Hunt turned and backtracked. When he reached the room with the open window he climbed out and hurried toward the south tower, only stopping when he was under the protection of the portico leading to the main doors.
He took his cell phone out and searched the contacts, found the number he wanted, and dialed. A moment later the call was answered. The person on the other end was groggy, his voice full of sleep. “This is Sheriff Wilder. Can I help you?”
Hunt smiled.
This was just too easy.
29
Decker moved along the tunnel with slow, deliberate steps, his flashlight held at arm's length to illuminate the narrow space. He was not prone to claustrophobia, but down here, in this dark, dank space full of cobwebs, with the walls closing in and the low ceiling forcing him to stoop a little, he found himself wondering if their midnight excursion was worth it. It didn’t help that this was the most likely way the killer had made his escape from the sub-basement after ripping out the throat of the maintenance man. That thought made Decker’s blood run cold. He expected to see the beast Hayley had described earlier barreling down the tunnel toward him, mouth agape, wicked sharp teeth ready to tear into him. But this was his imagination talking. The tunnel was empty, he knew. If there were anything else down here with them they would have encountered it by now.
Besides, they were almost through. He could see the metal access door leading to the south tower basement, and that made him feel better.
Despite her brave face and assurances that she had been here many times before, Mina must have been feeling the same way, for when they reached the door she let out a sigh of relief. “I don’t remember this place being so spooky.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Decker said, putting his shoulder against the door until it swung open on protesting hinges. “I don’t think it gets any better.”
“Great.” Mina looked back over her shoulder. “We could go back now that you’ve seen the tunnel.”
“Give me a moment.” Decker shone his flashlight through the opening, but all he saw was a wall of metal. For a moment he was confused, but then it hit him. This door must be tucked away behind one of the large generators, which was why he hadn’t noticed it when they searched the basement the previous night. He stepped forward and found himself in a tight space between the machinery and the basement wall. To his left was nothing but a dead end, but to his right he could see the greater expanse of the basement. He stepped forward, past the generator and recognized where he was, noting the wall with the circuit breakers, and beyond that, the dark entrance to the storage rooms, and the scene of the crime. “This has to be how the killer got in and out,” he mused, more to himself than to his companion.
“So can we go now?” Mina kept close, her eyes darting around as if she expected to be attacked at any moment. “I really don’t like it down here.”
“I think I’ve seen enough.”
“Thank God.” Mina took a step back toward the tunnel and lingered at the doorway waiting for Decker to follow, then ducked through the opening.
Together they made their way back to the north tower, neither one saying a word. When they reached the stairwell, they climbed, emerging into the lobby. Decker breathed a sigh of relief. He was glad to be free of the dark, oppressive underground, and looked forward to returning to his accommodation and climbing between the sheets. Since he’d arrived in Shackleton sleep had been tough, and he could feel exhaustion lingering at the edges of his consciousness.
They moved toward the corridor and the window through which they had gained entry to the building, past the large semi-circular reception desk, but as they went, Decker’s foot caught on a piece of broken floor tile. He staggered forward. He reached out to steady himself, and in the process the flashlight jolted free and fell from his grip. It hit the floor and rolled, coming to rest under the desk.
“Damn.” He stopped and bent over.
“Forget it.” Mina was already at the corridor. She stopped and waited for him. “It’s not important. I still have mine.”
“Hang on. Decker dropped to his knees and reached under the desk. “I think I can get to it.”
He felt around, his fingers probing the small space, but the flashlight remained elusive. He scooted lower, resting his weight upon his shoulder, and pushed his arm further underneath. His fingers came in contact with something furry and matted. A dead mouse? He shivered, pushing it aside. He could see the flashlight’s beam, and had a good idea where it had rolled, but it was just out of his grasp. He made one last effort, pushing his arm under as far as he dared, and touched the round, cool barrel of the light - and something else.
There was a strap resting against the flashlight. He probed further, his fingers tracing the strap back to something large and bulky, but he could not tell what it was. He knew one thing though. It wasn’t supposed to be there.
He nudged the flashlight, allowing it to roll back toward him, out from under the desk, then gripped the strap and pulled.
For a moment the thing didn’t budge, but then it came free. He dragged it out from its hiding place and stood up, lifting his mysterious find onto the desktop, then bent and picked up the flashlight, letting the beam play over the object. He looked toward Mina, puzzled.
She was already on her way back to him. “What did you find?”
“A back pack.” Decker leaned in to examine it. “It’s not that old either.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Mina was at his side now. She looked down at the bag, perplexed. “What was it doing pushed under the desk?”
“Beats me.” Decker reached out and touched the zipper. “Want to see what’s inside?”
“Sure.” Mina leaned in close, her eyes wide.
Decker unzipped the bag and pulled it open. He shone the beam of his light inside. He saw wadded up papers, something that looked like a bunch of credit cards bound with a rubber band, and a cell phone.
He reached in, perplexed, and pulled the items out one by one.
“What is all this stuff?” Mina picked up the sheaf of papers and turned them over in her hand, then pulled one out and unfolded it across the counter top to reveal faint, straight lines etched onto the paper.
Decker recognized it right away. “That’s a plan. A building layout.”
“Are you sure, It’s so faint.” Her light played over the paper.
“I’m sure. It looks old too.” Decker had seen such plans before. They were used in the construction of big buildings, and were often stored in city archives. He searched for anything that might identify the plan, his eyes drifting to the bottom of the sheet, and a title block with two words and a date stenciled into it. He read it aloud. “Deep Sanctuary – 4 Oct 63.”
“What does that mean?”
“Beats me, but I was right. This dates back 1963.”
“So what is Deep Sanctuary, and why is there a map of it in this bag?”
Decker examined the faded sheet, picking out other words now, labels identifying parts of the building. He saw living quarters, meeting rooms, and several laboratories. “I have no idea on either count, but whatever the place is, it appears to be a laboratory complex.”
“And the rest of this stuff?”
“More plans.” Decker rifled through the rest of the papers, then turned his attention to the plastic cards bound by a rubber band. He pulled one out, running his fingers over the surface, feeling the pattern of bumps that reminded him of Braille, but he knew it was no such thing. “This looks like an old entry card.”
“A what?”
“A key card. Like you get in hotel rooms, only instead of a magnetic strip, this one has bumps on it.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s for a lock that predates magnetic strips.” He went through the other cards one by one, seven in all, noting how pristine they looked. They were also identical. “These are not originals. They are copies.”
“Why so many?”
“Spares? After all, if you�
��re going to copy the card, you might as well make enough duplicates to cover all eventualities.” He turned his attention to the cell phone, pressing the power button. Nothing happened. The battery was drained. Still, it confirmed something in Decker’s mind. This was not something left over from the days of the Navy base. The bag had been stashed recently.
“What do you think it means?” Mina asked.
“I don’t know.” Decker leaned on the counter. “It might have nothing to do with the murders, but then again, it could. Either way, I intend to find out.”
“So what do we do with this stuff?” Mina picked up a key card and turned it over in her fingers. “Take it with us?”
“No. That would be foolish.” Decker folded the map and put it back with the others, then dropped the items back into the bag, but not before pocketing one of the key cards. “We should put it back, at least for the time being.”
“Why?” Mina looked disappointed.
“Because we don’t know who stashed it here, or if they are coming back. If this does have something to do with the recent deaths, the last thing I want to do is alert anyone that we found it.” Decker took a breath. “Besides, we don’t want to get caught with this stuff. If the sheriff finds it he’ll confiscate it and lock me up for obstructing his investigation.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Mina didn’t look convinced.
“I am. Trust me.” Decker zipped the bag and pushed it back under the desk. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” He turned and made his way to the corridor, then glanced back, noting that Mina was still lingering by the desk. “Are you coming?”
“Fine.” She cast one last glance downward, to where the bag was now hidden, and then pushed past Decker in the direction of the room they had entered through.
They reached the open window.
Mina climbed out first, dropping down to the cold earth. As soon as she was clear, Decker swung his legs over the windowsill and climbed through.
It was colder now, if that was even possible. Decker could see a white mist of condensation with every breath. He rubbed his hands together, and turned toward the south tower with Mina at his rear.
He had taken no more than a couple of steps when a shape separated from the darkness, appearing as if from nowhere. A voice carried on the breeze. Decker recognized it and groaned. This was the last thing they needed.
“And just what do we have here?” Sheriff Wilder asked, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. “Out for a little stroll, are we?”
Decker came to a halt and glanced at Mina, then turned back to the sheriff.
“Well?” He blocked their path, his firearm leveled at Decker. “I’m waiting for an answer.”
“Like you said, we’re just out for a stroll.” Decker did his best to sound nonchalant. “A nice night for it too, don’t you think?”
“Bullshit.” Wilder shook his head. He narrowed his eyes. “Get your hands in the air, nice and slow, so that I can see them.”
“We're not looking for any trouble.” Decker did as he was told. “Like I said, we’re just out taking a walk before bed.”
“Really?” Wilder didn’t sound convinced. “You and the girl?”
“Yep.”
The sheriff’s eyes fell to Decker’s waist, to the bulge of the gun under his jacket. “In that case, you won’t mind telling me what you’re packing under that coat, will you?”
30
Verne Nolan, sole proprietor of the town’s bait and tackle shop, lay awake in his cramped quarters above the store and stared at the ceiling. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was past midnight already. He let out a small groan of frustration. He hated nights like this, nights when his mind refused to turn off. He had not always been that way; that particular gift was bestowed upon him after the Gulf War. At first it had been nightmares, terrible dreams of war and destruction, of all the things he had done and seen in the shifting sands of Iraq. But then as time went on, the bad dreams turned to something else, something that was almost worse in its own way. Insomnia. The upside to this new development had been that he was spared the horrors that awaited when he climbed into bed and closed his eyes. The downside was that he spent a good proportion of his nights wide awake, yet exhausted at the same time. Not even the doctors at the Veteran’s Association clinic in Anchorage could fix it. They just put it down to posttraumatic stress, and gave him some horse pills that did little to ease the symptoms. Later, they added sedatives, but all they did was make him groggy, so he stopped taking them after a few weeks.
Now here he was again, studying the same crack in the ceiling, a snaking, meandering gap in the plaster, that he had fixated on during so many sleepless nights. After a while he swung his legs from the bed and pulled on a pair of tatty jeans and a polo shirt. Fresh air always helped, cleared his head, quieted the voices.
He padded across the room, out into the living room, and down the back stairs to the shop. He reached the front door and pulled back the deadbolt and chain, then leaned heavily against the doorframe for a moment and breathed a long, drawn out sigh.
Out in the bay a small boat, maybe a cabin cruiser, moved across the water with lights ablaze, its hull cutting a thin silver wake that trailed behind, a pale line against the otherwise black water. The low drone of the engine carried on the wind, disturbing the otherwise peaceful silence that descended on the bay after dark.
Verne watched the vessel for a few minutes as it cut a diagonal path across his field of vision. The boat took a turn north, out toward the mouth of the bay, and before long was nothing more than a shimmering point of light in the darkness. Soon that too disappeared, extinguished by distance and the curve of the Earth.
He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, forgetting for a moment that he had quit the previous spring. Damn. It was one of the only things that calmed his nerves, but it was also a major contributor to the emphysema that had plagued him in recent years. While the condition was mild right now, it would get worse if he continued to smoke. Always a practical man, Verne had finished up his last pack and then made a vow never to touch another cigarette.
He glanced toward the town, to the tower that housed most of the residents of Shackleton. There were only a few lights on, glowing yellow squares against the dull grey façade of the building. He wondered if the people behind those windows were awake, just like him, or if they had left a lamp burning when they went to bed. He had no idea which, but somehow the thought that there were others out there still awake filled him with a measure of comfort, and he didn’t feel quite so alone.
He strolled down to the dock, to the wooden jetty that pushed out into the water. On both sides small boats rocked back and forth on the tide. There were three or four fishing vessels, their decks covered with nets, a small yacht, and several skiffs. He paused for a moment, his hands in his pockets, and took a deep breath, relishing the smell of the salt laden air.
Beyond the dock there was nothing but flat, open blackness. He walked to the end and stared out, listening to the water lap at the pilings that held the dock in place, a rhythmic back and forth that was soothing.
There was a splash off to his left.
Verne turned and looked in the direction of the new sound but saw nothing. He turned his attention frontward once again. It was probably just a fish, or more likely, a sea otter out looking for food. The furry mammal, of which there were hundreds in and around the bay, was equally at home hunting at night as in the day, and the hours after midnight were a prime time to forage.
He stood there for a while longer, lost in thought, before turning back toward the docks. He hadn’t gone more than two steps before there was a second splash, much closer this time.
He came to a halt and peered over the edge of the dock, expecting to see an otter there, but instead, staring up at him from under the water, was a face.
He stumbled away, alarmed.
His heart was thumping, and he could feel the familiar tingle of adrenalin mixed with fear.
What had he just seen?
He gathered his courage and glanced over the edge again.
There was nothing but dark, swirling water.
He scanned the open water, the spaces between the boats, but all was quiet.
He shook his head. Had he imagined the face? It almost possessed a human quality, with strange eyes and an odd mouth. He lingered for a moment longer searching the waters around the dock, but everything was normal. Even so, he felt uneasy. A glimmer of apprehension writhed in his stomach.
He didn’t want to be out on the pier anymore.
He hurried toward the dock, back to the open door of the bait and tackle shop, and stepped inside, locking the door behind him.
Relieved, he leaned against the wall, taking long, measured breaths. He knew just about every animal that lived in or around the lake, and that wasn’t any of them. He crossed the room and went behind the counter, finding the loaded gun that he kept there, a .57 pistol. Shackleton was a safe place. He had never once thought to carry the weapon except when he was hunting, but now he relished the feel of the piece in his hand. The door was locked, he was safe, but he still felt ill at ease. An image of that face in the water, a few inches below the surface, looking up with those strange milky white eyes, sent a shudder through him. The logical explanation was that it was just a fish, but there was no fish he knew of that possessed features so human. So what did that leave, a dead body caught under the dock? It wasn’t a common occurrence, but people had been found floating in the bay before. More often than not it was after a storm. The Alaskan weather was unforgiving, and more than one vessel had found itself on the receiving end of a sudden squall. There were at least ten boats of varying shapes and sizes wrecked on the bottom of the bay, and maybe more, but he didn’t recall any recent sinkings. Besides, the face didn’t look like any floater he’d ever seen. It looked… alive.
Cold Sanctuary (John Decker Series Book 2) Page 11
