by Merry Jones
Harper knelt, feeling her way around. There was a boarded wall a few feet away on either side of her; the floor felt like wood, only grainy. Was it dust? She patted her way ahead, but – damn. Something sliced her fingertip. What the hell? A knife? She pulled her hand away, sucked blood from the cut. Cautiously, she put her hand back, felt the thing. Something smooth with a jagged edge, like a broken dish. A shard of – oh God. A shard of pottery? A broken relic?
For the first time since she’d seen Rick, Harper thought of the relics. She’d left them unpacked on the worktable, out in the open. Exposed. And when she’d fought with Rick, some had been knocked over, might have been broken. Oh God. Had a piece of one gotten caught in her clothing? Fallen with her? Gently, she felt the piece, avoiding its sharp edge, trying to identify its shape and texture. But the fragment wasn’t definite enough. She couldn’t be sure. Damn – was it part of the bird? Or one of those exquisite warriors?
Harper set the piece down, gaped into darkness, seeing nothing. She turned the opposite way, say the same nothing. Nothing. Do not panic, she ordered herself. Think. Make a plan. But wait, was something slithering around her ankle? Oh God. She kicked air, slapping her ankle, shaking off whatever it was. If it was anything other than her imagination. But, damn, it felt like a snake. She kicked again and stomped the ground, smashing whatever it was. If it was. Were there snakes in there? Spiders? Rats? Who knew what creatures were creeping around in the darkness? Harper told herself to take charge. Make a plan. But how? What could she do? She was trapped behind a wall – inside a hidden, secret, possibly unknown passageway. Not only that. It was completely pitch dark. She had no idea which way to turn, how to get out. And if she found her way out, Rick and the Colonel’s other lackeys would be waiting for her.
Harper’s muscles tensed. Her stomach lurched. She smelled blood and burning rubber, heard gunfire. Men shouting. Flies buzzing around her eyes . . . Damn. She bit her tongue sharply, grounding herself in the moment. She couldn’t afford a flashback; the situation was already bad enough. She needed to focus and find her way out. Because, except for Rick Owens who no doubt wanted to assist her in a fake suicide, nobody – not a single soul – knew where she was. She was on her own.
Fine. If she couldn’t see, she’d feel her way out. Hands on each wall, she took baby steps in a randomly selected direction, exploring the ground ahead with her toes, slowly testing the solidity of the ground before shifting her weight. After a few steps, her shoe bumped something; she stooped to feel what it was. Found something straight and long. Not her lever. Something shorter, smoother. With a knob at the end.
Her flashlight! She actually squealed with joy as she grabbed it. She’d forgotten about it; it must have fallen from her pocket. But here it was. Oh God. A miracle. Her flashlight.
The walls seemed liquid, as if they were swaying. Rick knew better. He’d been hurt before, knew the signs. Damn Harper had knocked him flat and he’d hit his head. Plus he’d lost blood. It wasn’t the walls that were swaying; it was him. Not to worry, though. He’d been hurt worse. Even now, he could hear the explosions ringing in his ears. Could see Humvees burning, smell charred flesh. No, this was nothing. No ambushes. No IEDs. No snipers waiting to pop him. Even half conscious, this was still a piece of cake.
The hammer seemed awfully heavy. He was losing strength. Even so, he swung at the wall, hit the spot where he’d cracked the plaster. Sent more chunks flying. Swung again. Again and again until, finally, a small blotch of darkness appeared. He’d broken through to the other side.
Encouraged, he kept the hammer going, slamming the wall, breaking off pieces of plaster and lath, widening the gap. When the hole was baseball sized, he leaned forward to peer through it. And lost his balance and nearly fell when the entire panel gave way, swinging open. Rick pulled back, stumbling. The panel snapped shut.
Apparently, he’d accidentally pressed the spot that opened the door. He blinked, trying to identify it. Pressed the panel. Nothing happened. Pressed it again, a little to the left. Then to the right. Then higher, lower. Frustrated, he punched the wall. The door swung open. Before it could snap shut, Rick put his shoulder there, holding it open. He looked inside, expecting to see Harper somewhere in the room. But Harper wasn’t there. Neither was the room. Rick gazed into the space behind the wall and saw a well of black, nothing else.
He looked down, saw a rotted staircase, collapsed on to itself. Couldn’t see how deep the hole was. ‘Harper?’ he yelled. His voice disappeared into darkness. He coughed. ‘Harper – are you OK?’
Of course she didn’t answer. Was too stubborn. Would die before she surrendered an inch. Well, fine. He’d do it her way. But he couldn’t stand there, wedged in the doorway. And, if he moved away, the wall would close again. He had to get down there, but what if he couldn’t get the fucking wall to open again?
For a few seconds, he stood, considering his options. Looking for something to stick into the doorway to stop it from shutting. Seeing the crates. Contemplating ways to shove one into place without letting the door close. He leaned his torso toward the stack of crates, pressed his fingers around the closest one. Tugged. It inched forward. His leg screamed with the exertion, the shifting of weight. But he kept it up, leaning, pulling until the crate toppled off the stack, close enough for him to slide it against his leg. He held the door open with his back, moved the crate against the molding, careful not to drop it into the gaping darkness. And he stepped away.
The wall snapped against the crate, knocking it back into the hallway.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. This was taking way too much time. Frustrated, Rick grabbed the hammer and smacked the wall again and again, widening the hole. He smeared sweat out of his eyes with bloodstained hands, but kept at it until the gash was big enough for him to lean inside. He fished his penlight out of his belt and cast a thin, powerful beam through the gash in the wall, aiming straight down.
Saw the rotted staircase. Scattered broken boards on the floor below. He moved the light, trying to see where Harper had landed, how far she’d fallen. How badly she’d been hurt. If maybe she was dead. He squinted, straining to see.
‘Harper?’ he yelled.
No answer. No body. Where was she? Had she somehow gotten away? God, if she talked to the press, his ass was grass. Rick listened, heard nothing. Couldn’t be sure. Again, the darkness prevailed, engulfing his call and inking out his feeble ray of light.
Her flashlight wasn’t strong, and its beam was narrow. But it reassured Harper that she wasn’t blind; when she turned it on, her panic subsided. She could actually see a few yards ahead. Visibility wasn’t great, but she was able to orient herself enough to know that she was in a tunnel. The floor was of panels and planks coated with thick patches of what seemed to be sawdust and littered with broken boards and debris. At her feet were shards – probably one of them had cut her finger. In the dim thread of light, she saw what looked like a shattered relic – something with a mosaic pattern? And she remembered the missing vessel. Mosaic pattern, with a jaguar head.
Harper stooped, began collecting various chips and pieces, trying to reassemble them, but stopped herself. What was she doing? Was she crazy? She needed to find her way out of there. The relic – if it even was a relic – could wait.
Gently, Harper moved the pieces to the side of the path and stood again, moving the skinny beam of light, scanning her surroundings. Beside her, against the wall, was a decayed stairway, a rotted platform at its top. There must be a hidden entrance up there; she must have passed right through it. Which meant that, even though it had seemed like more, she’d fallen just one story. And that she must now be on the second level of the house.
A narrow, hollowed-out passageway extended ahead of and behind her. Nothing moved in either direction. No visible snakes. Maybe spiders? Oh Lord, she hoped not. She flashed the light along the floor, then upward. She saw no spiders. But she stood gasping, swallowing air, staring at bats. Dozens of them. Hanging upside down from every
exposed rafter like leaves from an oak tree.
OK, she told herself. They’re just bats. Harmless. Good for the environment. They ate bugs, probably spiders, too. Besides, they were sleeping. And blind. If she left them alone, they wouldn’t even notice her.
Harper moved the light, trying not to disturb them. Deciding not to look at them, to pretend they weren’t there. Realizing that the bats were good news: if they’d been able to get inside the passageway, there must be an opening. Which meant a way out. She needed to stop gawking at the fauna, move her butt and find it.
She walked on, hearing a harsh sudden bang. Then another. Pieces of plaster loosened from the overhead wall, fell to the ground behind her. For a heartbeat, she thought of calling out; maybe someone had come to rescue her. But no – more likely, the person up there was Rick, incensed that she’d eluded him. He was coming after her, rabid enough to demolish the wall. Harper moved forward, picking up her pace, aiming the light on the floor ahead as her eyes grew accustomed to dimness, discerning more detail.
A dozen yards ahead, the passageway split into two. She stopped, considering: right or left? Which way should she go? She closed her eyes, trying to sense the exit, picturing the layout of the house. Probably, she was between walls of the bedrooms on the second floor. Which meant she had no idea which direction would be better. She pointed her finger, whispered, Eeny meeny miny mo. From the darkness behind her, she heard Rick calling her name. His voice sounded close, tore at her like a claw.
Harper veered right, hurrying. Several steps later, she thought, damn. Maybe I should have gone left.
Rick pressed his shoulders against the wall and stuck his head through the hole, the penlight in his mouth. The light was weak, but he could see the floor. She simply wasn’t down there.
But how could that be? How could she have survived that fall? He turned his head, moving the light, thinking that maybe she’d crawled a few feet away before collapsing. But she wasn’t there.
Fuck. What was he supposed to do now? Obviously, he couldn’t admit that he’d let her get away. Obviously, he had to find her.
But how? She was somewhere inside the fucking walls. He stuck his head back in the hole, this time examining the space. Beyond the decrepit stairway, there appeared to be a passageway, a tunnel. And the walls beyond the stairs were fairly smooth. OK.
Rick smiled, relieved. He’d go down there after her. Even with his damned leg, it wasn’t that far. All he had to do was attach a rope up here and rappel off the wall. Except that, damn. He didn’t have a rope.
Think, he told himself. But his thinking was blurry, messed up. He couldn’t keep his mind on one topic for very long. Probably, he needed water, orange juice. Something to offset his blood loss. Whiskey. Rye. Bourbon. Anything. He looked around the hallway, hoping to find a Coke, saw crates. What the hell was in all these crates?
And then it occurred to him: he could use them to climb down into the hole. He could drop them down, one at a time, until they piled up into a mound, like a mini-mountain. He could ease on to them and climb down to the tunnel floor. Genius. Absolute genius.
First, he had to make the hole wide enough and high enough. It took many more slams of the hammer, but he pulled away large wads of the wall. Then he went for a crate. It was lighter than he’d expected, light enough to heft it up to the opening, shove it through, hear it fall. He got his penlight, flashed it down. The crate had come apart, revealing piles of shredded foam. Damn. Well, it was a start – he’d probably need to toss in a couple dozen to make a high enough mound to climb onto. He’d better hurry. Harper had a head start, and his leg was slowing him down.
Rick limped to the crates, picked up another, brought it to the hole, shoved it through, let it go. Listened for the crash. Went for the third, repeated the process. Felt dizzy, but kept going. Army Strong, he told himself, and he moved back and forth, lifting and dropping boxes, losing count of the number. Driven by the knowledge that he couldn’t let Harper get away. At some point, he peered through the hole and saw a mess of wood and packing stuff all over the floor. Not high enough. Nowhere near high enough. So he kept on tossing boxes until, finally, he realized he had no choice: he had to rest. Just for a minute.
Rick leaned against the wall beside the remaining crates, leaned on one to ease down to the floor. His leg was still oozing through the tourniquet. The pain had moved beyond the wound, occupied his head, his back. He’d be OK, though, in a minute. He needed just a minute to rest, and he’d be OK.
Harper faced a wall. A blank, flat plaster wall. She flashed the light up and down, refusing to accept that, after wandering through twists and turns, thirsty and sore, she had come to this: a dead end.
But it couldn’t be a dead end. Why would someone go to all the trouble of building a secret passageway only to have it lead nowhere? They wouldn’t, would they? And yet, here it was. A tunnel leading to nothing.
But wait. A blank wall was the way she’d gotten in there. Maybe this was the same thing, a fake obstruction. A secret door. She felt it gently, pressed on the corners, the middle. Nothing gave way. She pushed harder, leaned her back against it and shoved with her whole body, rammed it with her shoulder. Nothing happened. The wall was just a wall.
Harper leaned against it, sinking to the floor, flashing her light back along the path she’d just taken. Wondering how long she’d been walking. How long her flashlight batteries would last.
Oh God. What if they died? She’d be blind again, engulfed by thick black air. Buried in it. She turned off the light. Sat in the dark. Closed her eyes, frustrated, spilling tears. Her left leg throbbed; her head pulsed pain. She’d lost track of time. Lost her sense of direction. What if she’d been wandering in circles? Or tangled in false passages leading to dead ends? She might never find her way out.
She thought of Hank. Of never seeing him again. Of dying here, unseen, inside walls. Harper’s body tensed. She ran her arm across her blood-smeared face, refusing to let herself cry. She needed to get a grip. After all, she was resourceful. Trained to overcome the harshest conditions and survive the most hostile environments. She could certainly survive in a decaying old mansion.
Besides, she probably wouldn’t have to find her way out. Any minute, someone would come and find her. When he’d seen that she hadn’t come home, Hank would have gotten help. Would have sent for the police. Detective Rivers was probably right that moment talking to Angus and Jake, who would know all about the tunnels and how to get around in them. Any minute, one of them would climb in and get her out.
Unless Rick found her first.
She listened for him. Earlier, she’d heard violent smashing. But not for a while. Now, sitting still in the pitch darkness, she heard nothing. Or wait. Something? Were those footsteps? Grunts? Dragging? Was someone there? Was it Rick?
She stopped breathing, strained to pick up the faintest hint of sound. And then, suddenly, a burst of music. Not just music. Meatloaf. That song, ‘Paradise by the Dashboard Light’. The girl was singing that she had to know if he’d love her forever, that he had to tell her right now.
Harper got to her feet, trying to locate its source. Was it coming from behind her? Back in the tunnels? Through the wall ahead? Why couldn’t she be sure? She turned in circles, listening, unable to determine a direction. Each way she turned seemed wrong.
‘Let me sleep on it,’ Meatloaf sang.
Maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe that was why she couldn’t locate it. Maybe the music was in her head. After all, she hadn’t seen anything but a dim swatch of light, hadn’t heard much except her almost silent footsteps in God knew how long . . . Minutes? Hours? She had no idea. And sensory deprivation could cause hallucinations; she’d learned that back in psych class. So maybe she was hallucinating now. Creating Meatloaf in her mind because her mind needed to hear something.
Then again, maybe she wasn’t.
Which would mean that someone was actually within hearing distance. If she could hear them, then they could hear
her. She yelled, ‘Hel—’ and stopped halfway through the word. What if it was Rick blasting the music, luring her to him with a friendly sound so he could ambush her?
Well, fine, she decided. If it was Rick, she’d deal with him.
‘Hello?’ she bellowed. Her voice swam into empty air, drowned by the music. ‘Can anyone hear me?’
The girl answered, repeating that she had to know right now.
The music sounded real. But Harper had endured countless flashbacks that had seemed real; she was well aware that the mind could play incredible tricks. Even so, she couldn’t stay there, at a dead end. Had to move, to keep searching for a way out. She turned the flashlight back on and started down the tunnel, away from the wall. She stopped, though, when she saw a bent nail on the ground, and she knelt slowly, wincing in pain to pick it up. It wasn’t as sharp as her pocketknife would have been, but the nail was pointed enough to carve an ‘X’ on the wall.
From now on, at least she’d know if she was backtracking. From now on, she’d leave a trail.
Rick pushed himself to his feet. If he fell asleep, he was a goner. He might die right there. No, he had to find Harper, complete his job. His sweat chilled him, and he shivered. His leg was on fire. Vaguely, he noticed his phone on the floor. It must have fallen from his pocket; he’d get it in a minute. But first, he went back to his task, shoving boxes through the secret door until, finally, the pile was close enough to stand on. He secured his gun in his tool belt, took the hammer for good measure, grabbed his penlight, and lowered himself into the hole.
The stack was unstable, composed of broken and off balanced crates, and it gave way under his weight, sending him sliding to the ground. A howl escaped his throat; a jolt tore through his leg. He landed on his ass, legs akimbo, and lay panting until his body stopped reverberating. Thinking, even as he shook with pain, about his phone. That it was still out there on the floor. That he’d forgotten to pick it up. Fuck.
