They avoided the trail of blood as they descended, pressing themselves against the wall as they approached the landing.
“This is the police!”
Charbou pointed to the turn and signaled to Dupree that the suspect was there, just as they’d expected. The water on the ground floor was deep enough to be over anyone’s head, so the suspect had to be on the stairs.
“We know you’re there, and we know you’re hurt!” Bull called out. “Throw your weapons into the water and put your hands above your head, where we can see them!”
Again, they heard the splash of someone wading through the water.
“We’re armed and there’s no other way out.” Bull’s voice left no room for doubt. “Don’t make this any more complicated than it has to be. We’ll shoot you if we have to!”
Bull peeked around the turn in the staircase and pulled back immediately. He gestured and mouthed his report without making a sound: “He’s right there. Water up to his knees.” He made a fist, extended his index finger and thumb, then shook the hand from side to side to indicate he hadn’t seen a weapon.
Dupree turned to pass the information silently to those above. He found that Amaia had followed and was right behind him.
Dupree covered Bull, who pressed against the wall as he descended with his pistol ready. The figure began thrashing wildly as soon as the flashlight beam hit him. He kept his head lowered, and a mop of dirty hair hid his face. He swayed from side to side as if about to collapse. Bull shined the flashlight at the man’s feet. The water around him was stained deep red, and each time he lifted his leg, a flash of something stark white emerged from the pool of blood. With his next step, the figure tottered as if about to collapse.
Bull guessed the white object was maybe eight inches long. He hadn’t seen it clearly, but it might have been the handle of a knife or small machete. The suspect had no other weapon, or at least he wasn’t carrying one, for one hand was against the wall and the other clutched the wooden rail. Bull moved the flashlight beam upward, trying to illuminate the man’s face, but the tilted head and mass of hair made that impossible.
Bull realized that the suspect hadn’t made a single sound. He hadn’t moaned or complained either, even though he was bleeding profusely and having trouble keeping himself erect. Bull aimed the light below the man’s waist again, got a closer look, lost his footing, and fell back on his haunches on the stairs.
Dupree rushed down to Bull, training his gun on the suspect as he helped the cop to his feet. They descended side by side and halted two stairs above the hunched figure. Dupree shouted at the suspect to sit down. Above them, Amaia used her own flashlight to illuminate the scene, revealing the suspect’s puny frame wrapped in some kind of knee-length poncho. He was bent almost double, and his neck seemed to be sunk between his shoulder blades in an unnatural position.
“It’s a woman,” Amaia breathed behind them.
Giving no sign she saw or heard them, the agonized creature continued turning in awkward circles, using her long, bony hands to maintain her balance, her overgrown fingernails like dark claws clutching the handrail and leaving deep scratches in the varnished finish. Amaia saw clearly what had so astonished Bull. And when the woman next stepped through the pool of bloody water, the others saw that the brilliant white object they’d mistaken for the handle of a knife was in fact a broken, jagged bone protruding from the bloody flesh of her leg.
“Get me a tourniquet!” Dupree went down the last two steps.
“Oh, my God!” Amaia exclaimed in horror, unable to tear her eyes away from the wound, unable to understand how the creature could possibly stay erect without howling in pain.
“For fuck’s sake!” Charbou exclaimed behind her and then pleaded, “Make her stop, goddamn it!”
After twisting a length of soaked cloth above the injury, Dupree grabbed her shoulder, forcing her to turn on her axis. She fell against the balustrade. Bull and Amaia kept their pistols on the woman as Dupree shined his light on her from above. Fighting back his disgust, he stretched his gloved hand toward her face. She recoiled.
“I’m not going to hurt you, I just want to see your face,” he said. Amaia heard something in his voice, an emotion that hadn’t been there before.
An obscure muttering burst from her mouth. “I’m . . .”
“She said something,” Amaia cried. “She’s talking!”
They fell silent, trying to catch the thin thread of her voice.
More unintelligible whispering. And again, that whistling intake of breath. “I’m . . . mm . . . mmm . . . dead.”
Charbou threw down a strip of cloth found somewhere, and Bull twisted it around the suspect’s thigh.
Amaia fixed her eyes on Dupree’s face, visible beyond Bull and the woman. “I thought she said . . . that she’s dead.”
Dupree grasped the dangling locks and pushed them, almost threw them, back. Her face was gray, as if rubbed in ash; her skin was stretched so thin over her bones that it looked like parchment about to rip. There was so little flesh on her skull that they could see the shape of her molars through her cheeks. Her lips were dry and cracked, covered by sores that looked like herpes blisters, and her eyes were huge, bulging with the adrenaline of terror, her thin lids without lashes. But the worst was her expression, a gaze that, despite her fear, was vacant and hopeless.
Dupree dropped to his knees and looked deep into her eyes.
“I’m . . . mm . . . mm . . . dead,” the woman said again.
Dupree shined the light into her eyes and saw that her pupils didn’t contract. He raised his voice. “What’s your name? Tell me your name!”
The woman reacted with a strange expression, as if she’d just awakened or had glimpsed some fleeting reality. She raised her head. Then, between those terribly dry, swollen lips, a white tongue appeared, so covered with mold it seemed coated with cream. Her teeth, the color of cork, looked as if they were about to fall from their unstable places in her diseased gums.
Her lips scarcely moved as a harsh gushing sound heavy with phlegm erupted from her throat. “Méeedora.”
The odor from her mouth made Dupree recoil in horror.
“That’s impossible!” yelped Bull. “It can’t be!” He pushed aside the mess of hair that covered the creature’s neck. Her shriveled skin was darkened by a cancerous purple growth, but even so, a tattoo was visible. Elegantly curled letters formed her name. Bull could hardly get the words out. “For Christ’s sake! This is Médora Lirette!”
The woman raised her right hand and placed those five long fingers on Dupree’s chest as he stared at her, not believing his own eyes. “Médora?” he echoed. “Médora Lirette . . .”
The woman replied as if speaking from the grave. Her voice was scarcely audible. “Bazagrá . . . I’m dead, and so are you.”
Dupree’s face lost all color. He gasped as if suddenly deprived of air. He dropped his weapon and with it the lamp he’d been holding on the woman. He raised his own right hand to his chest and grasped her bony claw. He knew he was having a massive heart attack; he was going to say so, but he couldn’t speak. Sweat covered his face. He trembled, shaken by the force of the attack. He fell over backward as if struck by lightning.