The Silence That Speaks (Forensic Instincts 4)

Madeline handed both to her.

Stuffing them in her coat pocket, Janet gestured for Madeline to lead the way. “Now, let’s go inside and find that recording.”

There was plenty of room for the two of them, just as Madeline had feared. The extralarge unit she’d rented was ten feet by ten feet—the size of a small bedroom. Even with everything stored in there, a clear path to the items and lots of empty space remained.

Janet could easily shoot her in here, slam and lock the door behind her and vanish in Madeline’s car. No one would hear a few popping sounds, not in Manhattan where the taxis, buses, construction work and crowds were loud enough to block out an alien invasion.

Madeline’s cold, dead body wouldn’t be found until the stench of her rotting flesh permeated the storage facility.

She wiped that thought from her mind. Her job right now was to stretch out the time it took her to produce that recording and to try to catch Janet off guard.

Madeline made her way down the middle of the unit, brows knit as she stopped to study one box after another.

“Hurry up,” Janet ordered. “And stop pretending you’re confused. You know where every damned thing in the world is. You could single-handedly organize the entire hospital. Plus, you’ve labeled every box.”

Madeline squeezed her eyes shut, wishing at that moment that she were a disorganized slob.

“Look what we have here,” Janet noted aloud. She waved the pistol at a stack of three boxes a little way down from where they stood. “If I’m correct, those are labeled Conrad’s Tapes, are they not?”

Son of a bitch, Madeline thought.

“Yes,” she said. “My guess is that one of those three boxes has what you want in it. The problem is, I don’t know which one.”

“Then we’ll look through them all.” Janet jabbed the pistol into Madeline’s back again, shoving her the short distance to where the stack of boxes was. “Take down the top box. We’ll start there.”

Gingerly, Madeline reached for the box, favoring her ribs as she did. Her visible discomfort gave her time to get a firm grasp on the fifteen-pound box until her hands were locked securely around it.

In one sweeping motion, Madeline whirled around and flung the box at Janet with all her might.

With a yelp of surprise, Janet fell back, landing on some rattan terrace chairs. The pistol clattered to the concrete floor, spinning in circles and sliding away.

Both women lunged at it at the same time, hitting the floor together.

Ignoring the sharp pain in her side, Madeline scrambled to her knees and crawled, stretching her arm out as far as it would go.

Her fingers brushed the barrel of the gun.

She was inches from grabbing it when Janet’s knee came up, slamming into Madeline’s ribs as hard as possible.

Crying out in pain, Madeline crumpled in a ball, rocking from side to side and gasping air into her lungs.

That didn’t stop her. Pain or not, she fought to regain her momentum and succeeded. She grabbed hold of Janet’s legs, dragging her backward while she dodged Janet’s kicking and the intended blows of her high heels.

“Let go of me, you bitch!” Janet said, panting as she struggled to reach the pistol, which was just out of her reach.

Madeline wrapped one arm around Janet’s legs and yanked harder, using her other hand to slam a fist into the small of Janet’s back—once, twice, three times—ignoring Janet’s howls of pain, desperate to stop her from reaching the gun first.

Janet went rigid, temporarily crippled by the blows, and Madeline used those precious seconds to hoist herself past Janet and grope for the weapon.

Her fingers had just wrapped around the butt of the gun when Janet reached up and punched her so hard in the face that Madeline saw stars.

She moaned and fell over onto her back, losing her grip entirely and giving Janet free access.

Janet took full advantage.

She grabbed the pistol, rolled over and sat up, aiming the gun at Madeline, who was still crunched on her back.

“Sit up.”