Viper's Nest

by Shirley Raye Redmond

  ~*~

  Allan found the old building to be quietly oppressive. As they retraced their steps down shadowy corridors and a confusing array of staircases, he noticed a closed door with a tarnished doorplate that read REMOTIVATION COORDINATOR. His jaw clenched as he pondered the sorts of sinister things the term could imply in an institution such as this. Why had he insisted on coming here? What had he hoped to find?

  Once outside, Gorse carefully locked the door behind them before leading the way to the door of the nearby kitchen complex.

  “Is everything OK?” Wren asked in a quiet undertone as they watched Gorse fumble with the jangling key ring. She looked up at him, her troubled, amber-colored eyes searching his face. A frown puckered her smooth forehead. She flipped her strawberry-blonde ponytail over her shoulder. “You seem angry or upset or something.” Her voice remained quiet.

  “I’m fine,” he reassured her with a half smile. “Lots on my mind, that’s all.” He marveled—and not for the first time—that his pretty research assistant had such a highly developed sense of intuition. It had proved to be quite useful in his research thus far. Whenever Wren followed up on one of her hunches, she usually succeeded in digging up some little known resource or a bit of overlooked historical information, which he found invaluable in his work. He was glad to have found her through a friend of a friend.

  “Here we go,” Gorse called back over his shoulder after opening another groaning door.

  Allan jerked his chin upward, encouraging Wren to go ahead of him. As they followed Gorse into what had once been an enormous, bustling kitchen, they crunched their way across broken glass and layers of discarded newspapers. Pausing in front of the huge, stainless steel utility tables, Gorse related details of dinners served long ago.

  “Every day, seven hundred fifty loaves of bread were baked in this kitchen. Six cows a week were slaughtered and served, along with sixteen hogs. A four-hundred-acre vegetable garden once provided the kitchen staff with fresh produce. The surplus was canned and saved for the long, fruitless winter months. At one time, approximately twelve thousand five hundred meals per day were served here.” Gorse ran a tentative finger across his scalp, while Wren scribbled more notes.

  Allan thought the man sounded like a promotional brochure. “Where are the food tunnels?” he asked impatiently. Almost everyone living in Jacksonville seemed able and willing to relate exaggerated tales of terror and rape, torture and deprivation that took place in these infamous passageways.

  As though able to read his mind, Gorse cleared his throat and glared. “There are those who like to think that the residents were chained to the walls down there and locked up for days in the storage rooms, but it’s simply not true.” His tone dripped with disdain and dared defiance.

  Allan didn’t believe him—not entirely. From his extensive research, he knew Dorothea Dix had found many poor souls caged and imprisoned in almshouses and jails. Victims were often chained, starved, even tortured. He’d discovered historical records which revealed how such deplorable treatment was the acceptable practice throughout the United States in the nineteenth century. Why should circumstances have been any different here in Jacksonville, Illinois?

  “I’d like to take a quick look,” Allan said, plastering on a professional smile.

  “Without flashlights—”

  “I brought one,” Wren spoke up, interrupting Gorse. She tugged a pink flashlight, graced with the image of one of the fairytale princesses, from her purse. With a sheepish grin, she held it out for Allan’s perusal.

  Good girl, he thought, grinning back at her. He pulled a small, but powerful square-shaped flashlight with a handle from the pocket of his corduroy jacket.

  Gorse led them to the entrance of the underground tunnel system. “As I said, these are merely food tunnels, not dungeons,” the man said stiffly. “Miniature railroad flatcars were used to transport food to the institution’s various buildings.”

  Allan aimed his flashlight in the direction Gorse pointed and illuminated the tracks.

  “Flatcars were rolled down this tunnel to the appropriate elevator, and then the food was sent to dining halls on each floor,” Gorse continued.

  Wren paused, as though hesitant to go any further into the long, dark stretch ahead.

  “It is simply a food tunnel,” Gorse said sharply.

  A food tunnel, to be sure, but Allan couldn’t help wondering how many poor, unfortunate residents had been brought down here, and then forced to submit to sexual molestation in exchange for a handful of cigarettes or a clean handkerchief.

  Wren sucked in a breath before taking a tentative step forward.

  With his free hand, Allan gripped her elbow, intending to guide her through the long dark corridor. She flinched and slowly tugged her elbow from his grasp. Allan immediately regretted his helpful gesture. Had Wren taken it as patronizing or condescending? He certainly had not intended to offend her. He knew she was a bereaved widow with a little girl to support. He did not want to behave in a way she would consider disrespectful or too familiar.

  The three of them walked along the dark corridor in silence.

  Occasionally, Allan stepped to the side to investigate one of the many huge storage pantries located throughout the tunnel. For no apparent reason, an image of his lovely, sad-eyed mother—now long dead—came to mind. She’d died when he was seven years old, but her haunting face appeared as fresh and clear in his mind as though he’d seen her only yesterday. Unexpectedly, his pulse raced. His breath came in small, shallow spurts. Get a grip, he silently chided himself.

  The floor of the tunnel was slippery with mud.

  He stopped in his tracks, hesitant to go any further.

  Wren, directly behind him, stopped too.

  “Well, it’s obvious that the sump pump is no longer working,” Gorse announced. “I think we’d better go back now.”

  Allan shone the beam of his flashlight downward. His hiking boots were splattered with mud. The hem of Wren’s jeans appeared wet and mud splattered as well. “What do you think?” he asked her, raising the flashlight so he could read the expression on her face. He wanted to go on, all the way to the end, but not if Wren appeared fearful. Having always considered himself to be a hard-hearted cynic, Allan was surprised by the pity and concern he felt for the young widow he now employed. Life had dealt her a sad blow. He didn’t want to make things worse for her, especially as she’d been acting nervous of late. Edgy. Something was going on, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  Although she appeared to be shivering from the cold, Wren fixed a brave smile on her face and regarded him with calm trust. “Can we go just a little bit further?” she asked.

  Allan smiled at her with approval.

  Gorse cleared his throat. “I wish you wouldn’t. It isn’t safe.”

  “You stay right there, Gorse,” Allan advised, handing him his own flashlight. “We won’t go too far. May I?” He held out his hand, indicating the pink princess one that Wren clutched in her right hand. “We’ll walk down the middle of the rails,” he told her, turning the beam downwards. “That should give us a bit of traction.”

  “Lead the way,” Wren told him.

  They moved forward, slowly, peering into the dark corridors. What he was looking for, Allan couldn’t say. He didn’t really know. “The asylum’s very first patient was diagnosed with lovesickness,” he told Wren. “She lived here for sixteen years.”

  “That’s awful,” she replied, the dismay apparent in her tone.

  Allan silently agreed. They took slow, tentative steps forward. He stopped now and then to illuminate the storage alcoves with Wren’s flashlight.

  “Professor, I think you should come back now. It isn’t safe,” Gorse called out.

  His voice bounced off the dense brick walls of the tunnel.

  Allan ignored him. Instead, he listened to Wren’s quick, heavy breathing—she was either cold or scared or both. He’d made up his mind to turn back when she suddenly
made a fumbling grab for his hand. Her trembling fingers felt small and very cold.

  “What’s that over there? Is it a baby bottle?” Her voice was tinged with incredulous excitement.

  “It appears to be,” Allan said, focusing the beam of light on an object lying in the mud in one of the alcoves.

  “What in the world is it doing down here?” Wren asked. She stepped forward, leaning over to pick up the bottle with two fingers.

  “It’s filthy,” Allan warned.

  “I don’t care,” Wren insisted. The glass bottle, with a black rubber nipple, was dirty but intact.

  “What is it?” Gorse demanded. “What’s the matter?”

  Even with the distance between them, Allan could hear the other man’s intake of breath, hear the tension in his voice. “Everything’s fine,” Allan called back over his shoulder. “We’ve found a baby bottle.”

  Gorse squelched his way through the slippery mud down the dark railway tunnel as fast as he could, while still trying to maintain his footing. The man was panting as he picked his way toward them.

  “I wonder how it got here,” Wren repeated, her teeth chattering.

  It was cold down here, far away from the warm October sun. Cold, dark, and damp. Like a cave. And there was a smell. Allan couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Worse than musty. Dead rats, perhaps. Rotting foodstuff? The mud seemed thicker and more slippery in this section of the tunnel. What about the bottle? This had been a mental institution. It seemed odd to find anything belonging to an infant down here in the debris.

  As Wren held out the baby bottle for his perusal, Gorse pursed his lips with distaste as he stared down at it. “I can’t imagine how that got here,” he said.

  Allan looked at the man’s face in the glow of the flashlight beam. Can’t you? “Let’s go back up,” he suggested, tugging Wren away from the muddy ground. “Your hands are like ice.” He gripped her firmly by the elbow. She leaned against him this time, clinging, as they picked their way gingerly through the slippery mud on the tunnel floor.

  “I’m keeping this,” she said, indicating the dirty bottle.

  “Whatever for?” Allan asked. He glanced over his shoulder.

  Gorse followed behind them with slow, faltering steps. He was frowning, but whether it had anything to do with Wren’s declaration that she was keeping the bottle or because he was trying to maintain his footing on the slippery tunnel floor, Allan couldn’t say.

  They made their way in silence back to the kitchen again and then reemerged outside into the warm October sun.

  Something whistled past Allan’s ear. Then the glass in one of the old kitchen windows shattered into a thousand pieces behind them. His defensive instincts aroused, he shoved Wren to the ground and covered her cowering body with his own.

  2

  Terror-stricken, Wren breathed in short, painful spurts as she felt the bubble of fear rising in her tightening chest. Allan gripped her arm so fiercely she guessed there’d be a bruise later. He was quivering, but she didn’t know whether it was from anger or fright or simply an adrenaline rush—maybe all three. She still clutched the muddy glass bottle against her chest, unmindful of the filth that marred her baby blue sweater.

  “What’s happening?” she gasped.

  The shattering glass and Gorse’s startled yelp happened at about the same time Allan had shoved her to the ground, covering her head and upper body with his own. One minute she’d been inching her way through the old food transport tunnel taking mental notes for Allan’s book, and the next minute someone was shooting at them—at her. Wren’s thoughts ricocheted immediately to the anonymous note.

  “Don’t know,” Allan murmured. “Someone fired a shot—and not with a BB gun, either. We have to get out of view. Let’s move.”

  As he hauled her to her feet, Wren’s knees wobbled. Supported by his strong grip, she stumbled rather than ran with him behind the shelter of the north-facing brick wall of the old kitchen complex.

  Gorse followed close upon their heels, panting and gasping for breath. “Are you hurt? Did you see anything?” he asked, squatting down beside them.

  “Didn’t see a thing,” Allan answered for them both. “Have you called the police?”

  “Yes, I told the dispatcher someone was shooting at me—at us,” he amended. The tall, thin man looked both frightened and guilty. Why?

  One of her worst faults was judging people based on first impressions. She tried not to, but she’d done it for so long, it had become a habit—a bad habit. And Gorse had not made a good first impression. She didn’t like him. Didn’t trust him, either. Drawing in a sharp breath, Wren strained her ears, listening for a snap of a twig, the crunch of leaves. “Could it be a hunter?” she ventured in a near whisper.

  “I doubt it,” Allan replied, one arm still draped protectively around her trembling shoulders.

  Even as she’d spoken the words out loud, Wren knew the shooter wasn’t a clumsy hunter. Although the sprawling institution was situated on dozens of acres of wooded lawns, it was still located within the city limits. It was illegal to fire a weapon within the city limits. A hunter would know that. Swallowing hard, she realized now she should have taken the anonymous letter more seriously.

  “I’m calling my supervisor,” Gorse announced, peering around the corner of the building. “Are you sure you didn’t see anything—anyone?”

  Wren glanced up to find the man’s penetrating stare fixed upon her. “I didn’t see anything…or anybody. I don’t know what’s going on here.” Her frenzied thoughts turned to Pippi at school. Was she safe? These days it seemed there were more and more reports about school shootings on the news. Wren prayed all the children would be all right. Her sister-in-law too. Then she fought back a surge of panic and an overwhelming urge to throw her arms around Allan Partner’s neck to cry upon his shoulder.

  ~*~

  As he felt Wren’s body tremble within the curve of his arm, Allan heaved a sigh. His routine workday had certainly taken a macabre turn, and he feared matters would only get worse before the day was over. He watched warily as Gorse stumbled to his feet, retreating into the safety of a large hedge to make his phone call and to keep an eye out for the shooter.

  “Who do you think the bottle belongs to?” Wren asked, her voice quavering. “A patient at the asylum? A visitor? Or maybe a homeless person who wandered in somehow?”

  “I don’t know,” Allan admitted, surprised that her thoughts had turned back to the old discarded object. She regarded him with horror so apparent on her pale, freckled face that he wondered if she might be experiencing a mild form of shock. He tried to reassure her with a one-armed hug and hoped she wouldn’t take the gesture in the wrong way—sexual harassment in the work place or whatever.

  Unexpectedly, Allan had a brief flashback, recalling a similar expression on his mother’s face, a long-forgotten scene, his mother pleading with his father, “Don’t leave me here, Roger. Please don’t leave me here. It isn’t safe.” Her face had been as pale as death and stained with tears, her nose pink from crying.

  It hadn’t been the first time he and his father visited her here at this very asylum, but it was the last time Allan had ever seen his mother alive. The next time he’d set eyes on her sweet face, she’d been lifeless in her coffin. He was seven years old and very angry—angry with his mother for dying and angry with his father for letting her die. Memories of the funeral were a bit of a muddle now. Allan recalled hands tousling his dark hair or caressing his small slumped shoulders. He remembered the cloying smell of women’s cologne in assorted floral scents and the briny taste of ham that seemed to swell in his mouth when he tried to eat it. To this day, the aroma of baking ham brought back memories of that dreadful day. He’d given up eating it years ago.

  “Why didn’t God help Mommy get better?” he remembered asking his Aunt Patsy, his mother’s only sister.

  “He took her home to live with Him in Heaven, sweetheart,” his aunt had answered kindly as she gave
him a gentle, reassuring pat on the back. Aunt Patsy’s response had been anything but reassuring, and Allan had added God to his list of those with whom he was angry. As a grieving youngster, he’d made up his mind that God must be as selfish, stern and unloving as his own father.

  Pushing aside the encroaching memories, Allan glanced down at Wren huddled next to him. She still regarded him with a wary, searching expression on her pale face, but her body didn’t tremble any more. She felt warm and downright cuddly. The muddy bottle had soiled her blue sweater.

  Allan was overcome by a sickening, intuitive feeling that far worse things might be discovered in the long forgotten food tunnels. What had he gotten himself—and Wren—into?

  “You’re shaking,” Wren whispered. “Are you all right?”

  Releasing her, Allan stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He was indeed shaking, and the realization unnerved him a little. He guessed the unexplained shooting had disturbed him more than he cared to admit. “Must be adrenaline,” he muttered, rising to his feet. He could hear police sirens now and guessed it would be safe to come out from around the corner of the building. The shooter would be long gone by this time. Wouldn’t he?

  “I wasn’t expecting…this,” Wren said. She stood and attempted to brush some of the mud and dirt from the front of her sweater. She regarded the bottle pensively.

  Allan didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Neither did I,” he admitted, “but now it makes me wonder if the old rumors about the dungeons are true.”

  “Food transportation tunnels, Dr. Partner,” Gorse said with a disapproving frown. He’d come out from the protective cover of the hedge. “If you mention the asylum in your next book, I do hope you will use the proper terminology.” He crammed his cell phone into the pocket of his trousers. “The superintendent will not be happy about this, I can tell you.”

  “Will the demolition have to be postponed?” Wren asked.

  Gorse appeared surprised. “I don’t see why.”