by Bill Hopkins
“Constructing two tunnels must’ve cost a lot of money. It had to be dug by hand.”
Rosswell tapped the picture. “Slave hands built those tunnels.”
“Who lives in those other two houses?”
“The assessor told me. None other than your two goofy waitresses.”
“How could they afford houses like that?”
“You’re the research assistant. Add that to your list of stuff to find out.”
Ollie hefted the framed map. “Let’s carry this to the truck. We’ve got to sneak it by Mrs. Bolzoni. Then you know what’s next.”
Rosswell did a fist pump. “Time to commit more felonies.”
Rosswell squeezed the truck, the framed map sequestered behind the seat, into a parking space on the courthouse square. “You make danged sure that Mabel keeps Karyn and Jill hopping those tables as long as she can.”
“I’ll tell Mabel we need to burglarize their houses.” Ollie made no move to leave the truck.
Rosswell hung his head. “This is a shakedown, isn’t it?”
Ollie shrugged. “You know, a little honey for the pot.”
Rosswell fished out a hundred dollar bill and forked it over to Ollie, whose hand stretched out with fingers wiggling. His hand didn’t close over the money. Rosswell fished out another Federal Reserve portrait of Benjamin Franklin and said, “That’s it. I’m busted flat till payday.”
“We both know you’re lying.” Ollie disappeared into the restaurant, only to reappear in a flash. “Forgot to tell you. I’m not putting anything on YouTube. What if Mary Donna’s relatives saw it?” He disappeared into the restaurant again.
Rosswell, subdued by the club of conscience that Ollie had whacked over his head, checked his cell phone. No messages from Tina. Or anyone else. He plugged it into the charger, reviving the dead battery. He likened the phone battery to his brain. Neither one was getting enough juice. He thought about the upcoming foray into the belly of the beast and wondered why bellies of beasts always had to be so small. And so dark. And so full of critters.
“Why am I doing this?” he asked himself aloud, and knew the answer immediately. Because he longed for Nathaniel’s arrest for the murder of the woman. The one he saw tossed off the ferry. If he couldn’t prove Nathaniel killed the woman, maybe he could find Tina. He didn’t know where else to look. This was his last plunge at Nathaniel. If he didn’t find Tina at River Heights Villa, then he’d start looking somewhere else, but where? He knew only that he’d better hurry. Death stalked him.
In the heat of the setting sun, Rosswell shivered, wondering if the Grim Reaper’s search for him would be successful.
Chapter 26
Saturday Afternoon into Saturday Night
The name on the black mailbox painted in neat gold letters said Mabli. Rosswell again parked in a farmer’s field a short way north of the house to avoid suspicion. People rarely notice a truck parked in a field.
After analyzing the map, Rosswell and Ollie decided that Jill Mabli’s abode, a Georgian style house on the north side of River Heights Villa, offered a more direct route to the cave where they’d found Mary Donna Helperen’s body. If they’d gone into Karyn Byler’s house on the south side, it would’ve required a trip through Nathaniel’s lair to reach the cave on the north side.
Now, from the safety of the woods, Rosswell, binoculars to his face, and Ollie, hand shielding his eyes, studied the huge house that was Jill’s home. Sundown approached, slowly melting long shadows into night. Rosswell could smell the Mississippi River, its fishy odor pervading the bottomlands between the cliffs and the water.
How many slaves had fled across that water to gain freedom? Rosswell would never know, although he was thankful that he didn’t have to choose between crossing the river in a leaky boat at night in freezing weather and liberty. Wasn’t that why the government had sent him to war? To protect our liberty? Yes. Rosswell hoped.
He handed his gun to Ollie. “Double-check to make sure that thing’s loaded and ready to go.” Ollie checked the .38 while Rosswell inspected the front of the house. “I wonder if Jill’s got any yapping dogs or squawking parrots or burglar alarms or whatever.”
“One way to find out.”
“Wait here.” Rosswell strolled as casually as he could with a broken toe to the main door. A man walking in an easy manner rarely draws attention to himself, although the likelihood that anyone would see him from the highway ranked close to zero. Traffic was sparse. And who notices someone going in a house on the side of the road when you’re zipping along a highway in a car? Not many people, that’s who. In addition, there were no other residences in sight on either side of the road. Rosswell figured he was snug as a bed bug in a bunk.
A worn brass doorknocker in the shape of a woman’s hand, complete with veins and long fingernails, hung from the massive front door. The hand held a globe about the size of a golf ball that rapped on a metal plate imbedded in the door. Rosswell stared at the thing, wiping his hands on his pants. He licked his lips. Then he grasped the hand and rapped repeatedly as hard as he could. If it wasn’t his imagination, Rosswell heard the sound of his knocks reverberating inside the house, like the old movies where the traveler stops for the night at a place where he pounds on the door of a house full of demons.
Rosswell hated surprises. If anyone was home at Jill’s house, he wanted to know it right away. Especially if they were demons.
There was no noise from inside. If there was a dog in the house, the mutt either didn’t care, or was asleep or deaf. Rosswell opted for no mutt in the house. And no squawking parrot, either. He stepped off the small front porch and stood under one of the windows. He jiggled the windows one by one until he found one that wasn’t locked and raised it from the outside a couple of inches. Nothing. No reaction from inside. No alarms. Regaining the porch, he turned the knob of the front door. Unlocked. The door eased open. Nothing. Not even a squeak. He slammed the door. Nothing. Again, no burglar alarm, no noisy animals. Jill was a trusting soul, especially after Ollie paid her some of Rosswell’s money.
Rosswell signaled Ollie who ran to his side. Rosswell once more opened the door. When they were well into the house, they clicked on the flashlights even though full dark was still a few minutes away. The place smelled of Pine-Sol. The wood floors reflected the light from the flashlights. All the furniture was old although nothing was tattered. Rosswell surmised that Jill had bought chairs, tables, benches, cabinets, whatever, from country auctions or second-hand shops. Nothing in the place could be classified as a valuable antique. No dust anywhere. Nothing out of place.
Rosswell motioned Ollie to join him. “Congratulations.” Rosswell offered his hand. “We should be proud of ourselves. How many felonies have we committed this week?”
Ollie wasn’t able to squeak due to the gurgling in his throat. If he shared Rosswell’s pang of conscience, the gurgling arose from fear and anxiety. Then Ollie swallowed loudly. “I hear that the accommodations at the Sainte Genevieve County cooler aren’t up to snuff.”
They stood in the main hallway, assessing the layout.
Ollie said, “This house is built a lot like The Four Bee.”
“There weren’t a lot of architects in Sainte Gen before the Civil War. Most houses built then have a similar floor plan.”
“Did the assessor tell you that?”
Rosswell shrugged. “Informed guess.”
“Then let’s try the parlor.”
Inside Jill’s parlor loomed a bookcase similar to Mrs. Bolzoni’s. Ollie opened it, finding a passageway. Except this one didn’t feature a brick wall down the way a few feet that stopped progress as they’d discovered at The Four Bee. The beams of the flashlights disappeared into the gloom of a tunnel that appeared to go on forever.
“Great,” Rosswell said. “My claustrophobia tells me to run out into an open field but all I see ahead is black ink growing blacker.”
Ollie held his flashlight above his head, aiming it down the length of
the passageway. “A flood of light dispels the dryness of the darkest night.”
“Nice.” Rosswell smiled. “Who said that?”
“I did. Didn’t you hear me?”
Rosswell gifted Ollie with the courthouse stare, the one he gave miscreants right before he sent them to the penitentiary, although he doubted the research assistant could see the stare in the dark.
Rosswell smelled something.
“Ollie, follow me.” Rosswell reversed his track and walked about fifteen feet toward the parlor, then stopped. The smell disappeared. He walked backward, Ollie following.
“Let me guess. Musical chairs?”
“I smell something. It’s an odor of water. Dampness. As in a cave.” He shined his light on the floor. “It’s slanting up. We’re headed into the bluff below Nathaniel’s house. It’s underground from here on.”
“Gotcha. Underground. As are all tunnels. We’re getting close.”
“Silent running.”
Ollie nodded.
That was when the wall blocking their path appeared in the flashlight beams. Rosswell felt the barrier. “An obstruction after all,” he whispered to Ollie. “It’s wood. Can’t tell what kind but it must be really old.”
Ollie said in a low voice, “We need a saw. And not a power saw.”
“Hammer and chisel, too. Something we can use to break through.”
Rosswell continued examining the wall until he discovered a hole. “Turn off your flashlight. We don’t want anyone on the other side seeing our high beams.”
With both lights extinguished, Rosswell’s old friend claustrophobia decided to visit. Bands of fear squeezed his chest, cutting off his air. He ordered himself to breathe slowly and not panic. It was only darkness. Nothing would hurt him. Except maybe Ollie, but he seemed calm at the moment. They must’ve gone further underground now since the temperature had gone down and the air tasted stale. Claustrophobia had an answer for that one. Rosswell began sweating and realized he couldn’t breathe. Worse, he would get a chill because he was soaking wet. Trying to look on the bright side of things in the middle of the pitch-dark hellhole, he comforted himself with the thought that he had only one broken toe.
After a few moments of adjusting to the total darkness, Rosswell placed his eye against the hole. “I think the passageway keeps going. Maybe we’re at the property line. That’s why there’s a wall here.”
“How can you see anything in the dark?”
“There’s…something. A glow or something. Something.”
“Rosswell, you okay?”
“Sure. Wonderful. I always sweat when it’s sixty degrees.”
“We need the handsaw and hammer from your truck.”
“You’ll be faster. I need to stay here until I center.”
“Center? You think you’re the center of the universe?”
“It’s a replacement for the cliché, chill out. Besides, my toe is killing me.”
And if he couldn’t center, Rosswell thought Ollie might return and find him a corpse.
Chapter 27
Saturday Night, continued
Ollie retreated from the dark, heading out of the tunnel for the light. Rosswell peered again through the hole in the wooden barrier. If there was anything on the other side of the wall, it was bathed in darkness. He cupped his hand behind an ear, although with his superb hearing, he doubted it was necessary. No sound whatsoever. Rosswell chanced clicking on his flashlight again. Where the wall blocking their path met the sides of the passageway, the wood had grown soft over the decades. There were no metal braces where the walls joined, only wooden pegs. The cave’s dampness might have softened the juncture after more than a hundred years.
Rosswell pushed gently, avoiding a loud crash and bang that would bring Nathaniel or Turk or some other evil minion running to see what the clatter was. A soft cracking sound from the wood told him something had given way. He pushed harder and the wall across the passageway creaked when it separated from the main wall.
The wall wasn’t built as a barrier. It was a marker. No need to make it safe from trespassers way back then. Rosswell opined that all the early settlers who owned houses with secret passageways belonged to the same social club, Houses With Hideaways.
Rosswell paused again to listen but could hear nothing from the direction of Jill’s parlor and he could hear nothing on the other side of the crumbling blockade. Should he wait for Ollie? His research assistant wouldn’t be gone long. Despite all his irritating behaviors, Rosswell counted Ollie’s efficiency and loyalty as top rung characteristics.
Rosswell needed to see what was on the other side of the wall. His impatience got the better of him. What would it hurt if he went in a little way past the wall without Ollie? He instantly thought about getting bitten by a rabid bat. Or getting captured by Nathaniel or Turk. Or falling down a fifty-foot deep hole and breaking his back, not being killed instantly, but screaming for half an hour before he died.
He pushed the obstruction forward a couple of feet without any major collapse, allowing him to squeeze through. Once he emerged on the other side, he stopped and again listened. Now there was a soft wind blowing. It smelled fresh. He was getting closer to the cave.
Rosswell tried to see without the flashlight. Darkness piled on darkness. Blacker than black. He could stand there the rest of the night thinking up similes. Or metaphors.
It’s quiet as a…well…tomb. It doesn’t smell like a tomb. That’s a good thing.
Turning on his flashlight for a few seconds, Rosswell determined that the passageway on the other side of the barrier—he now thought of it as Nathaniel’s side—continued straight. He cut off the light and pushed himself forward, ignoring his mind and body, which were both pleading with him to return to the sunshine.
A few feet more, his right foot stepped into a hole. At least it felt like a hole. His center of gravity shifted and he threw his hands forward, trying to stop his fall, putting his weight on his left foot, which caused him to yelp when his broken toe protested. The pain shot up his left leg, giving his heart a jolt. His face smacking the dusty floor of the passageway with a wet-sounding thud caused a sneezing fit. A metal thump came from somewhere. Blood flowed from his nose into his mouth. The bright lights dancing in front of his eyes caused him to wonder if something had ripped the roof off the tunnel, revealing the sky, complete with stars promenading.
Rosswell’s right foot felt restricted, as if something had clamped its toothless jaws around his ankle. He searched for his flashlight. He patted himself down twice without success. Trying not to move too fast or too far since he didn’t know if there were any other traps around, he patted on the floor around him, hoping to feel the flashlight beneath his hands. The thing couldn’t be found. It could be two feet from him, but he had no way of seeing it.
Centering time arrived. It hadn’t worked before but it really needed to work this time to avoid panic. Rosswell drew in deep breaths. His eyes were wide open. He considered it a major miracle that he hadn’t lost his eyeglasses, yet the darkness was as profound as if he’d been dropped to the bottom of a deep well. He was functionally blind.
A ghostly body part floated before his face. The outline of his hand. As they’d taught him in the military, it was literally all in his head. What he actually saw was a sensor ghost, an image generated by his brain as it received signals from his body. He hadn’t really seen his hand. His brain willed him to see it.
Rosswell centered himself again before he could raise the courage to feel for his right foot. It wasn’t a bear trap or else its teeth would be biting him. He ran his hands down his leg until he reached his right ankle.
A cold metallic object surrounded his foot, its wide lip encircling his ankle, its rounded body ending in a flat circular bottom. Tugging at it proved futile. His foot was stuck. Ollie might have to fetch a blowtorch and cut it off.
He felt of it again. The realization of what it was confounded him. His right foot was stuck in an old spittoon.
Decades ago, the last shift of workmen who’d finished up the wall had forgotten to remove the brass object. Fortunately, over the last century or so, it had dried out. He told himself he could still smell the nasty crap. But it was dry crap. For that, he was thankful.
Where was Ollie? He should’ve returned long ago. Maybe Rosswell should turn around and go look. Or he could forget the research assistant and clump up Nathaniel’s side of the tunnel as quietly as possible. Perhaps if anyone heard him, they’d assume he was a ghost. He should be so lucky.
After standing and stretching out his arms, he groped toward what he hoped was the way to the cave under Nathaniel’s house. After what he figured was five minutes of walking, he discovered a small dot of light. The dot didn’t move, even though he blinked several times. An artifact dreamed up by tired eyeballs? He closed his eyes for a few seconds and when he opened them, the dot still shined. Yes. It was real.
A hole where he could peer into Nathaniel’s house? Rosswell dragged his right foot, trying to keep the spittoon from making a racket. The stupid contraption had a lead-weighted bottom. Then he inched his left foot forward, trying to keep from moaning about the pain in the broken toe. Several times he fell against a wall of the passageway to rest. His heart had picked up a Sousa march and was goose-stepping down the main street of town.
A thirst arose fierce enough to scald his throat. The Sahara had no claim to fame compared to his throat. Murder seemed a nifty idea if he’d gain a glass of water. And one of Ollie’s cinnamon rolls. That would make killing worthwhile.
Rosswell felt for his pistol. Not there. He’d left it in the truck. He hoped Ollie found it and brought it along with…whatever…what was he supposed to bring?
