No one moved for a long second as Martinez's mouthed words sunk in. Then, very slowly, Mike handed the flashlight to the CHP officer and quietly stepped out of the small room to stand beside his partner.
Steve could hear the older man breathing heavily through his mouth and knew he was trying to slow his suddenly pounding heart. His own blood was thudding in his ears and his mouth had gone dry. He reached up put his hand on his partner's back. Mike turned his head slightly to catch his eye, and the older man nodded softly.
They both knew the next few moments were out of their hands; they had no jurisdiction here, and any further action had to be taken by the sheriff and his men.
As Crabb and the others began to move into the cold storage, Mike grabbed the sheriff's arm and leaned closer. "Don't forget he has my gun, at the very least," Mike whispered and Crabb nodded.
The four CHP officers crowded into the small dank room, three of them unholstering and raising their sidearms. Ayers slipped the AR-15 he had slung down his back up into a firing position and aimed it at the door. Martinez, who had been working silently to find the edges of the door, had uncovered a small ring bolted halfway up on the left. He lifted the ring to show Crabb, who nodded.
The sheriff, after a quick glance at the San Francisco detectives, looked at his men and nodded to himself; they were all ready, he knew. "Jeffrey Lonsdale, this is the Sheriff's Department! There are four officers out here with .38's and an AR-15! You're out-gunned, son! If you don't want us to kill you in front of your parents, you better give yourself up!"
The timber of his voice, and his words, hung in the air in the ensuing silence. Everyone was frozen, listening. There was no sound.
"Jeffrey Lonsdale, I'm gonna count to three, son, and then we're gonna open this door – and if we see any sign of a gun, we're gonna cut you in two, you understand me!"
There was still no sound. Crabb looked at the detectives again. Mike didn't move; it was not his call to make and they all knew it. Inhaling deeply, the sheriff nodded at his men. Martinez reached out and grabbed the ring; Ayers, the AR-15 still at his shoulder and his eye on the scope, stepped to where the door would open and nodded at his colleague.
After a brief hesitation, Martinez threw all hjs weight backwards, still unsure if the door was possibly locked from the inside, almost half-anticipating to be jolted to a stop. The door popped open and Ayers took a step forward then froze. Crabb, who was right behind him, his revolver out in front, pushed past his officer and disappeared behind the now open, dirt-covered door.
Steve was watching his partner peripherally; Mike, his eyes glued to the open door, swallowed nervously, holding his breath.
"Lieutenant!" Crabb's voice reached them from behind the door.
Mike stepped forward quickly, trying not to jog; Martinez moved back to let him pass. Steve was right behind him. The San Francisco detectives stopped beside Ayers, who still had the rifle scope to his eye.
Crabb was standing just inside the door, holstering his .38. On his knees, his hands high above his head, his left wrist wrapped in tensor bandages, was Jeffrey Lonsdale.
Mike stared at the downturned head, the salt-and-pepper hair, the arms in the air, and took a deep, unsteady breath. He glanced up briefly, clocking the alarming sight of a large, well-lit, fully furnished room, before his attention returned to the shaking form kneeling on the linoleum of the tiled floor.
With a cold half smile, Crabb kneeled in front of Lonsdale and looked at the thin, bearded face staring unfocused at the floor. "Jeffrey Lonsdale, aka Daniel Harrison, you are under arrest for felony flight to avoid prosecution. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say…"
Mike listened without moving as the sheriff finished reciting the Miranda Warning to the unresponsive Lonsdale. He knew that the only charge they could bring right now was felony flight from the scene of the accident; the rape, murder and flight from the country charges would come later. They could also add a theft charge for Mike's service revolver if it was found in the house.
Crabb got back to his feet and looked at Martinez with a slight nod. The tall Hispanic CHP officer snapped the handcuffs off the back of his belt and stepped behind their prisoner then paused, remembering the ladder. With an annoyed snort, he stuffed the cuffs in his pants pocket and grabbed Lonsdale's right elbow, pulling him awkwardly to his feet.
Mike and Steve backed to the centre of the room as Martinez propelled a reluctant Lonsdale towards the ladder. The recaptured fugitive continued to stare straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the two San Francisco detectives as he was pushed by them. Mike's stare almost burned a hole in the side of Lonsdale's head as he passed.
Murtagh, who had holstered his .38, climbed up to the kitchen first, turning and looking back down to the basement and taking his revolver out again. Martinez gestured to Ayers with his head, nodding at Lonsdale then Mike. Ayers, frowning at first then realizing what his colleague was trying to silently say, slung the rifle down his back and gestured for Lonsdale to proceed him up the ladder.
Awkwardly, only able to use the fingertips of his left hand, the erstwhile fugitive made his way slowly up the rungs, well aware of the man standing above him with the barrel of a service revolver pointed at his head.
Martinez turned to Mike and raised his eyebrows questioningly. The older detective smiled gratefully with a slight, sharp nod. "In a minute, Officer," he said quietly as he turned and headed back into the cold storage.
Crabb was standing in the middle of the hidden room, his hands on his hips and a look of stunned disbelief on his weathered face. He glanced at Mike and Steve as they joined him. "Can you believe this?" the sheriff said softly, awe in his voice.
Steve moved to the fridge and opened it; it was filled, the bottom shelf stacked with cans of Guinness. There was a full-sized stove, a TV and a large fan. The smell of bacon hung in the air. Against the wall on the far side of a double bed was a bureau and a small, filled bookcase, and recessed into that wall was a thin wooden door. Steve crossed around the bed to the door and opened it; Mike watched as his head went back sharply. The younger man looked over his shoulder. "There's one of those new composting toilets and…" he shrugged easily, "and a shower, I guess…" He closed the door and returned to the others. "I wonder how long they've had this ready…"
Mike was nodding, his eyes still roving around the room that was at least half as large as the basement itself. "It looks like they thought of everything…" he added quietly.
"That's for sure," Crabb nodded, still sounding impressed but trying not to be. "It's well put together. I wonder who designed and built it?" he asked almost rhetorically.
"My bet's on the father," Steve snorted dryly, glancing at his partner. "How did he make his money?"
"Engineering and construction," Mike said quietly and the other two snorted.
"And I have a feeling ol' Dad up there ain't as feeble as he's making himself out to be," Crabb groused, shaking his head angrily. He looked at Mike. "We'll seal the house and grounds, of course, Lieutenant, and go through everything with a fine-tooth comb. I'd, ah, I'd like to look for that gun of yours but I want to get everything photographed before we touch anything…in case they accuse us of planting…" Mike nodded in agreement. "I'll keep Sergeant Braddock and Officer Murtagh here with the parents. When we get Lonsdale back to the station, I'll get in touch with the D.A. and get those warrants for the parents. They're expecting my call, believe me." On Mike's frown, he continued with a shrug. "He wouldn't sign them until I could tell him without a doubt that Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle were actually Mr. and Mrs. Lonsdale. And I can do that now, so…" He shrugged with a frustrated sigh.
Mike smiled in commiseration. "It's okay, Sheriff. I understand the bureaucracy."
"I bet you do," Crabb laughed. "Anyway, let's get you two back upstairs and we'll get Lonsdale back to the station, finish the paperwork and… then you can take him home." He smiled. "How does that sound?"
Mike, who had finally started to let himself relax, exhaled loudly and smiled. "That sounds perfect, Sheriff."
"Ah, why don't you start calling me John, okay?" Crabb chuckled, sticking out his right hand.
Mike laughed. "Okay. And, ah, it's not Lieutenant, it's Mike." He shook the sheriff's hand.
"Steve," the junior partner introduced himself with a warm smile, shaking Crabb's hand as well. "Better late than never, I guess, hunh?" he chuckled.
"Okay, gentlemen, let's get out of here, shall we?" the sheriff sighed heavily as he crossed the dirt floor to the ladder and started up.
Laughing quietly, Mike began to follow. As he passed Martinez, he pointed at him and smiled. "Dennis, right?"
A grin split the big man's face. "Yes, sir!"
Mike's laugh got a little louder; he knew the officer wouldn't take the liberty of calling him by his first name. He got to the foot of the ladder and looked up; Steve could see a brief flash of trepidation wash over his face. Martinez walked up behind him.
"Ready to go?" he asked and the older man nodded.
Taking a deep breath, Mike stepped up onto the first rung; it was going to be a lot harder going up with one hand that it had been coming down. He balanced himself then quickly took his right hand off the rung in front of his face to reach for the next one, having to push himself backwards slightly, almost losing his balance, to be able to grasp the rung above. He felt Martinez's firm hand on his back in support; it was reassuring but Mike knew if he really lost his balance, Martinez would not be able to stop his fall.
Their progression up the ladder was slow and, for Mike, increasingly painful. He knew it had been a mistake to go down in the first place, but he also knew he'd had no choice; this was his case and his hunch.
There were 10 rungs up to the kitchen floor, he knew, and he was counting. When he was standing on the fourth rung, preparing to step up onto the fifth, he felt a hand over his and looked up. Crabb was kneeling on the kitchen floor, leaning over the ladder and reaching down; the sheriff smiled. Mike tried to return the look but the growing pain was making it difficult. Crabb frowned, worried.
Gritting his teeth, Mike stepped onto the fifth rung. He was close enough to the top now that Crabb could put his hand on the back of his neck to give him more stability. With the sheriff helping from above and Martinez below, he finally made it to the kitchen floor. Crabb helped him turn when his feet were on the second rung to sit on the ledge, his feet dangling into the open maw of the dirt basement, his right hand pressed against the left side of his chest. He let his head drop forward and closed his eyes; Crabb kept a securing hand on his right shoulder as Martinez climbed onto the kitchen floor, followed as rapidly as possible by an increasingly worried Steve.
With a furrowed brow, Crabb watched the younger man as he stepped up onto the linoleum. He knew the inspector was battling broken ribs as well. Martinez took Steve's arm as he stood, his frown asking the question. "I'm okay," Steve said quickly and quietly, then knelt beside his partner.
Mike's head was still forward and his eyes closed. Crabb had a firm grip on him now to prevent him from falling into the cellar.
"Are you okay?" Steve whispered, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.
Mike raised his head and opened his eyes, turning slightly to look at the younger man, then his eyes closed and his head fell back. Crabb scrambled backwards, lowering the suddenly unconscious lieutenant to the floor.