns away from me.
“Why have you stopped? KEEP MOVING! I told you where to go.”
The knowledge rises up and breaks soundlessly through the surface. Joe has done it again—helped me to go back.
“Will Mickey be there?” I yell into the phone.
“Shut up and keep moving!”
Where? It’s close by. The parking lot on the far side of the station! Move!
Running now, I quickly descend the stairs. Joe has trouble keeping up. I can barely see where I’m going but I remember the path. It curves alongside the railway line, above the cutting. Rigid steel gantries flank the tracks carrying the overhead wires.
A wind has sprung up, rattling fences and sending rubbish swirling past my legs. There are lights along the path, making it easier to see. Abruptly, the footpath opens into a deserted parking lot. A solitary lamppost at the center paints a dome of yellow on the tarmac. I remember a traffic cone sitting under the light. I ran toward it, holding the pizza box under one arm. It seemed an odd place to bring me. It was too open.
Joe has caught up with me. We’re standing beneath the lamppost. At my feet is a barred metal grate.
“He wanted me to push the packages into the drain.”
“What did you do?”
“I told him I wanted to see Mickey. He threatened to hang up again. His voice was very calm. He said she was close.”
“Where?”
I turn my head. Thirty yards away is the dark outline of a storm-water drain. “He said she was waiting for me … down there.”
Walking to the edge, we peer over the side. The steep concrete walls are sprayed with graffiti.
“I couldn’t see her. It was too dark. I shouted her name. ‘Mickey! Can you hear me?‘ I was yelling into the phone. ‘I can’t see her. Where is she?’ ‘She’s in the pipe,’ he said. ‘Where?‘ I shouted: ‘Mickey. Are you in there?‘”
Joe has hold of me now. He’s frightened I might fall over the edge. At the same time he wants me to go on. “Show me,” he says.
Set into the wall of the drain is a steel ladder. The rungs feel cold against my fingers. Joe is following me down. I couldn’t hold the Glock and carry the pizza box at the same time. I left the gun in its holster and tucked the pizza box under my arm.
“‘Mickey! Can you hear me?‘ ”
My feet touch the bottom. Against the nearside wall I can just make out the deeper shadow of an access pipe.
She must have been in the pipe. It was the only place to hide.
“‘Michaela?‘”
There was a muffled rumble, like distant thunder. I could feel it through my shoes. I reached for my gun but left it there.
“‘Mickey?‘”
Wind ruffled my hair and I heard a rushing sound, like a train in a tunnel or the thunder of hooves on a loading ramp. My head jerked left and right, looking for her. The sound grew louder. It was coming toward me, coming out of the darkness … a wave.
Again