Behind the Walls

by Merry Jones

  Gradually, his nerves stopped screaming, and he rolled to his side. Light from the open door was dim; he turned on his penlight, looked around. Saw a tunnel extending ahead and behind him. Saw some broken pottery a few steps away. Harper had been there, had gathered the pieces.

  Leaning on a broken crate, Rick climbed to his feet. His leg wound was bleeding again, so he played with the tourniquet, tightening it, grimacing. His hands wet and slipping, he rested for a moment, allowing the pain. Snapped a yard-long board off a broken crate to use as a walking stick. Then, gripping his stick in one hand, his gun in the other, his penlight in his mouth, he set out after Harper.

  Almost instantly, music began to blare; he couldn’t tell from where. Really? Music? Fucking Meatloaf? Shit. He stopped for a second, absorbing this new development. What the hell did it mean? Was someone else in the house? Were they having a damned party? Wonderful, all he needed were more complications. Witnesses. As if this job hadn’t gone to hell already. Now, he’d have collateral damage, too? He’d have to take care of extraneous people? This day just got suckier and suckier. Fuck fuck fuck.

  Rick limped ahead, moving in the direction of the broken pottery. Furious about the music. How was he supposed to listen for Harper when someone was blasting fucking Meatloaf?

  On the other hand, when he found her, the music would cover screams and gunshots.

  Every few steps, he had to stop to steady himself, fight the dizziness. Overcome the gnashing pain. But relentlessly, he kept on. Until, goddammit, the tunnel split.

  Of course it did. Everything else was fucked up, why wouldn’t the tunnel be, too? Rick felt like shooting the walls, blowing the whole damned place up. He needed to get it together; he was better, smarter than to lose it. He needed to psyche out his prey, that was all. OK. Which way would she have gone, right or left? He closed his eyes, pictured Harper standing there, choosing. She would go right; he was sure of that. She was right-handed. And she’d been wounded on her left side. To her, left was vulnerable, so reflex would make her go right.

  But she was smart, too. Wouldn’t choose her first impulse. Would know he’d psyche her out.

  Rick clutched his gun, leaned on his board, flashed the penlight ahead. And went left.

  Harper’s mouth was dry, parched. Beyond thirsty. But she kept on going, stopping every few yards to scratch the walls with an ‘X.’ Taking a route different from the one she’d taken earlier. Listening to identify the direction of the music, to move towards it. But the tunnel moved in its own complicated directions, twisting, turning, moving up and down ramps, taking her through stretches where the ceiling lowered and the walls narrowed. Once, she had to move sideways, couldn’t fit through any other way. What if the ceiling collapsed? What if she were buried alive there? But she kept on. Had no choice. Behind her was a dead end.

  At some point, as abruptly as it had started, the music stopped. Harper called out, hoping whoever was there would hear her. ‘Hello? Can you hear me? Is somebody there?’

  She kept calling, listening. Heard no reply. Fought tears. Kept walking, marking the wall. Her body became numb, her steps automatic, zombie-like. She stopped thinking, stopped being afraid. Motion, motion and breathing were the only constants. For a while, she counted steps, then lost track. Couldn’t remember whether she was on one hundred twelve or twenty. Vaguely, it occurred to her that all the exits might be hidden like the one she’d fallen through. That she might have passed a dozen of them without knowing it. How could she find a door if it looked like the rest of the passageway? She couldn’t. She’d wander forever, trapped in the walls. She wiped away more tears, this time of exhaustion. Told herself that the exits must have some marker. That they would have to. Harper walked on slowly, shining her light on ceilings and walls, looking for irregularities. Symbols.

  The passageway veered around a corner. She flashed the light above her head, to her left and right. Finally, she aimed it straight ahead. And then the hallucination began.

  It had to be a hallucination. Couldn’t be real.

  But there she was: a woman in a fur coat. Curled up on the floor, her head lolling forward, as if asleep.

  It’s sensory deprivation, Harper warned herself. She’s not there. She’s like an oasis in the desert; your mind is creating her. Harper closed her eyes, held them shut. Opened them again. The woman was still there.

  Oh God. Someone was actually there. A person, maybe trapped like she was. Maybe hurt. Harper rushed to her. ‘Miss – miss? Are you all right?’

  Harper knelt, touched the woman’s shoulder. Aiming the light on to her head.

  Slowly, as if deflating, the woman caved in. Before Harper realized that her coat was empty, the woman’s head rolled off of her shoulders, her hair falling free, her skull tumbling to the floor.

  His leg raging, Rick wondered if people could go insane from pain. Decided that, of course, yes, they could. Briefly, he wondered if he was going insane right then, breaking down a wall, hobbling down some hidden corridor, hunting a woman down so he could kill her. It definitely sounded insane. But it wasn’t; it was war. And when fighting a war, a little insanity never hurt.

  Besides, he could take the pain. Pain was nothing, just a physical reaction. Nerves sending impulses to the brain. He was trained. He could overpower them. But it was tough; he could imagine those impulses getting stronger, taking over his mind. Pissing him off. Sending him on a rampage where he’d kill anything that breathed. Maybe even himself.

  He walked on, angry at his pain, leaning on his cane, blinking rapidly to steady himself. His gun got too heavy for his hand, and his lips were tired, aching from holding the penlight. He put the gun back into his belt, used the gun hand to hold the penlight. There. That was better. Oops. His balance was off. He stumbled, would have fallen if not for the walking stick.

  The corridor again veered sharply to the left, sloped down gradually. The air became chilly and damp. The walls became more clay than plaster; the planks of the floor covered rocks and earth. Obviously, the path had led him underground. The further he walked, the louder the music seemed. Damn. What if he didn’t find Harper, but walked right into a damned Halloween party?

  He stopped, considering what he should do. Wondering if Harper had already found the party, if they’d called the police. Damn.

  He looked behind him, considered going back, climbing out the hole he’d made, finding Harper another time. Maybe waiting for her at home. She’d have to go home sometime; he could wait for her, and bang bang, do the job in two seconds.

  That was probably the smart thing to do. Rick didn’t relish the trek back up the passageway, but he turned, started back. Went about ten yards when, bam, the music stopped. And from somewhere – he couldn’t tell where – a woman called, ‘Hello? Can you hear me? Is somebody there?’

  Harper was close. He stood alert, waiting for her to yell again. But when she did, he still couldn’t identify her direction. Except he was sure she wasn’t behind him; he’d have seen her. Unless, back at the fork, he’d taken the wrong turn. Maybe he should have gone the other way. Damn. His leg pulsed, distracting him. OK, he’d keep going forward for a while. If he didn’t find her in like ten minutes, he’d go back to the fork and start over.

  Rick smelled something smoky, musky. Maybe a fire? Oh God, was the house burning down? No, the scent was too mild. Almost like incense. Odd. He crept forward, sniffing, his skin itching, nerves prickling. His instincts on red alert, warning of danger up ahead, probably Harper. He stayed close to the wall, edging forward. Coming to a dead end – no, not a dead end. Too late, he noticed the sudden drop, the ladder leading straight down. Rick fell, landing hard on his leg, letting out a shattering yowl.

  Instantly, someone pounced on him, pressing an arm against his throat. Rick swung and punched, couldn’t breathe. Fuck. He tried to reach for his gun, but his arms were pinned, couldn’t move. Damn. The fucker was choking him. Who the hell was it? Rick thrashed and twisted.

  Even with his des
peration and pain, his mind raced, able to get his bearings. A cave-like room. A ramp that led up to daylight. A table covered with small packages. And finally, as darkness overtook him, a creature above him unlike any he’d seen before; it had fought like a man, but had feathers like a bird. And the head of a wild cat.

  Harper jumped, howling, and ran backwards around the corner. Heart pounding, swallowing air, she stood for a moment, hugging herself. The woman wasn’t, couldn’t have been real. The body had to be a creation of Harper’s own terrified, sensory-deprived mind.

  Finally, her breathing quieted, her heart rate slowed. Prepared to see an empty hallway ahead, she rounded the corner, flashed the light. And saw the skull, patched with blackened leathery skin, lying on the path. A champagne bottle on its end beside her, along with a crystal glass. The fur coat draping a decomposed skeleton against the wall.

  Oh my God. Harper stared, remembering the stories about the house. Trying to recall a name – Carole? Camille? No – Chloe. Chloe Manning. The glamorous silent movie actress who’d disappeared during a party in the Twenties or Thirties, whose body had never been found. Until now. Harper stood, staring at the remains, doubting her own perceptions. After all, people had supposedly searched the passages for the actress and never found her. How could Harper have chanced upon her?

  Unless she, too, was hopelessly lost.

  Harper imagined the woman stumbling in the dark without a candle or flashlight. How long had she wandered around? Had she been drugged? Too drunk to know what was happening? Had she screamed, pounded the walls in despair and panic? Passed out? Never mind. It was too late to worry about her; she’d been dead for almost a century. And now, Harper was as lost as Chloe Manning had been. Very irretrievably lost. Was the body an omen? Would she share Chloe Manning’s fate? Would she die there, alone?

  She thought of Hank. Wondered how long he’d search for her. When he’d give up. If he’d have her declared dead so he could marry again. A hot stab of jealousy surged through her, resenting his new wife. Oh God, would she really never see him again? Damn. Was this really how she’d die? Sniper fire whizzed past her head, a bomb exploded nearby. Harper smelled smoke, heard screams of the wounded. And something else: from faraway, she heard Hank’s voice. Calling her. ‘Hoppa!’

  How sad. How pathetic. She was so desperate, so without hope of ever seeing him again that she was manufacturing him. Hallucinating. She heard it again: ‘Hoppa!’

  ‘Hank? I’m here!’ she called, knowing that he wasn’t really there. That she was calling to her own imagination. Even so, she stared into the tunnel and pictured him coming for her, emerging from the darkness with his powerful, uneven gait, bearing a flaming bright torch, his eyes reflecting the fire.

  ‘Hoppa!’

  ‘Stop it,’ she scolded her mind, aching for Hank. Sorry she’d ever argued with him.

  Stop it. She pinched herself, concentrated on the sharpness of the pinch, then on the ache in her leg, aborting the hallucination with pain. Pleased that she could feel it. Pain, after all, meant there was still hope: unlike Chloe Manning, she wasn’t dead. Yet.

  Don’t look at her, Harper told herself. Just mark the wall and keep going. She kept going, but couldn’t help looking back, aiming her light one more time on the remains of Chloe Manning, her skull staring from the shadows, watching Harper leave.

  Her throat was parched. Don’t think about it, she told herself. Don’t think about Rick or the Colonel or Hank or anything. Just walk.

  She walked. She marked the wall. And walked and marked the wall. Maybe it wasn’t really for a long time. Maybe it was only a few minutes. Half an hour that felt like days? She had no idea. Time could be misleading. Like darkness. She felt like collapsing, or at least like sitting for a while. Didn’t do either. The passageway kept changing. Now it turned at right angles, zigzagging. Somehow she’d gotten off her original path, which had been relatively straight. Now, there were right angles, as if she were moving around the perimeters of rooms. As if she were in between them. She tapped on the wall, wondered if she could kick through. Decided to try. Stopped, put her weight on to her weak left leg and slammed the wall with her right. The impact sent her flying to the ground, cursing. White pain reverberating through her right leg.

  But she kept going. After a while, the ground sloped down, probably leading to the first floor. Harper sped up; there had to be an exit down there. Had to be. The slant made moving easier, quicker. And suddenly, the passage became damp, cooler. She smelled earth. Must be underground? Yes. The walls had become rock and clay. Damn. And after a while, she smelled something sweet. Mold? No, muskier. Spicier. More like incense? A few steps later, she heard voices and almost screamed with joy.

  Except she didn’t. She crouched against the wall, listening. Making sure that Rick hadn’t sent for reinforcements. That she wasn’t walking right into his arms.

  ‘I’ll go back later,’ a man said. ‘Maybe there’s something else even better.’

  ‘Asshole.’ This voice was gruffer, deeper.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault. She was right there.’

  ‘Stop making excuses for yourself, will you? You fucked up.’

  ‘I know that. Don’t you think I know that?’ The first man again, whining.

  Silence. The scent of smoky incense was stronger.

  ‘I paid you a week ago. Our customers expect delivery tonight. Trust me, we don’t want to piss them off.’

  More silence.

  Harper crept forward, leaned around a corner, expecting to see them. Saw a blank wall several feet ahead. What? Where were the men? She inched closer to the wall, trying to hear the voices, and stepped forward, setting her foot down on empty air. She swam, arms flailing and grabbing at the wall as she shifted her weight, hopped backwards, lost her balance and landed on her butt. She sat for a moment, catching her breath. Shit. She’d almost fallen into a gaping hole at the end of the passageway. Soft golden light rose from the opening. Harper shut off her flashlight and rolled on to her belly. She lay flat, crawled to the edge, peeked down. Saw a cave-like room, dimly lit with lanterns. A man, pacing. And, directly under her, limbs sprawled, lying not far from a rope ladder, she saw Rick.

  Rick was looking right at her, but didn’t move, didn’t let on. Had he seen her? Harper waved her hand, watched for a reaction. Saw none. Rick’s eyes remained fixed, and he lay perfectly still. Oh God. Was he dead? Maybe not. Maybe he was just hurt. Dazed or unconscious. But who were those men? Couldn’t they see him lying there? Why weren’t they helping him?

  She strained to hear their conversation.

  ‘ . . . figure out who he is and how in God’s name he got here.’

  ‘There are dozens of openings.’

  ‘You know that. But how did he? How did he even know that there are passageways?’

  Silence.

  ‘You have no idea? Either one of you? Because other than the three of us, who could possibly know?’

  ‘We don’t know any more than you do, Joe.’

  ‘Great. Just great.’ Joe growled. ‘So some random burglar just happens to break into this house? Just happens to find a passageway? Just happens to drop in on us today, right when we’re about to make a serious delivery?’

  ‘So what are you saying, Joe? That this guy’s a spy? Someone’s been spying on us?’

  ‘It sure looks that way. But he couldn’t be in it alone. Somebody sent him. Somebody who wants part of the take.’

  ‘No, wait.’ The guy who wasn’t Joe argued. ‘Except for us, who could that be?’

  Silence.

  Harper inched forward, trying to get a better view of the room, to see who was in there. Missed a comment or two.

  Then heard Not Joe say, ‘You serious?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Really? The blonde from the university?’

  She froze, not daring to breathe.

  ‘Not all alone,’ Joe reasoned. ‘But obviously she knows the dollars these pieces can bring in, so she might have
made her own deal. Or it might be the other way – this guy might have come to her with a deal.’

  ‘And they spied on us to find out about the tunnel. It makes sense. Except what happened to his leg?’

  ‘Who knows. Perhaps she double-crossed him?’

  ‘Well, we’ll never know, thanks to Chief Catfeathers over there. That guy sure isn’t going to tell us.’

  Harper looked down at Rick. His eyes hadn’t moved. For sure, he was dead.

  ‘For your information, I hardly touched him. Guy was half dead to begin with – look at all the blood on him.’

  ‘You went at him like a rabid hyena. We should have talked to him.’

  Harper looked down at Rick. A blood-drenched rag formed a feeble tourniquet around his leg. His eyes gazed her way, not blinking.

  ‘Well, since we’re speaking of mistakes, genius, let’s get back to yours.’

  ‘I already told you, Joe. It wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘So whose fault was it? Mine? His?’ Work boots paced into Harper’s view. Then out. ‘Shit. All right, it doesn’t matter now. We’ve got a situation here. What am I supposed to tell them? That my idiot supplier fell down a shaft and broke a one-of-a-kind priceless pot for which they’ve prepaid fifty-five thousand?’

  Fifty-five thousand? Harper strained her neck, leaning over the hole to see more of the room. Saw a table stacked with Styrofoam packing cases like the ones up in the crates. Were they relics? She tried to count them, got to nine.

  ‘We can refund their money.’ The guy who wasn’t Joe suggested.

  These guys had stolen relics and were selling them. Of course. That was why so many were missing from the collection. The professor hadn’t misplaced them as Jake had said. The missing pieces removed by these guys. Was Angus one of them? Was Jake? Were they stealing what they believed should have been their legacy?

  Suddenly, right below her, Rick began to slide across the floor.

  ‘Oh no,’ the man who wasn’t Joe groaned.