The abuse, and I held no illusion it was anything else, lasted only as long as Elle’s stubbornness. Cruelty, never my aim, had no place in her training, but her strength forced punishments more and more severe. In the end, I had to believe it was worth it. I gained soldiers who could fight and survive at the cost of losing a wife and daughter.
Perhaps much of Elle’s pigheadedness derived from not understanding the enemy we faced. I needed to make her comprehend the supernatural power of those coming for us, just how dangerous.
“I saw them first in the war. They killed all my friends,” I told her.
“Why didn’t they kill you?” The bite in her voice left no doubt she wished they had.
“I’m not sure. Maybe they wanted me to suffer and live in fear. They’ve plagued me for years, but you know their greatest power? Their cruelest weapon against me?”
She didn’t answer, only stared up at me.
“Threatening you and your mother. Everything I’ve done is to protect you. Whether you believe it or not, I’ll die for you. I’ll never let them take you or hurt you.”
A strange expression came over her face, her voice a subdued growl. “You can’t stop them.”
Those few words haunted me for days. Elle saw something I couldn’t. Some weakness I refused to acknowledge…hopelessness. She did not fear it, nor avoid its truth. This battle could only end in defeat. We were the victims of overwhelming odds and malevolent power.
That evening I watched a program on the History Channel about Masada, an ancient fortification located on the eastern edge of the Judaean Desert, overlooking the Dead Sea and situated atop an isolated rock plateau, much like a mesa. Recognizing the defensive advantages of Masada, King Herod built a complex there as a winter escape and haven from enemies, complete with castle, storerooms, cisterns, and a foreboding wall.
After Herod’s death and the annexation of Judea, the Romans built a garrison at Masada. When the Great Revolt of the Jews against the Romans broke out in 66 A.D., a group of Jewish people known as the Sicarii fled from Jerusalem and took over the complex.
With Jerusalem in ruins, the Romans turned their attention to taking down Masada, the last community in Judea. About a thousand rebels lived there, including many women and children. A legion of ten thousand Romans built camps surrounding the base, a siege wall, and a ramp on a slope up the Western side of the mountain made of earth and wooden supports. After two years of siege without success, they built a tower on the ramp and tried to take out the fortress’s wall. When it became clear Masada would fall, the rebels took their own lives, and those of their wives and children, rather than live as Roman slaves.
So few held off so many, and in the end died rather than be taken, tortured, and enslaved. I knew what I had to do now, and held no illusions it would not come to it, eventually. The only victory would be a moral one. They would never take my family alive.
CHAPTER
28
“I knew something seemed off down here.” Marlowe stood with Spence and Troy in the basement of the Baldwins’ house. The musty smell he remembered had not dissipated, if anything, with the dwelling unattended and shut up for days, the odor had intensified. Marlowe traced his finger along one of the shelves lining the entirety of the near wall. “Dust everywhere except on these shelves, clean as a whistle. Whatever they stored here was removed, and recently.”
“How can you tell?” asked Spence. “This place is a hoarder’s paradise…or a sequel to The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”
Along the opposite wall, an assortment of shovels, hoes, and saws stood propped between a broken freezer and several five-gallon buckets stacked one atop the other. Above a table saw and workbench, hammers, screwdrivers, and pliers hung from metal rungs. On the workbench itself lay a dozen animal skins in various stages of tanning. With the collection of tools and clutter, the basement did not appear particularly sparse or vacant, which permitted the barren shelving to go unnoticed.
“That’s part of the problem, doubt I would have noticed without Troy’s explanation of survivalist’s tendencies,” said Marlowe, waving a hand around the room. “Prepper types normally keep stockpiles of water, food, ammunition, etc. I’m betting Baldwin stored his supplies on these shelves. If so, where did he move them, and why?”
With dim morning light shining through two narrow windows, and a host of sharp implements surrounding them, Marlowe could not help but agree with Spence’s assessment. It did feel as though they stumbled into a horror movie. On his first visit here, even with two corpses above him, the suffocating unease did not affect him so profoundly. Now, every hint of darkness stabbed deep. He was not oblivious to the fact his concern for Paige clouded every thought and insight, giving even unrelated events personal significance. Even so, awareness of the missing supplies renewed the possibility of finding the girls alive. Any evidence or wild omen to the contrary brought on a poignant dread. So close and so far away. Always obstacles seen and hidden. Enough to make anyone a pessimist, and Marlowe had that moniker tattooed on his forehead long ago.
“Oh shit, that makes sense.” Troy shook his index finger and rushed across the room. From the back wall, covered in wood paneling, a dozen blueprints for household projects tacked to its surface, he retrieved a clipboard hanging from a nail. “I remember looking at these drawings the first time we came down here. They didn’t make much sense, not at the time.” He held up one of the drawings. “See? The dimensions aren’t labeled. The lines could be in inches or feet. Without measurements, no way of telling the size of the project. But here…” Flipping through the pages, Troy indicated a set of objects. “This one, looks like a big rectangle with a square detached on one end and some sort of long oval or pipe on the top, at the other end.” He glanced up as though the conclusion should be obvious.
Marlowe shook his head. “I’m not following, deputy.”
“You’re dead on about survivalist sorts squirreling away their supplies. And best case, they like to keep them hidden, afraid other people might steal them.” Again he paused, and again Marlowe and Spence wore mystified expressions. “This basement’s hardly secure. Anyone comes down here they’d see the provisions right away.” Troy tapped the clipboard. “I think this is an underground bunker. A hidden place to hole up when whatever happens, happens.”
“Let me see.” Marlowe took the drawing from Troy. “So you think this square is the entrance, the door? And the long pipe? That’s a venting system?”
“I think so, yeah,” said Troy. “Someone didn’t get around to labeling the dimensions or parts, but that’s a bunker for sure. No other reason to vent it like that. Not with a front access. Some of the older homes in the area have in-ground tornado shelters similar to this.”
Footsteps sounded on the landing above, and Preston stuck his head into the basement. “Everyone’s here.”
The three of them followed the young deputy up the stairs, through the living room, and out the front door. The sun had climbed into a bright blue sky joined by a smattering of fluffy white clouds. The warm temperatures prevailed for another day, but a breeze out of the north felt cool and cut across Marlowe’s face. Troy and Spence took a place amongst the large contingent of officers and volunteers meandering in the yard, leaving him alone on the porch, an impromptu stage.
Marlowe gazed out over the group and without preamble, blurted… “Murder suicide.”
The gathering stared at him as though he had sprouted a second head. Dispatch had provided few specifics as to why they were summoned to the Baldwins’ home, and Marlowe’s sudden declaration did nothing to enlighten them. He paced across the porch, head down, deep in thought.
“Here we go.” Spence lightly elbowed Troy in the ribcage and nodded toward Marlowe.
“What?” The big man raised an eyebrow.
“Watch this. He’s putting the pieces together. It’s freaking weird. But in a cool as hell sorta way.”
Troy glanced at Banks, and both deputies shrugged.
&
nbsp; “We know the Army medically discharged Jeff Baldwin—presumably injured and likely affected mentally while in Afghanistan. From interviews with his mother-in-law and former coworkers we know he believed someone was after him and his family.” Marlowe pivoted and glanced over the assembly. “This delusion became all consuming. On the night the children vanished, and Jeff found his daughter Elle missing, he snapped. The shadowy group, the they he feared, had finally come to hurt his family. When Elle arrived home with the twins, Jeff didn’t feel relief and calm down, his terror remained in overdrive. He had built a safe place, but only for himself, his wife, and daughter. Now he needed to protect two more. Jeff was a soldier, he protected people, he couldn’t allow innocent children to be harmed, but neither would he let anyone take his wife, or himself. If captured they would be tortured, just like the Taliban or Al-Qaeda. He locked the children in the bunker and shot himself and his wife.”
Spence grinned over at Troy and Banks who gaped at Marlowe, their mouths hanging open.
“I notice a couple of problems with your theory,” said Koop, standing to one side of the porch.
“Don’t you always.” Marlowe frowned. “Say your peace.”
“Aside from dragging me out here for no apparent reason other than to hold you to something resembling logic, I find it doubtful someone would shoot themselves underneath the chin with the gun placed against their upper abdomen.”
“Maybe in shock after shooting his wife, he fell down the stairs and the gun went off. Or while saying a final prayer, maybe.”
Koop scoffed. “More problematic, if he shot his wife and then himself, where is the gun? It should have remained at the scene.”
“Sam Ewing,” said Marlowe. “Sam’s slow, but not stupid. He looked guilty as hell for a while there, and he knew it. That’s why he lied at first about following the girls through the woods, about going into the house, and about taking Jeff Baldwin’s ring. He eventually came clean on those points, but he wasn’t about to confess to taking the gun that killed two people.”
The officers mumbled agreement and nodded their heads.
“Satisfied for now?”
“A possible scenario, I suppose.” Koop removed his glasses and cleaned them on the tail of his jacket.
“Okay, listen up everyone,” shouted Marlowe. “I want the volunteers divided into a dozen or so groups. Put half in the forest behind this house, searching as far left to right as it goes. The remainder I want searching Baldwin’s former family farm.”
“Got ten miles or more of woods behind here, and the farm covers almost 500 acres,” said Banks. “A forestry company bought the land, but never did anything with it. It’s even grown up around the house and barn now.”
“I realize it’s a lot of territory. It’s also the most likely area where Baldwin would build his bunker. He grew up on the farm and hunted on the land here, so he knew these places like the back of his hand,” said Marlowe.
“What are we looking for exactly?” asked another deputy.
“A bunker. Basically, a big box with a door on one end. Probably built into a hill with the front camouflaged, similar to how Sam Ewing hid his cave. A pipe, or vent, will stick up from the ground above the bunker, so you might notice it first. But keep in mind, Baldwin is a paranoid survivalist. He’s going to keep it well hidden. Finding it won’t be easy.” Marlowe tugged his collar up around his neck against a sudden gust. “Also, the place is supplied with food and water for weeks, if not longer, so the girls are still alive.” He rotated a finger in the air. “Let’s find them.”
As the officers moved off to organize the search parties and assign grids, a haggard looking man shambled up to Marlowe. “Lieutenant, do you really think you’ll find my girls?”
Darren Sorrel appeared as if he had not slept or eaten since this whole thing began. Hollow eyes stared out from a countenance locked in despair. He lumbered along, each step requiring all his strength to manage, seemingly animated by a puppeteer’s unseen threads. A ghost walking.
“I do, Mr. Sorrel. And we’re going to find them alive and well. I promise,” said Marlowe.
Sorrel nodded almost imperceptibly and shuffled off to join one of the search parties.
“You shouldn’t make those kind of promises,” said Spence, flanked by Lori and Troy. “We aren’t out of the woods yet. So to speak.”
“I believe it. Everyone is coming out of this one alive. I’m not losing anyone—” Each phrase increased in volume until Marlowe realized he was yelling into the faces of his team. Several officers and volunteers standing further removed glanced over and received a scowl for their curiosity.
Spence placed a hand on Marlowe’s shoulder. “You okay?”
Marlowe shrugged it off with a weak smile. “Yeah, fine. Guess I’m trying to convince myself if I believe it strongly enough, it’ll happen for real. God knows, we deserve a break.”
“I’ll second that,” said Spence.
“Where do you want us?” asked Lori.
“We’ll set up here.” Marlowe pointed to the house. “You three stay close. Help get the searches in the field and coordinate with state. And get more volunteers out here. We need all the help we can get.”
“We should have EMTs stationed here and the farm for immediate response once the bunker is located,” said Koop.
“Good. You handle that.” Marlowe rubbed the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger, a tension headache nudging at his forehead.
Lori and Koop moved away, Koop on the phone and Lori joining a group discussing the best allotment of manpower, leaving Spence and Marlowe alone.
“I don’t want you tramping through the woods, you hear me? Stay close and play man-in-charge.” Marlowe smiled without humor.
“Hey, what I do best.” Spence averted his gaze and circled one foot in the dirt. “Sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to sound like I was suggesting we should give up. I’m glad you didn’t.”
“It’s your job to speak up when you think I’m headed in the wrong direction. And Koop’s, but don’t tell him I said so. You made a valid point, but you know I never listen to those.”
Spence chuckled. “Too true. Okay, let me get over here. They can’t tie their shoelaces without me.”
The next several hours passed without success. Each group leader from the search checked in with negative results before moving on to their next sectors. The sun dipped beneath the horizon, taking the last daylight with it, and Marlowe feared he would need to call off the search until morning. The revelation of a bunker injected the investigation with new hope, but its location could be anywhere within several square miles, if it existed at all. This could go on for a good while longer. Marlowe knew this, but it did little to dilute his sense of urgency.
“Deputy, time to call it for the nigh—”
From the far side of the house, a crash of stone on stone and dogs barking broke the relative quiet and spun Marlowe’s head toward the commotion. He dashed toward the disturbance, a dozen officers and volunteers joining him as he rounded the corner.
“Settle down, goddammit.” Roger dug his heels into the dirt, wrestling the K-9s from the Baldwin’s flower garden. He offered an embarrassed lop-sided grin at Marlowe and the others’ arrival. “Sorry. I brought the girls in for a watering, they been at it all day, and they just went crazy.” After managing to drag the dogs free of the garden, he wiped his cap across his brow. “No wonder really. Smells like something died in there.”
The K-9s had knocked the oval top off the birdbath and revealed a pipe running down through its base. Marlowe leaned in close to the opening, roughly four inches in diameter. The rank odor almost knocked him off his feet. And though faint and sporadic, something akin to the dogs’ whining emanated from the far end.
“Dammit. Right under our noses this whole time.” Marlowe placed two fingers between his lips and whistled as he trotted toward the front door. “Spence and Lori, with me. Troy, you should come, too. The four of them entered the h
ouse and quickly made their way into the basement. Marlowe turned a semi-circle, getting his bearings, and pointed. “There, that wall is beneath the garden.”
“What are we looking for?” asked Spence.
“A release of some kind. This is a false wall. It has to come out. Everyone look around,” said Marlowe.
After a few moments of searching high and low, Troy located a latch on the far left side, underneath the workbench. He disengaged the lock and the dark paneled wall popped free a few inches. A tug and the entire facing swung outward. In the opening, a metal door set in concrete.
“Damn, must have taken forever to dig out the dirt and build that thing down here,” said Spence.”
Marlowe had to agree, the scope of the project seemed daunting. “Baldwin must have excavated the dirt and carried it upstairs and out of the house in those buckets. Probably dumped them in the woods somewhere behind the house.”
“Locked from the inside,” said Troy after attempting to open the door.
Troy stepped aside as Marlowe moved close and lightly rapped on the metal. “Natalie? Nicole? Can you hear me? Elle? I need you to open the door. It’s okay. You’re safe now.”
No response from inside the bunker. Marlowe tried twice more, knocking and calling out louder each time, to no avail. “How do we get in there?”
Troy bent down and inspected the door. “Looks like a deadbolt of some kind. I can see a flat piece of metal, maybe six-inches wide feeding into the jamb. Couldn’t get a hacksaw in the gap between the frame and jamb.” He stood and rubbed the back of his neck. “It’ll take a blowtorch to open this thing.”
“How quickly can you get one down here?” asked Marlowe.
“I’ll have someone find George. Local plumber, he’ll have one for sure. He’s out with one of the search parties.”
October's Children: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller Page 27
