Page 71 of The Texas Murders

It occurs to me that perhaps the intruder was merely an ordinary burglar looking to steal something of value. If Llewellyn Carpenter was going to discard Marta’s body here, wouldn’t there be two sets of prints? Or at least marks in the dust where she was being dragged?

We come to a place in the hallway where stairs lead up and down. Here, the tracks become more complicated. Boot marks show the person walking upstairs and downstairs, then more tracks continuing down the hallway on this floor, then more coming back. The tread points in both directions on the upper and lower stairwells.

We don’t need to discuss it to understand what we’re seeing. We can tell where the intruder went, but—if he’s still in the building—we don’t know where he is now.

It seems safer if we stick together, but we don’t want him—whether it’s Carpenter or someone else—to slip out behind us. We’re going to have to go different ways.

I indicate that I’ll go down in the basement.

Carlos says he’ll go up the stairs.

Ava will stay on the ground floor.

“Be careful,” I whisper. “And call out if you need help.”

With that, I descend alone into the blackness of the basement.

CHAPTER 60

CARLOS JOGS QUICKLY up the stairs, keeping his light beam steady in front of him, his Colt leveled and ready to fire.

At the top landing, the boot tracks travel down a dark corridor and veer left into a doorway. Carlos hurries to the door and tries the handle. It’s unlocked, so he yanks the door open and swings his gun and light inside. The room is packed with exercise equipment, large mats folded up and shoved against a wall, with upright punching bags filling the rest of the space. Some of the bags are cylinders with tufts of padding coming out of holes, but others are meant to look human, with muscular foam torsos and heads with scowling faces. Carlos darts his flashlight around, making sure none of the human forms are actually people.

As far as Carlos can tell, the tracks go into the maze of boxing bags, but no tracks come out.

He sweeps his light across the room, spotting a window on the other side. Through broken glass, he can see the lights of El Paso. If there had been plywood covering the window, it’s been knocked down.

He wonders if there’s a fire escape over there or perhaps some kind of scaffolding. The window might be low enough that the intruder could jump to the ground without too much risk of serious injury.

Carlos steps into the collection of punching bags, easing past them while keeping his gun and flashlight pointed in front of him.

“If you’re in here,” he says, “identify yourself and come out with your hands—”

He senses movement in his peripheral vision and spins around. A man lunges from the shadows. Before Carlos can get his light or his gun on the person, a heavy metal object smashes into the side of his skull. His knees forget what their function is, and the hardwood floor rushes up toward him. When he crashes down, he rolls over and tries to orient himself. Although he kept his grip on his Colt, the flashlight slipped from his grasp and is spinning on the floor, causing a strobe effect. Carlos can see the lower half of a human: boots, jeans, a hand holding an enormous pair of bolt cutters, at least two feet long.

Black-red liquid drips from the bolt cutters, and Carlos has the numb realization that it’s his blood.

He tries to raise his gun, but his attacker’s free arm reaches down and grabs the weapon. The flashlight—spinningslower now—completes a turn and illuminates the arm connected to the hand taking his gun away.

A tattoo of a snake coils around the forearm.

Carlos knows he needs to move. Shout. Alert Rory and Ava. Do something!

But his body just doesn’t seem to be listening to his mind’s instruction. Carlos’s head collapses back onto the floor, and his eyes close.

The last thing he is aware of before passing out is the sound of Llewellyn Carpenter’s boots walking back across the floorboards.

CHAPTER 61

AT THE BOTTOM of the stairs, I come to large double doors, which had been chained shut, but the cables—just like upstairs—now lie in a heap on the floor. The doors contain small rectangular windows, reinforced with diamond-shaped wire in the glass. I can see nothing but blackness on the other side.

There’s a rotten-egg stench in the air. I’m afraid the smell is from some kind of rotting body. Maybe an animal that somehow got stuck down here. Or a human that was dumped.

I swing open the door, aiming my gun and flashlight inside.

The smell intensifies exponentially. A cold chill sluices through my veins when I realize what it is.

Natural gas.

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