by Leslie Nagel
“Sewer pipe,” Merritt muttered. “Watch your heads.”
Without warning, the lights went out. Abruptly they were plunged into blackness so complete, Charley couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. Katie gasped.
“Ouch! Sonufa— Sorry, girls.” Merritt hadn’t heeded his own advice, Charley thought with a grin.
All three turned their lights back on. Temporarily blinded after the profound darkness, Charley tripped and fell to her knees. Her cellphone flew from her hand and landed with an audible splash. The light promptly died.
“Terrific,” she muttered. She’d skinned both hands, and her slacks were soaked. “Katie, a little help?”
Katie swung her light around in search. “I think it landed over here.”
As the tiny beam bounced across the wet concrete, Charley glimpsed a recess in one side of the tunnel. Inside she could just make out a dark shape. She crawled over and peered closer. Stuffed down into what appeared to be a drain hole was a nylon backpack, black or navy blue. It looked very old, boxier than modern bags. The pack was half buried in leaves and crusted with grime, as if it had been sitting in that spot a long time.
Charley climbed to her feet and hefted it by one moldering strap. Filthy water dripped from the bottom. She gingerly ran her hand over it and felt a squarish shape in the outer zipper compartment.
“Found it!” Katie brandished Charley’s cellphone. “I think it’s dead. That sucks.”
“If I don’t turn it on, and let it dry out, maybe I can salvage it.”
Charley wiped the phone on her damp trouser leg and dropped it into her carryall. Vance had moved on, and as Katie turned to follow, Charley debated leaving the pack. It belonged to somebody; maybe they’d come back for it? Not likely, she concluded. This thing had been down here for years. Deciding she wanted a closer look, she held the dripping pack away from her body and hurried to catch up.
After another hundred feet or so, the tunnel ended abruptly. They emerged into a shadowy room. Charley straightened her back with relief as she glanced around. The room felt large and warm and dry, but a dark hulking shape partially blocked her view. She reached out a hand and encountered smooth metal. Merritt played his light over other huge blocky shapes. Charley realized the hulks were furnaces and water heaters.
“We’re in the mechanicals room of the high school.” Merritt arched his back with a groan of pleasure, then strode over to the wall and hit a switch. Nothing happened. “Power’s out. I expect power lines are down all over town.”
“Wonder what’s happening outside,” Katie said. “I can’t hear the wind down here.”
A scrabbling noise caused them all to freeze in their tracks. “Who’s there?” Vance swung his light around and into the startled face of a teenage boy, who threw up a hand to shield his eyes. “No students allowed in here,” the janitor growled.
The boy squinted. “I was still in the building when the siren went off, so I came down here. Could you move that light, please?”
Katie stepped forward as Vance grudgingly lowered his flashlight beam. “PJ? Is that you?”
“Katie!” he exclaimed, as the girl rushed forward and threw her arms around his neck. He hugged her back. “Where did you guys come from?”
“Scary tunnel of doom.” Katie cocked a thumb toward the tunnel.
“Cool. It’s me, Mr. Vance. Priyesh Konduru.”
Vance grunted. “You three stay put while I go upstairs and check things out.” He opened a heavy steel door and disappeared.
Katie stepped back. “This is my friend, Charley Carpenter.”
“The detective lady?” PJ stuck out his hand. “I’ve read about all your cases, how you help Detective Trenault and the cops solve mysteries.”
“It’s ex-detective, and I’m pleased to meet you.” Charley smiled and shook hands. “Are you in the drama class with Katie? I had Kendall Magellan for freshman English when I was a student. She directed the fall play every year. She’s really good.”
“Nah. I’m taking the special summer zoology thing.” PJ’s eyes lit up. “You have to pay a pretty big lab fee, but we get to dissect a ton of cool stuff they can’t afford to offer during the regular school year.”
“Gross.” Katie mimed sticking her finger down her throat, and both teens laughed.
A handful of narrow windows pierced the thick walls at ceiling height, letting in just enough light to see by. While the two teenagers excitedly exchanged tales of danger and narrow escape, Charley sank into a folding chair with a sigh. She set her burdens on the floor, then paused as the backpack fell over with a wet thud. She recalled the square lump she’d felt. Figuring her pants were already filthy, she set the pack on her knees and unzipped the front pouch. Inside she found a plastic bag containing what appeared to be a book. She slid the bag free and turned it over to examine the book through the plastic.
“What’s that?”
Charley glanced up to find both teenagers observing her. “I’m not sure. I found it in the tunnel.”
She pulled apart the bag’s zipper closure and removed a small book about ten inches square, covered in yellow cloth printed with sunflowers. MY JOURNAL was printed in bright blue script across the top. A tiny pinhole tear in the bottom of the bag had allowed trace moisture to penetrate, and the bottom third of the book was damp and moldy. Charley opened the front cover with great care.
“ ‘Property of…’ ” she read, then stopped in confusion.
“Property of whom?” Katie prompted.
“I don’t know.” Charley held it up. “It’s written in some kind of code.” The lines below the title, where presumably the owner of the journal would write his or her name, were instead filled with numbers. She turned to the next page, then the next, checking half a dozen pages before closing the cover, mystified. “It’s all in code. How weird is that?”
“Sweet! Can I see?” Charley handed her the book, and Katie examined it with interest. “I used to have a diary like this. Here, hold it a sec.” She handed it to PJ, then took a picture of the cover and the “Property Of” page with her cellphone.
“What are you doing?” Charley asked, amused.
Katie shrugged as her thumbs flew across her keypad. “Posting it on Instagram. Big storm, creepy hidden tunnel, mysterious coded journal? Totally frigid. I’ve only got one bar down here—hope it goes through.”
PJ was turning pages, evidently fascinated. “I could try to decode this, Charley. We learned about codes and ciphers in our Intro to Forensics class last semester.” He grinned. “I’m going to be a CSI someday, or a detective like Mr. Trenault.”
“Ex-detective,” Charley corrected absently as she considered his request. “Let me clean it up and dry it out first. Then, why not?”
“Yessss!” PJ pumped his fist in the air, and Katie giggled.
PJ took his own picture of the journal’s cover page. He also snapped a few of the pages that weren’t stuck together.
“I’ll start working on it tonight, see if I can figure out what kind of code this is,” he said excitedly. “But I don’t need to decipher this.” He tapped the second line on the title page: 1/1/1974. “I’m pretty sure that’s just what it looks like. A date.”
Charley stared in wonder. “This book is over forty years old?”
“What have you got there?” a gruff voice demanded.
All three jumped like a trio of naughty kids caught raiding the cookie jar. Merritt Vance glowered at them with suspicion. He stared pointedly at the backpack, still on Charley’s lap. “If you found that down here, it’s school property. Hand it over!”
Thinking back later, Charley couldn’t say exactly what caused her to lie. Perhaps it was Vance’s aggressive manner that set off alarm bells. Maybe his officious attitude toward something that was not actually his business simply got her dander up. Whatever the
reason, she handed him the backpack.
“It’s empty,” she said innocently. “That’s probably why the owner left it.”
He snatched it from her hands, peered inside, then glared at her with suspicion. Behind Vance, PJ and Katie were both pink with suppressed laughter. Charley sent them a swift wink, and behind the janitor’s back, PJ slid the journal into her carryall. She stood. “What’s the report from topside, sir?”
“Storm’s over,” he grumbled. “You all need to leave.”
The three of them trailed him silently up the stairs, down a short, shadowy corridor, then up another short flight, emerging through a metal door beside the cafeteria entrance. Vance marched them toward a set of glass double doors that opened onto Schantz Avenue. Daylight streamed through, and Charley drank in the sight. She’d been underground for only an hour or less, but it felt like a lifetime. She hungered for sunshine and fresh air.
Vance pushed the door open, and Charley followed Katie and PJ outside. The sky was a pale, rain-washed blue, dotted with puffy white clouds. A soft breeze blew cool air against her cheeks. The ground was littered with broken branches and leaves stripped from trees. Thick drifts of melting hailstones smoked in the hot sun. It was a strange sight on this July afternoon, and PJ and Katie immediately began snapping photos, murmuring and exclaiming to one another. It took a lot to dampen the teenage spirit, Charley thought with a smile. After all, they were safe. The tornado had passed, leaving the venerable old school standing. She wondered how the other houses and businesses of Oakwood had weathered the storm. All at once she was desperate to get home.
“Mr. Vance, we’re so grateful for—” As Charley turned to offer thanks, Merritt slammed the door in her face, clicking the locking bar into place. He scowled through the glass. Nonplussed, Charley gave a half wave and started picking her way through the piles of debris. She glanced back once and saw the old janitor still standing there, staring. Then he turned abruptly and disappeared.
Chapter 2
Charley crossed the street, determined to know the worst. The worst was pretty awful, she decided as she reached the opposite curb. The red brick archway into Mack Hummon Field had partially imploded, obliterating the ticket office and burying the tunnel entrance. Her poor van’s vibrant, flower-power homage to Scooby-Doo was only half visible. The parts that weren’t obscured by a mountain of bricks showed extensive hail damage. Although she couldn’t see the front end, she suspected the broken windshield would mean water damage to the interior as well.
PJ whistled. “You guys were in there?”
Katie nodded, wide-eyed. “Mr. Vance pulled us out before the arch came down.”
Charley sighed. “I am really going through the vehicles lately.”
Her last car, a rattletrap orange Beetle she’d loved for its vintage flair, had been destroyed in the Mulbridge House fire a few months ago. Both the Mystery Machine and its paint job had been recent gifts from Marc. Her boyfriend always seemed to know just exactly what would most please her, she reflected. Trading up to this larger transport vehicle had enabled Charley to haul vintage treasures from estate sales or foraging expeditions without borrowing or renting, a business upgrade that had made acquiring new stock much easier. She closed her eyes, imagining the expression on her insurance agent’s face when he saw this mess.
At the thought, she turned to Katie. “May I borrow your phone?” She snapped a few pictures, then tried to open the email app. “There’s no service. The carriers must be overloaded with calls.” Charley thought again of her father. As she did so, she realized she could hear distant sirens coming from at least two different directions. “I need to get home, and so do both of you. Your families will be frantic.”
PJ waved a hand. “My folks are out of town. My mom’s speaking at some medical conference.”
“You’re alone?”
“It’s cool,” he assured her. “The neighbors have been taking turns feeding me.”
“And spying on him to make sure he doesn’t throw a massive kegger,” Katie put in.
“Yeah,” he replied drily. “That would be so on brand for me. Although, you’re not wrong about the spying. My parents can be…”—PJ sighed—“a tad overprotective.”
Charley considered him dubiously. “Well, if you’ve got damage to your home, come on over,” she offered. “Lawrence always cooks enough for an army.”
“Thank you. I promise to let you know if I need help.” He loped off.
“My mom will probably come home from work, unless they need her at the hospital.” Katie bit her lip. Her purple spikes hadn’t survived the rain and their trip through the damp tunnel. With her short hair smoothed back and her face free of its usual dramatic makeup, she seemed much younger than sixteen. “I don’t know what to do.”
Charley squeezed her shoulder. “Your place is on my way. Let’s make sure everything is secure, then you can decide if you want to wait for her or come home with me. Okay?”
The girl nodded, and they began picking their way over and around branches, trash, garbage cans, scattered patio furniture, and thousands of leaves.
“It’s like fall,” Katie observed, “except all the leaves are green!”
“It’s too late in the season for the trees to put out new ones, I suppose.” As they walked, Charley took in the bare branches and shredded gardens with resignation. “We won’t have much of a fall color display this year. Still, if that’s the worst of it, we’re lucky.”
On every block, they encountered people emerging from their homes, hugging neighbors and giving thanks for the near escape. Oakwood looked like a war zone, Charley thought. Cleanup would take days, and it seemed everyone had lost electrical power.
As they turned onto Lonsdale Avenue, a blue Jeep pulled into a driveway up ahead. A woman dressed in scrubs emerged and began scanning the street with a worried expression.
“There’s my mom!” Katie cried. “Talk to you later, Charley.”
“You bet.” Charley smiled as the girl sprinted into her mother’s arms.
Charley picked up her own pace, almost running the last few blocks. As she rounded the corner onto Hawthorn Boulevard, the first thing she saw was her father. Bobby Carpenter sat at the end of their front walk, his wheelchair well out of the bustle of the many neighbors already busily engaged in cleanup, but well positioned to provide a view of the action. A series of strokes had partially paralyzed his right side, but his vision and mental acuity were as sharp as ever.
“Daddy!” She dropped to her knees and hugged him tightly, overwhelmed with relief. “You’re safe.”
“Thank you, Lord.” He pulled off her ballcap and stroked her red hair with his good hand. “My precious girl.” Charley felt the tremor that manifested in times of distress, and her heart squeezed. After a moment he cleared his throat and added in a lighter tone, “Both houses are fine, though Lawrence’s hostas look like they were strafed by machine gun fire. Not a bloom left in the beds, and his tomatoes are now tomato puree.”
Charley sighed. “It’s as if the storm took away our summer.”
“It could’ve been so much worse.” He pointed across the street. Charley’s gaze followed, and her heart sank.
The old hawthorn tree on the boulevard, a majestic specimen that had stood for over fifty years, and one of the dozen or so that had given their street its name, was gone. The fury of the storm had snapped it like a matchstick. The broken trunk jutted from the ground, the pale splintered heart a shocking contrast against the black of mud and waterlogged bark. The tree had been stripped clean of every leaf, then tossed into the street like an unwanted Tinkertoy. Several of its smaller branches had been smashed and broken with the impact, but it was still a formidable mass. She watched as a group of men half dragged, half carried it up and onto the boulevard. They cheered as it dropped with a crash.
One man, taller than any of the others
by several inches, pulled off a ballcap and wiped his forehead with the back of a gloved hand. He wore faded jeans and new work boots. A white T-shirt soaked with sweat had molded to his lean, muscular body in a way that made Charley’s mouth go dry.
She rose to her feet. As if he could feel her gaze, Marcus Trenault turned. Their eyes locked, and without a word to the others, he started toward her. He stripped off first one work glove, then the other, never taking his eyes from hers as he approached.
In a few powerful strides he closed the distance between them, tossing his gloves aside and catching her face between his hands. He kissed her with a fierceness that she knew came from his anxiety for her safety. She tugged off his hat, buried her fingers in his wavy dark brown hair, and kissed him back. He hadn’t been the only one worried.
“You’re safe,” he murmured, touching his forehead to hers.
“Yeah.” She laughed a little. “You, too.”
He grinned back at her, his expression filled with relief and joy. “That’s all right, then. Everything is all right.”
“Not quite.” In a few words that downplayed the danger she’d been in, she described the damage to the Mystery Machine.
Marc waved a hand. “Fixable. If not, I’ll replace it.”
Charley started to protest, then decided it wasn’t worth the effort. She was still getting used to the idea that Marc was a multimillionaire. He’d recently spilled the beans about his astonishing personal wealth, and once she’d come to terms with it, she’d given up trying to curb his frequent gift-giving impulses, most of which were directed at herself.
“Where’s Lawrence?” she asked instead.
“Out helping everyone, of course.” Bobby grinned. “We were laying odds on whether you’d stumbled into another murder mystery.”
Marc’s answering smile faded at Charley’s expression. “Jesus, woman,” he exclaimed. “Did you actually find somebody?”
