"Doesn't this feel a bit… convenient to you?" I ask as I find the items he requested. "I mean, a trail of bloody rose petals doesn't seem too accidental."
"Someone wants us follow the breadcrumbs," he replies. "I think we should oblige them, find out what's at the end."
"As long as it's not the gingerbread house with the wicked witch," I say. I hand him the pile of evidence markers and he places the first one next to the first petal as I snap a photo. He's moved on to the next already, and as I catch up to him he's looking round the corner at the third. With no one else around, it's easy to see our trail in the cold grey light of early morning, especially as Mac's using his flashlight to flood the sidewalk with a bright beam. I follow him, taking the photos as I go. From a little way ahead he waves me closer, urgently.
"Over here, Gretel," he calls. I look at where he's placed marker number eight. There are two blood drops next to this petal. "What are you thinking?"
"He planned this well in advance," I say as I record and we move on. "He probably had a key, or at least is very good at picking locks. He knew exactly what he would find, the roses, and brought his own petals to match."
"What makes you say that?" Mac asks. He'll already know the answer but we're used to working this way, talking out our shared ideas with each other.
"The roses at the shop had blood poured or dripped over them, so they were unevenly coated. These petals we're following are completely coated, and there's these extra blood drops here. I'm thinking he had these petals floating in a container, and when he took this one out it took some extra drops with it."
"I agree."
We follow the convoluted path mapped out for us, walking in a comfortable silence. Even though whatever game this man is playing seems to be escalating, I find I'm not as worried as I was only a short time before. Mac's apologised, and we're able to talk properly to each other again, and this seems to make everything much less dark. Instead of feeling mocked by it, I'm hopeful that this trail will lead us to some vital clue. It's certainly long enough to feel important. Every time there's a turning in the street we seem to take it. I've lost count of how many blocks we've walked, but we're at petal number 34 when my phone rings.
"Bonasera."
"Stella? Where the hell are you?"
"Following a lead." Mac looks at me questioningly, and I mouth Flack. He nods.
"So I gather," Flack continues. "Without tellin' me? I finish with Harris, and you two are gone off somewhere, just leaving a load of your yellow card things? Where are you now?"
"Uh, I'm not exactly sure. No road signs just here."
"Alright, I'm coming after you. You realise that if you get ambushed I'll probably be taking the fall?"
"Cheerful. I hear you though, we'll wait."
"You'd better. You need to be more careful." He cuts the connection.
"What was that about?" Mac asks.
"Flack. He wants us to wait here until he arrives with backup."
"Alright."
I must have looked disbelieving, because he laughed. "Promise."
A couple of minutes go by, during which Mac crouches by the 34th petal and examines it closely, while I look again through the photos stored on the camera's card. I know that we should be waiting for Flack, but I'm impatient. I walk to the edge of the corner and look down the street. "Mac. You need to see this."
The subway entrance ahead doesn't look as if it gets much use. There's litter around the entrance, degrading cardboard coffee cups, bright foil chocolate wrappers. And a perfectly intact red rose, flower-head in full bloom, lying on the centre of the top step down. We walk to it, mark it, photograph it.
I see a metal sign lying on its back, and I turn it over. STATION CLOSED, it reads. The lights are on in the stairwell. It looks as if someone's not taken any notice of the sign.
Mac draws his weapon. "Oh no," I say. "We're waiting."
"You want to let this guy get away from us?" he asks.
I hesitate for a second, but there's still no sign of Flack. This is a stupid idea. But there are two of us. "Ok. Let's do this."
Mac pushes the evidence markers into his pocket, and I hang the camera strap around my neck and right shoulder, so that it hangs on my left side. I draw my Glock and hold it ready. He touches my hand for a second, and meets my eyes. "Ready?"
"Ready."
We don't speak as we descend the stairs. The harsh yellow strip lights reflect off the dingy concrete walls. Our footsteps echo, however quietly we try to walk. Broken glass bottles lie in corners coated with dust, and the stench of stale urine hangs in the air.
We reach the bottom of the stairs. The line here must run very deep underground, because there's about fifteen metres of level tunnel and then more steps downwards. I glance at my watch. Quarter past five. Usually by now the daily commute would be just beginning, but this silent station is deserted. The ticket kiosk is set into one of the walls here, but a metal grille is pulled across it and padlocked shut.
Mac touches my arm to catch my attention, and points. I nod to show him I've seen. Next to the top of the descending flight of stairs is a door marked very clearly with KEEP OUT. It's standing open, opening into an unknown, unlit tunnel. Another rose lies on the threshold.
Guns ready, we advance towards the doorway. This is when I realise very clearly what a nightmare situation we've just walked into. We can see nothing of whatever's inside, but anyone inside has a clear line of sight to us. I risk a glance at Mac and see from the tautness of his face that he's thinking the same. And God only knows what we're going to do now. If we continue advancing, well, anyone inside can just pick us both off at their pleasure. We try to turn back, same result, except that we won't even see it coming. We slow to a halt.
"NYPD. Come out with your hands up," Mac calls. His voice bounces off the concrete walls and ceiling. There is no response.
Or rather, there is. The lights, suddenly and completely, are gone. My heart jumps in my chest. I swing my head round, eyes stretched wide open for any light, any at all. There's none. I can hear footsteps, running feet somewhere, and although I've lost most of my sense of direction they seem to be directly ahead. Echoes ricochet from the walls, slamming everywhere, a black chaos.
I think, Light, and grab the camera with my left hand and click. Flash. Someone is silhouetted in a white magnesium flare against a black background. Click. Flash. This time his white face is right next to my own, centimetres from the camera lens. A shocked scream, a short sharp scream, and I realise that it was my voice. A movement of the air currents in front of me, and my Glock knocked from my hand. The clatter it makes on the hard ground. Something heavy smashes into my jaw, something cold catching me across my face. Unbalanced, I fall backwards, and the ground behind me isn't there, and I fall, and hit the sharp edge of a step, and keep falling, rolling down headlong, forearms clenched tight around my head. Shouting, some of it mine. Some of it not. The hard edge of each step I hit slamming into my stomach, my back, my legs, my chest. The camera strap pulled tight around my throat as the camera lands beneath me.
A gunshot.
A gunshot somewhere above. I collide with a vertical surface, a wall, and stop. I lie still. I try to shout his name, but there's no air in my lungs and I can't seem to suck any in. I don't know what I'm hearing anymore. Blackness. My thoughts are choked with thick soot, and it's so hard to hang onto any ideas, other than the most important ones which play themselves on a loop. I think,Gunshot. I think, Mac. I think, We should have waited.
A/N: Two cliffhangers in a row. I'm mean. I'd like to know what you think about the last bit. As it's first person present tense I felt that writing it as anything other than the complete chaos wouldn't work, but if you disagree please tell me!
Also, I have never been to New York, so the description is probably inaccurate. I based it on the subway (underpass) at Great Malvern railway station.