I take a closer look at the wooden floor and see that there is an odd gap between two of the boards a few feet in front of me. Most of the boards have an eighth to a quarter of an inch of space between them, but these two have a much wider gap of more than an inch.
I tell Roscoe to stay and take a couple of tentative steps onto the structure, testing each board beneath my foot before shifting my full weight onto it. Despite the odd gap in that one spot, everything seems solid enough, and I make my way to the apex of the bridge’s arch.
As I start down the other side, moving faster due to both the incline and my increased level of confidence in the sturdiness of the bridge, I call to Roscoe. He trots up and over the bridge, a little tentative about this unfamiliar ground as he peers over the sides. Just as I’m about to step off the bridge, Roscoe comes barreling down the last stretch of it, sideswiping me in his eagerness to get to solid land again. My arms windmill as I try to keep my balance, and I end up dropping my walking stick. With my left hand I grab the finial on the newel post to keep from falling, but the piece rotates beneath my palm and I feel my balance edge over into timber! territory.
I hit the ground on my side, and quickly turn to a sitting position. Roscoe is beside me in a flash, licking my face.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, pushing him back and laughing. I become aware of an odd whirring sound that I assume at first is coming from Roscoe, but then I see something in front of me that makes me think I’m losing my mind.
The entire bridge appears to be rising into the sky. No, not the entire bridge, I realize, just this end of it. Except there is something attached to the closest end—hanging from it—as it rises into the air, something long and solid, and nearly as wide as the bridge itself. The structure continues its rise until the bottom edge of the thing hanging off the end of it, which seems to have come straight out of the earth, clears the level I’m sitting on by about two feet. The end of the bridge I just stepped off is towering more than eight feet above me. Out in the middle of the creek, I see that the support beam I spied earlier houses some type of metal piston that has risen from the wood and pushed the bridge into the air.
After gaping at the scene before me, I’m brought back to my senses by Roscoe’s whine. He nudges the pocket with the flashlight in it, then looks at the cliff edge just in front of us. His tail thumps several times and he whines some more.
“Right, a flashlight would be helpful,” I tell him. I take it out, wiggling it past the bag with Toby’s shirt in it, and turn it on. Then I shine it toward the other side of the bridge. That’s why there was that unusual gap, I realize. There is a hinge there that allows the rest of the bridge to be raised.
Unsure what any of this means but sensing that it’s all important, I set the flashlight down, dig my cell phone out of my other pocket, open the camera app, and snap a picture of the raised bridge. The moonlight and the flash from the phone make for a decent enough picture, and I see that I have one weak bar of service available. I tap the option to share the picture and send it to Bob Richmond’s phone. It doesn’t go through, a little whirling circle my only indication that it’s trying. I set it on the ground next to me, hoping it will get as much signal as possible, and pick up the flashlight.
Roscoe nudges my pocket again and whines some more. He moves over to stand at the very edge of the cliff that has appeared in front of us, looking down to the creek bed. I get on my hands and knees, and crawl over to the edge beside him. Below us, built into the side wall of the gully, is an opening framed in timber. Roscoe is crouching down, wanting to jump into the crevasse but frightened by the height. That’s when I realize that he wasn’t nudging my pocket to tell me to use the flashlight—he’s smart but not that smart—he was nudging the bag with the shirt. He has picked up Toby’s scent. Had Toby been here? Had he been in that opening?
There is only one way to find out, and Roscoe seems to have the same thought. He starts digging at the ground in front of him, as if he can somehow lower our cliff height by removing some of the muddy dirt. I see a faint glow of light emanating from the opening below, and I crawl back and then stand to get a better view of my surroundings.
I know there must be an easier way to get down to the creek bed, because Roscoe came back wet from his bunny chase. Bordering the creek on either side I see a narrow, rocky shoreline large enough to navigate on foot if I’m able to get down there. I look to my left and then to my right, shining the flashlight in both directions. Then, I shine it on the large object hanging from the bottom end of the bridge, which I now realize is a type of door that covered the opening below. I hadn’t noticed it before, but near the bottom of this door there is a lever.
I get back down on my hands and knees, crawl up to the edge, and pull the lever. There is a mechanical whirring sound, and then a ladder miraculously begins to slide out from the bottom of the door, stopping half a foot from the ground. I look over at Roscoe, who is looking from the ladder to me and back again, a nonverbal question.
“You can’t climb ladders, and the cliff is too high for you to jump down,” I tell him. “I need you to stay, Roscoe.” I give him a scratch behind the ears, kiss the side of his nose, repeat the stay command a bit more sternly, and then descend the ladder.
When I reach the bottom, I step off to one side of the ladder. The aperture isn’t large: it’s the same width as the footbridge and is barely six feet tall, if that. I take a few steps toward the water and glance at the backside of the hanging door. The surface, which looks like it’s made of boards, is cleverly disguised with what looks like dirt, roots, and foliage. I run my hand over the surface and realize it isn’t real, but rather a brilliantly rendered façade. When down and in place, it would look like a long-standing retaining wall built into the cliff side.
I step closer to the opening and peer inside. It’s a hallway, its walls, floor, and ceiling made of poured concrete. It winds around to the right hard enough that I can’t see the end of it, just a faint light emanating from that direction. I recall seeing a hillock off to the right about fifty yards away and suspect it, too, is a clever disguise for whatever is beneath it. I step through the narrow doorway, its low height no problem for me. My heart is hammering in my chest, I hear my breath coming hard and fast, and I think I also hear the faint hum of machinery off in the distance.
As I follow the curve of the hallway, I realize it’s descending slightly. There is a damp smell to the air, and I see drains built into the floor near the walls. About forty feet in I come to a stop. There is a large, windowless door in front of me, and alongside it is a lock requiring a key card. Stumped, I stand there a minute, thinking, and then I reach into my pocket to take out my cell phone so I can take pictures of the door and the hallway. But my pockets are empty of anything except the flashlight and Toby’s bagged shirt. That’s when I remember that I set my phone on the ground outside.
I hear Roscoe start barking, a frantic, excited bark that makes me wonder if he’s seen another rabbit. I’m about to turn and head back outside when the door in front of me opens. Standing on the other side of it, looking as surprised as I feel, is Carol Barlow, the frat boys’ housemother.
“What the . . .” she mutters.
“What the heck?” I mutter at the same time.
We engage in a brief stare-off that ends abruptly when I feel a blinding pain on the back of my head and my brain explodes into darkness.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Bright white pain provides a stark contrast to the darkness around me. Then I realize my eyes are closed, and I open them. I look around, blinking to clear my vision, and see that I am lying on a bed. I hear voices from somewhere above my head, but when I try to rise so I can look, the pain in my head makes me stay still.
“How did she find the place?” I hear a woman say just above a whisper. I think it’s Carol Barlow.
“You said she and that cop talked to the other boys. Did one of them say something?” This is a male voice, one I don’t recognize at al
l. But there is a distinct accent to it, Russian I think, and my brain struggles to make some connection I know is in there hiding behind the pain. Then it comes to me: Vadim Belov, Sheffield’s work visa employee who is somehow involved with the frat boys’ gaming competitions.
“No, absolutely not. I’m sure of it. I was listening in the whole time.” This time the voice is louder, and I’m certain it’s Carol. “Father said he got a call from the cop. He wanted to come out and talk to him as well as look over the grounds, but Father told him no.”
“Then why is she here snooping around?” the man asks.
“I don’t know,” Carol says. “Good thing you came back when you did though. She startled me when I opened the door. If you hadn’t hit her on the head with your flashlight, who knows what would have happened.”
“They must know something,” the man says in a worried voice.
“Relax,” Carol says. “They may suspect something is up, but I don’t think they know anything.”
“They will now,” the man says. “Thanks to her.”
“Unless we make her disappear,” Carol suggests in an ominous tone.
It doesn’t take my battered brain long to figure out that the her they are referring to is me. And I harbor no illusions about what is meant with the talk about me disappearing. I’ve really done it this time. I’m about to join the ranks of my mother by becoming a victim of murder. And likely one that will go unsolved. The irony.
The cylinders in the engine that is my brain are starting to fire regularly now rather than sputter, and I zero in on what Carol said just before she decided I was a problem to be disposed of. “Father said . . .”
I’m at the footbridge. And that footbridge is located on property belonging to Warren Sheffield. And Bob Richmond spoke with Sheffield about looking around his grounds. Is Carol Barlow Warren Sheffield’s daughter? Her last name is different, but that doesn’t mean anything. She could have taken the name of her husband. Or maybe she’s the illegitimate daughter of some woman Sheffield had an affair with. I recall Carol telling Bob and me the story of how she had to raise her son on her own after her husband died. She made some comment about moving in with her family and that they were well off. Warren Sheffield certainly fits that bill.
“If the woman was with a cop, we cannot just dispose of her,” I hear the man say, bringing me back to the shocking present. “Then they will start digging around for sure.”
“Not if it doesn’t seem to be related to us. It needs to look like an accident and look like it happened far away from here.”
I knew all along there was something about Carol that didn’t sit right with me. But I had no idea the woman was so cold-blooded.
“What about the other boys?” the man asks. “They are bundles of nerves already after Toby’s death. Can we trust them?”
“They won’t talk,” Carol says. “They need the money too much.”
I hear a heavy sigh but I’m not sure who it comes from.
“Leave her to me,” Carol says. “I’ll take care of it.”
I hear nothing for a few seconds, then I hear footsteps, some moving away from me, some coming toward me. There is the sound of a glass clinking near my head, and then I hear running water. I keep my eyes closed and continue to feign unconsciousness. Suddenly a hand grabs my shoulder and shakes me hard.
“Come on, Hildy,” Carol says close to my ear. “Wake up now.”
I debate my next move for a second or two and decide to wake up. I let my eyes flutter, and I moan for good measure, though the pain in my brain lends it a level of realism. “Oh, my head,” I say, putting a hand on the back of it. I feel a good-sized goose egg there and wince.
Carol snakes an arm around my shoulders and forces me to sit up. My head swims nauseatingly, and for a moment I think I might pass out again. I shake it off, blink several times, and stare at Carol as if just now realizing she’s here. “Mrs. Barlow,” I mumble, squeezing my eyes closed. “Where am I?”
“That’s not important,” she says. “Take a drink of water. It will make you feel better.”
She shoves a glass toward my lips and I take a small sip, swallowing it. Carol sets the glass of water on a table beside the bed and then reaches into the pocket of her slacks. A moment later she thrusts her open hand in front of me. On her palm is a white pill. “Take this. It will help with the headache.”
I have no idea what the pill is. It might be a headache pill. Or it might be something worse. My money’s on the latter.
“Come on, take it,” Carol cajoles. She sticks her palm in front of my mouth and I know that if I don’t take the pill, she’ll force it between my lips. So I open my mouth and let her drop it in. She turns to pick up the glass of water from the table next to the bed. “Take another drink,” she says, and she pushes the edge of the glass against my mouth hard enough that it clinks against my teeth.
I take another drink, a small one, and swallow hard.
“Good girl,” Carol says. “Now let’s take a little walk.” She gets up and extends a hand to me.
I take it, even though touching her right now is repulsive. I stand, my legs shaking, and then I let my knees give way and collapse into a sitting heap. My head lolls forward and I catch my chin in one hand and push my head upright.
Carol emits an exasperated sigh. “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she says. “Get a grip.” She uses her not inconsiderable bulk and strength to hoist me to my feet. “Let’s move. One foot in front of the other. Atta girl.”
I shuffle my feet forward, letting her steer me with one arm firmly beneath my own. As we move forward slowly, I get my first good look at the room I’m in. It’s a concrete bunker, but the bed I’ve just left is part of a tableau that doesn’t fit the rest of the room. If not for the standing industrial lights and bare concrete walls elsewhere in the room, one would think they were in the bedroom of someone’s house.
Carol urges me toward a door, opens it, and pushes me into another room. In an instant I am transferred from the surreality of the makeshift bedroom into what looks like a high-tech military or police surveillance room. There are computers and screens lining both walls on either side of me, and seated in front of them are some faces I recognize: the boys from the frat house.
Liam Michaelson, Mitchell Sawyer, and Alex Parnell—who I never met but recognize from his pictures—are typing away on keyboards, focused on the computer screens in front of them, speaking in low voices into their headsets. Also sitting in front of computers, similarly outfitted and occupied, are two girls who I recognize from the picture Lori showed us on her phone, the one Toby sent her of his gaming team.
I glance at the screens, expecting to see a game tableau, but the displays appear to be filled with text. I try to read some of it, but Carol is urging me along at a fast clip, and my vision is still foggy from the blow to my head. We cross the room quickly, and just before we reach the door on the opposite side, I see Liam Michaelson turn and glance my way. There is a brief look of shocked recognition on his face, but it’s gone in a flash as he quickly shifts his focus back to his computer screen and resumes talking.
The murmur of all the voices in the room blends together into an incomprehensible din. I fake a stumble and teeter to my right, close to where one of the girls is sitting. She’s by the end wall, and this allows me to catch myself with a hand on that wall. Then I lower myself to the floor just beside her seat. The girl glances over at me with a worried expression, then she looks at Carol.
“Ignore us,” Carol tells her.
The girl looks back at her screen and starts talking again. I’m close enough to her that I can discern her words from the room’s overall racket.
“Yes, sir, you did agree to the charge. It was in the fine print that flashed on your screen when you paid for the video. Of course, if you want to dispute the charge, I’m sure we can run it by your wife to see what she says. Does she know you like kiddie porn?”
Carol tugs painfully on my arm. “Get up,” she
says crossly. She is pulling hard enough that she’s dragging me across the floor. It’s quite painful, so I give in and rise to my feet, though slowly and with a noted lack of coordination.
Carol shoves me through the door into a third area that looks like some type of main computer room. There are towers of blinking lights and hardware, and bundles of thick cables snaking around the perimeter of the room, disappearing through conduits in the walls.
I can’t make sense of any of it, but I do sense the danger I’m in. I need to find a way to stall, to give myself time to think. Then I remember the pill Carol gave me, or at least the pill she thinks she gave me. All those years I spent in my childhood cheeking the psych pills various doctors and foster parents tried to foist on me have come in handy. I never swallowed the pill Carol gave me, and I spit it out when I faked my collapse onto the floor. At this moment it’s in my pocket. I don’t know what it is, but I have a good idea.
I let my knees go again and crumple to the floor. Carol isn’t expecting it, and she loses her grip on me. “Ach!” she spits out, giving me an irritated look.
I make my face go flat and expressionless and let my head loll slightly on my neck. While my face may look zombified, which is what I want Carol to think I am, my mind is racing like a bipolar patient in the throes of a major manic episode. I look around the room at all the flashing and blinking lights. “What the heck is this place?” I ask, slurring my words ever so slightly. Then I assume a blissful smile. “It’s like magic.”
Carol frowns down at me, hands on her hips. “It’s a business,” she says. She steps behind me, bends down, and wraps me in a bear hug. Then she tries to hoist me to my feet. I let my body go utterly limp. Carol grunts with her efforts to make me stand, but it’s hopeless. Despite her size, she can’t get my dead weight up from the floor. For the moment, I’m glad for the pounds I’ve let creep on over the past few years.
Needled to Death Page 28
