Hidden Motive

by Alexander, Hannah

  After seeing Dillon to Sable’s door, Murph entered the bedroom he was sharing with Simmons. The moment he stepped through the door, he saw Simmons bolt upright in the gloom.

  “Who is it?” the man snapped.

  “Your roomie. Paul Murphy.” Murph wished he could get out of the clothes he was wearing and get comfortable, but that didn’t look like a possibility for the near future. He noticed that Simmons braced himself up on one elbow, watchful, alert.

  “Were you headed somewhere in particular before we were delayed?” Murph hoped he sounded more conversational than confrontational.

  “No, I hopped on the bus for a joyride,” Simmons snapped. “What do you think?”

  “So where are you headed?” Murph kept his voice mellow, blaming the man’s irritability on fatigue.

  “Home to Fayetteville,” Simmons said at last. “My mother's dying in the hospital there and my sisters called me yesterday to tell me to hurry.” Simmons continued to sound resentful, almost belligerent.

  “I'm sorry to hear that,” Murph said. “Maybe this ice will clear up and we can get you on your way before long.”

  “And you?” Simmons asked. “You and Sable are friendly enough. Could be you were hoping for a lot less company.”

  Murph ignored the jibe and climbed onto the top bunk. He settled onto his side facing the room, on top of the covers. He allowed himself to relax into the pillow and reached upward for his source of strength. Lord, we must be here for a reason. You can guide us.

  He was still hesitant to sleep but even this dinky bunk bed felt seductively comfortable. Simmons had apparently fallen back to sleep. His breathing was hypnotic and deep, its rhythm like a metronome, blending with the whisper of the rain outside…

  Chapter 10

  A low rumble of thunder burst from the darkness and reverberated through Murph’s chest, jolting him awake. His legs cramped and he remembered he was in an upper bunk with a Detonics Pocket 9 pistol strapped to his chest so tightly it felt as if it had embedded into his flesh. And he was cold.

  He’d fallen asleep in a room with a man he didn’t trust. The pain reassured him that the gun remained in place. He reached up and his fingers encountered the thick cotton fabric of the shirt he’d rummaged from a box of old clothing in the attic. Good. He’d been covered without a blanket to hamper him.

  The rumble came again. It wasn’t Simmons snoring—no sound came from the lower bunk. It couldn’t be thunder. Outside the window an invisible sun had turned the shrouded sky from pale gray to brilliant blue. The storm had passed.

  The rumble metamorphosed into the familiar cadence of a dog’s growl. Murph climbed down from the top bunk. Simmons was already gone.

  Shivering, Murph opened the door to find the German shepherd standing guard three doors down along the unlit hallway. Sable’s room. The dog whirled around with a snarl when Murph stepped out.

  “Quiet.”

  Dillon’s pointed ears relaxed.

  “What is it?”

  Dillon whined and wagged his tail, then trotted over and thrust his wet nose into the palm of Murph’s right hand. Perhaps he needed a trip outside, though dogs didn’t usually growl about that.

  “Let me get my shoes and socks on. I don’t have as much fur on my feet as you do.” With Dillon shadowing his steps, Murph returned to the bedroom to see if his socks had dried overnight. They hadn’t. He’d have to dry them.

  With shoes and socks in hand, he stepped over to the uncurtained window and looked out. The winter scene stunned him. Eighteen-inch icicles clung to the eaves of the house like sharpened spears. The dim shapes of crystal trees and rock cliffs hovered over the valley, as in one of those places depicted in Ozark post cards, all hills and canyons at sharp angles. Every inch was coated in ice.

  Dillon growled again.

  “I’m coming.” He trailed downstairs after the dog, who waited impatiently for Murph to spread his socks on the hearth.

  Only a few live coals glowed amid the ashes. The temperature in the house must have dropped overnight into the low sixties, maybe lower. No wonder he was cold. Murph restocked the fireplace with wood from a metal andiron beside the hearth.

  Meanwhile, Dillon sniffed at the basement door at the end of the hearth. He pawed at the wood, then looked at Murph.

  With scenes from an old Lassie show flickering through his memory, Murph opened the door.

  The dog plunged down the narrow steps and with a growl disappeared into the darkness. Murph grabbed a flashlight from the shelf at the head of the stairs and joined Dillon, who hovered at a short open entryway about three feet square at the far end of the large concrete basement. Past the entry was the gaping mouth of the cave. Murph’s love of caves had always attracted him to the state of Missouri because it boasted more caves than any other state. More important right now was that this cave seemed to be a source of fascination for Dillon.

  Murph looked down at his bare feet, then back toward the entrance. His feet were tough.

  He dropped to his knees and crawled through the cave mouth, shining his light ahead of him. A sound of shuffling reached him from the darkness, but before he could identify its source, Dillon barked.

  Murph turned to find the dog still hovering at the cave mouth, hackles raised. The sound of shuffling didn’t come again. Bats, maybe? Was there another entrance to this cave? Sable had said the cave would provide an escape if necessary.

  A few feet farther, he discovered that the narrow mouth opened into a wide cavern. He straightened, inhaling the moist air while playing his light over gray and white formations. He studied the passageway that had apparently been scoured by countless footsteps into the solid limestone floor. The path wandered alongside a regal column of white and led to a barrier of stone about twenty feet ahead. This natural wall blocked his view and cast the cavern into patches of shadow that undulated with the movement of the beam.

  The sound came again, again a shuffling…like the cautious tread of a human foot. It came from behind the rock ledge.

  “Hello?” Murph’s hand tightened on the flashlight.

  No answer.

  “Sable? It’s Murph. Are you back there?”

  Silence.

  He reached beneath his shirt and slid the holster into position, then crept forward, ducking beneath a stalactite. The shadows fell away as he stepped past the rock ledge and the cavern opened into yet another room.

  Someone darted out from the shadows of the ledge and stumbled against a boulder. Dillon barked.

  The sudden glare of another flashlight split the darkness. The broad-shouldered figure straightened. Simmons.

  “Out for a morning stroll?” Murph asked.

  Simmons trained his light on the dog, who had joined Murph in the cave. “You got a problem with that?”

  “Did you ask permission to come down here?”

  There was an annoyed silence. “Did you?”

  “Not unless you count Dillon’s.” Murph leaned against a boulder and aimed his light around the walls of the cave. “Interesting place, isn't it?”

  “Weird place,” Simmons muttered. Murph noted the muscles that bulged beneath the long-sleeved shirt Simmons had found in the attic last night. He was probably about five-ten, which was three inches shorter than Murph. If a man were to guess, Murph would say the man weighed about 190 without an ounce of fat.

  “I love caves.” Murph aimed his light at some soda straw formations to the far right of the room. “It amazes me what God can do even in the absence of light.”

  Simmons gave a sudden snort. “You like to hang out with bats and talk about God?”

  “If you don’t like bats, what are you doing down here?”

  Simmons brushed his fingers through his curly brown hair, which had frizzed from the moisture in the cave. “Think any of the passages lead anywhere? You know, like to civilization?”

  “No one mentioned it last night but it wouldn’t hurt to ask. You must be in a hurry to get to the hospital.”


  Simmons aimed his flashlight up the side of the cave wall.

  “I hope your mother’s doing okay.” Murph battled another frisson of discomfort. Perhaps it was the paleness of Simmons’s eyes, or the way he tended to look past a guy instead of meeting his gaze straight on. “I’m sorry you’re stuck here when you need to get out so badly.”

  Simmons lowered his flashlight and exhaled a deep breath. “I wish I’d driven instead of taking that bus.”

  “Maybe we’ll have a quick thaw and you can be on your way.” Nothing would make Murph happier.

  “Guess we could go prospecting while we wait.”

  “Prospecting?”

  “You know, for silver. Think there’s anything to that story they told?”

  “I doubt it. Missouri isn’t known for silver mines. You know how easily stories get started.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt to look, would it?”

  Murph shrugged. “With permission from the owners.”

  Simmons raked the sides of the cave with his light once more. “Like I said, this place is weird.” He stepped over some scattered rocks and stepped onto the path.

  Murph watched him leave.

  Dillon whined and looked up at Murph, then lowered his head, perked his ears, and followed Simmons from the cave.

  Murph nodded. “Good boy. Go find Sable. I’ll be out in a moment.” First he wanted to check out a pit he had seen in the beam of Simmons’s light. He stepped cautiously along the rock-strewn limestone. The pit seemed to swallow light except for the jagged boulders around the rim, like teeth in the mouth of a giant serpent.

  The mouth they surrounded was big enough to swallow a small car. Murph's light barely touched the rocky bottom, about thirty-five feet below. Instinctively, he took a step backward. Anyone who fell down there could be badly injured—even killed.

  “Better be careful over there,” came a man’s voice from behind him.

  He spun around and saw Craig Holt in the cave entrance.

  Murph picked his way carefully back toward the path, painfully aware that he’d entered the cave with bare feet. “That’s quite a drop.”

  Craig shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and strolled forward. “It’s dry when there’s drought, it’s filled with water if we have much rain or snow. I thought it would be a pool by now, but apparently the rain hasn’t affected it. Yet.”

  “You grew up with the Chamberlins?” Murph asked.

  Craig nodded. “My sister and I used to come over all the time when we were younger. Even before Sable and her brothers moved in with Josiah, they visited a lot. About every time they came over, they’d call my sister and me, and we’d come over and help them get into mischief.”

  “You weren't afraid of the ghost?”

  Craig laughed. It had a tight sound, as if he wasn't as relaxed as he wanted Murph to think. “Even as kids, we knew that story. Rumors spread easily across these Ozark hills.”

  Murph peered back along the passage into the inky darkness. “Is the cave large?”

  “We thought it was. We could spend a whole day down here and not cover it all.” He glanced down at Murph’s bare feet, and his black brows drew together. “Plan to do some exploring?”

  “Not at the moment, but later maybe. Spelunking is a favorite hobby of mine.”

  Craig turned and strolled ahead of Murph toward the house. “It’s one of Sable's too.”

  Murph thought he detected a hint of possessiveness in the man’s voice. He grimaced as Craig knelt down to crawl out of the cave. This forced confinement was proving to be less and less comfortable.

  Chapter 11

  Sable’s feet slid down an icy ledge. She couldn’t stop the descent and she screamed into the darkness.

  Her eyes flew open to a sunny stream of light coming in through the window sheers. She gripped the comforter to her chest and waited while her heart slowed its beating. She didn’t often have nightmares. This one had been more a memory than a dream.

  In spite of the cold air, perspiration dripped from her face and neck in tiny rivulets. She looked across the room at the pile of discarded clothes she had worn last night. From the front pocket of her crumpled slacks, a corner of the folded letters peeped out at her.

  What was the surprise Grandpa had hinted about? Why did he have to be so obscure?

  Tossing back the covers in frustration, she looked out the window beside her bed, where a bright sky was punctured by the frozen branches of the old maple tree that grew beside the house. To her dismay, a bank of dark clouds had formed a foreboding wall on the western horizon and crept closer as she stood there. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly noon. From past experience she knew that even if the ice hadn’t coated the trees by more than an inch, the sun would melt that ice just enough to make travel impossible the next few hours. The clouds might bring more ice.

  Her bumps and bruises protested when she climbed from bed, reminding her all too well of the past eighteen hours.

  “Lord protect us,” she whispered into the silence of the room on her way to the window.

  She was new to the habit of prayer. She had a feeling, however, that she was about to get accustomed to it in the days to come—she’d never felt so helpless and lost in her life.

  As she stepped between the gauzy blue curtains at the window, the frozen landscape that greeted her from below brought a gasp of wonder. Sparkling crystals coated even the slenderest of branches, making the trees look like the glass figurines she had admired in the gift shops in Branson. Despite the destruction of ice storms, she never ceased to be amazed by the kind of beauty she saw before her.

  Even the strongest oaks, however, hadn’t escaped damage from the weight of ice. Branches of all sizes littered the forest floor. Falling branches would prove to be another danger if they ventured outside.

  As she marveled over the landscape, a board creaked somewhere in the hallway. She stiffened and turned from the window. There was another creak and she recognized it. The sound came from the attic steps. This old house and its squeaky floorboards and settling timber…over the years she had learned the distinctive sound of each one.

  She pulled on a terry robe and rushed to the door. When she turned the knob, the mechanism clicked. By the time she stepped out into the hallway, all she saw was a slender, silver-haired female form disappear around the corner. Audrey.

  Something soft and fuzzy brushed against her leg and she bit back a cry. A cold nose pressed against her hand. Dillon.

  She knelt and hugged him, accepting a kiss on her cheek from his wet tongue. “So you and Audrey are friends, huh? I hope you didn’t allow anybody else past this door. Go on downstairs. I’m up and on the alert again.”

  After dressing in old faded jeans and a warm blue turtleneck that fit a little too snugly after eight years, Sable drew the pink rosebud comforter over her pillows. She’d slept in her comfortable private room on her solid bed while Murph and Simmons had squeezed into bunks. Perry had drawn the rickety, uncomfortable cot in the sewing room.

  She surveyed the room she had decorated last summer. The pale blue walls and silver-gray Berber carpeting were a perfect setting for the carved bureau, the antique lantern and washstand. She would probably be using the washstand. With no electricity, their only source of water was the hand pump down in the kitchen. Someone would be kept busy carrying water upstairs.

  Fire glowed in the hearth when she entered the living room. The sound of footsteps reached her from the basement. She hated the fear that made her heart beat faster and her muscles tense. But Dillon didn’t bark. He didn’t even react to the sound. The door swung open and Craig Holt entered, his thick black hair tousled, black soot on his chin, apparently from stoking the wood furnace downstairs.

  He grinned at her. “You look like you should’ve stayed in bed a couple more hours.”

  “And good morning to you,” she said with a hint of the sarcasm that had always characterized their banter.

  “Who’s fixing break
fast? I’m starved.”

  Sable shook her head sadly. “You’re still looking for someone else to fix your breakfast.”

  “Have your cooking skills improved?” Craig teased.

  “Not much. Isn’t there food left in the freezer from the funeral dinner?”

  “Some. Your mom took a couple of casseroles with her to Randy’s and she sent the fried chicken home with Peter. She gave me the roast.”

  “I suppose that’s at your house,” she said.

  He shrugged. “I hadn’t planned to move in here.”

  “What are we going to feed everybody?”

  “Plenty in the pantry. More in the freezer. As long as we don’t open and close the door too much it shouldn’t thaw too fast.” He glanced up the stairs. “Anybody else up? I saw Murph and Simmons earlier—they seemed to have an interest in the cave. And I thought I heard someone bumping around in the attic earlier this morning.”

  That must have been Audrey.

  Craig gave Dillon a quick scratch on the ears as he passed. “I fired up the wood furnace in the basement. There are plenty of limbs down outside. I’m going to draft some help with chopping after breakfast.”

  “Good. I’ll enlist someone to cook breakfast.”

  “Not you I hope,” he called over his shoulder as he stepped into the bedroom he occupied. He closed the door before Sable could think of a proper retort.

  Paul Murphy came from the basement, wiped his bare feet on the mat, and gave her a nod. She couldn’t help staring.

  “Size twelve,” he said, grinning at her. “Good morning.”

  “Craig reminded me it’s almost noon. I think he’s expecting someone to fix breakfast.”

  “Can’t he cook?”

  “Not if I can stop him before he does any damage. Does it take two men to tend the furnace?”

  “Craig found me in the cave. I decided to learn how the furnace worked while I was down there.”

  “You went spelunking with bare feet,” Sable said dryly. “Now that’s what I call macho. No compliment intended.”

  “None taken. Dillon found the cave door open this morning. I couldn’t resist a look.”