The Burial Hour (Lincoln Rhyme 13)

The four rats soon became seven and then became a dozen, swarming the meat like huge, gray bacteria.

Some fights broke out, screeching and biting. But on the whole, they shared.

And began the serious effort of dining.

Khaled shouted and screamed through the gag and shook in the chair.

Which drew the attention of one or two of the rodents and their response was merely to glance at him with curiosity as they happily chewed and swallowed.

In five or ten or twenty minutes, they would devour the meat entirely. And the weight would begin its fall.

Despair.

But then came a flash of joy.

Yes, yes, thank you, God, praise be to Him. He had remembered his daughter's name.

Muna...

At least he would have her name--and the memory of her happy face, her thick curly hair--to accompany him to his death.

Chapter 50

They tried. Both of them tried, slamming into the front door of the farmhouse.

But houses built in an era before alarms, when solid oak and maple had to provide the front line of defense, were not easily breached. Then or now.

Ercole had called Rossi again, who in turn had located the closest police station. It was the rival Carabinieri, but for a case like this every officer in Italy was on the same side. A car would be there in ten to fifteen minutes. The Police of State dispatched earlier would be about the same.

"Shoot the lock out," Ercole said to Sachs.

"That doesn't work. Not with handguns."

They circled the farmhouse quickly, still staying vigilant. They had no evidence that the Composer wasn't inside or nearby. And by now he could know he had visitors. And would have seen or at least guessed it was police.

Ercole stumbled over an old garden hose and jumped back to his feet, wincing. He'd cut his palm on some broken crockery. Not badly. She was keeping her eyes--and concentration--on the windows, looking for both threats and for a means of entry.

She found one. A window in the back, one they'd looked through earlier, was unlocked.

Out came her small but blinding tactical flashlight. "Stay back, away from the window," she called to Ercole.

He dropped into a crouch. She clicked the light on and, holding it in her left hand, high above her head, stepped quickly to the window and played the beam inside while aiming her Beretta with her right. If the Composer were inside, armed and ready to shoot, he would instinctively aim for the light or near it. She might take a round in the arm but would have a second or two to fire before she collapsed in pain.

Or died from a brachial artery shot.

But the room yawned back, its only occupants dusty boxes and furniture covered with mismatched sheets as drop cloths.

"Boost me up."

He helped her inside, then he vaulted the sill and joined her.

They walked to the closed door that led to the hallway.

He tapped her arm. She smiled. He was holding out rubber bands.

They put them on their feet. He whispered, "But no gloves. Tactical."

Nodding, she whispered, "We clear every room. That means we assume that he's on the other side of any closed door or he's hiding behind anything big enough to hide behind. I'll hit the room once, fast, with the light, high, like I did at the window. Then back to cover. Then we go in low, crouching. He'll be expecting us standing. And I mean low."