“We don’t know. There are signs that he was here but . . .” Jean’s voice trailed off. “It looks like Cooper may have built a false wall. Perhaps to conceal a body.”
Tracy let out a wail of anguish. She went limp in Jean’s arms.
“What happened?” Jean hissed at the Bulgarian policeman who’d driven the squad car. “I told you to take her straight to the hospital.”
The man shrugged. “She wouldn’t go. The ambulance take the suspect, but this lady refuse.”
“The suspect? You mean Cooper’s alive?”
“He was. I don’t know. Maybe not now. He looked pretty bad.”
Rizzo tried to process this. If Cooper really was alive, it was good news. There might be a trial, a confession even. Some sort of closure for the families . . . Milton Buck might even recover some of his precious stolen jewelry and artwork. Not that Jean Rizzo gave a damn about the FBI.
“Inspector Rizzo!” The voice came from inside the barn. The banging had stopped. “You’d better get in here, sir.”
Reluctantly releasing Tracy, Jean ran back inside. Tracy followed.
The barn was an old stone building, originally built to house cattle or sheep. It was dark inside, but Jean’s men had set up a few battery-powered lamps. In one corner a few ancient farm implements lay rusting in a heap, like broken bones. But it was the wall next to them that caught Tracy’s eye. It was covered in blood, like a child’s splatter painting. Chains had been nailed into the masonry, and various instruments of torture, including electrical wires, a whip and a hacksaw had been propped neatly against a wooden chair. Tracy put a hand to her mouth to stop herself from vomiting.
“Sir!”
The young officer was standing on top of a pile of rubble. He looked like he might be about to vomit himself. A stone wall had been erected at the back of the barn, just a few feet from the original, creating a sort of false back to the building. Rizzo’s men had hammered a four-foot hole in it, large enough for a person to squeeze through.
The officer threw Jean a flashlight.
Jean turned to talk to Tracy but he was too late. She’d already darted past him into the cavity.
The cross was enormous, at least ten feet tall. The first thing Tracy saw was a huge, iron nail impaling both of Jeff’s feet.
“Oh my God.” She burst into sobs. “Jeff! Jeff! Can you hear me? JEFF!”
There was a groan, then another.
“Jesus Christ. He’s alive.” Jean Rizzo looked at his men. “Don’t just stand there, for Christ’s sake. Get him down! And call an ambulance.”
It took twenty-five minutes to get Jeff onto a stretcher. His nervous system appeared to have shut down. There were no screams as the nails were pulled out of his hands and feet. A number of his ribs were broken and his torso was badly burned, but he showed no sign of pain.
Tracy talked to him constantly. “It’s okay. You’re okay, Jeff. I’m here. It’s all okay. You’re going to a hospital. You’re going to be fine.”
At one point he opened his eyes very wide and said, “Tracy?”
“Yes, darling!” Tracy bent down and kissed him. “It’s me! Oh, Jeff, I love you. I love you so much. Please hold on.”
Jeff smiled and closed his eyes. He looked profoundly at peace.
Tracy rode with him in the ambulance. The paramedics had him wired up to all sorts of machines. There were needles in his arms and electrodes on his chest and a screen with green lines that beeped intermittently. Tracy had a million questions but she was too afraid to ask any of them. She scanned the doctors’ faces, looking for any sign of hope or despair, but saw nothing to hold on to. She started to pray.
Please, God, let him live. Please give me a chance to make things right. To tell him I love him. Please . . .
A loud, long beep startled her.
“Jeff?” She looked at the paramedics in panic. “What’s happening?”
Strong hands pushed her aside. She could no longer see Jeff, only a wall of backs in green scrubs bent over him. Someone put paddles onto his chest. Tracy watched in dumb horror as Jeff’s thin frame leaped up off the gurney, then fell back again, limp and lifeless.
“Again!”
Another charge to the chest.