Page 143 of X Marks the Stalker
Thorne examines the vault door, his expression unreadable. “Perhaps he couldn’t.”
A cold knot forms in my stomach. “You mean he’s trapped? There should be an emergency release lever inside, right?”
“Theoretically.” Thorne runs his fingertips along the seam of the door.
I step back, surveying the pristine panic room. Evidence markers dot the space where our crime took place.
“We don’t have the eyes,” I say, the absurdity of the sentence not lost on me. “How do we open it?”
“We break in.” Thorne nods once, setting his leather briefcase on the floor beside the vault. He kneels down, unlatching it with practiced movements to reveal an array of tools I can’t even identify.
“Can you break into something like this?” I ask, watching as he selects what appears to be an electronic device with several attachments.
“Blackwell’s money bought impressive security,” Thorne replies, attaching something to the control panel. “But money also breeds arrogance. The wealthy believe their protections are impenetrable, which makes them predictable.”
He connects wires from his device to various points on the panel with the confidence of someone who’s done this many times before.
“How long will this take?” I press my hand against the vault door again, imagining Xander inside, air running low. “He’s been in there for hours.”
“If you continue interrupting me, considerably longer.”
I pace the small space, unable to stand still. “Xander?” I call again, louder this time. “We’re getting you out!”
I hover at Thorne’s shoulder, watching him work on the vault door. His movements are precise, almost surgical. Wire here, small tool there, fingers never hesitating.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask, my voice tight with anxiety.
Thorne doesn’t look up. “The officer.”
“What?”
“Secure him. Just in case he wakes up before we’re done here.”
I glance back at the hallway where we left the young officer slumped against the wall.
“Right.” I step away from the vault, reluctant to leave, but knowing Thorne is our best chance at getting this door open. “I’ll handle it.”
In the hallway, the officer remains as we left him, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of drugged sleep. His face looks younger in unconsciousness, almost boyish. I kneel beside him, gently removing his service weapon and setting it aside.
“Sorry about this,” I mutter as I pull zip ties from my pocket.
I bind his wrists behind his back, trying not to make them too tight. “This is just temporary,” I explain to his unconscious form. “You seem like a nice guy. Probably have a girlfriend. Maybe a cat. I bet you’re a cat person.”
His head lolls to the side as I secure his ankles together.
“You’ll be okay,” I continue, checking the bindings. “This will make a great story someday. The time you almost caught the... What would they call us? The Hemlock Killers? God, that’s terrible branding.”
I pick up his phone, powering it off.
“For what it’s worth, I’m not usually like this. Breaking into crime scenes, tying up police officers.” I pause, considering my life choices. “Actually, I guess I am like this now.”
My earpiece crackles. “Oakley.” Calloway’s voice cuts through, sounding strained. “Update?”
I press the transmitter. “Thorne’s working on the vault. How’s it going downstairs?”
“I’m running out of symptoms.” Calloway sounds genuinely distressed. “I’ve done the shaking, the vomiting, the convulsions. I’m crawling around the lobby floor making unholy noises, but people are asking questions. There’s only so many ways to interpret ‘mysterious illness’ before it becomes derivative.”
“Can you buy us more time?”
