by Dana Mentink
“There’s been a modification in the schedule,” the dean growled. “The demolition starts Monday.”
Victor raised an eyebrow. “That’s fast. What caused the change?”
Lock waved a hand. “Who knows? I’m not in charge of construction details.”
Victor glanced around the office, pristine from the polished wood desk to the upright antique piano. “But you aren’t packing up?”
“Our offices were renovated last year, they won’t be touched.”
“Fine, then. We’ll be out by Sunday night. That gives us two more days.”
“To find the Tarkenton? By then they may have found Colda. Or his body.” The dean, Victor noticed, did not appear overly concerned about the prospect.
Brooke tensed. Was she still holding out hope that Colda could be found and somehow explain how he’d hidden the sketch at Tad’s himself, absolving her father of guilt? Not likely. Not remotely likely. “Dean Lock, there’s the chance that Colda is hiding in the tunnels.”
Lock started visibly. “Ms. Ramsey implied something like that, but it’s preposterous.”
Victor relayed the details of the intruder at the Professor House and the pawn found on Brooke’s pillow.
Lock’s eyes popped. “This is insane, some sort of crazy story you’re cooking up to continue this ridiculous farce. There’s no treasure, and Colda is dead or long gone. The only good to come of it is that now the truth is out. He cooked up the museum robbery with Donald. I had nothing to do with it, not that I will ever get another shot at a curatorship again.” His face creased into a bitter mask. “Once there’s a whiff of impropriety, no matter how undeserved, that’s the end.”
“You don’t have to tell me that.” Brooke’s voice was sad. “If Colda is dead then my father might never get a chance to clear his name either.”
Victor stepped in before Lock could give voice to the anger kindling in his eyes.
“We’ll be out by Sunday night.”
“If you aren’t, I’m calling the police.”
Victor held the door for Brooke on the way out. He spotted a small wooden chessboard on display, all the pieces lined up in perfect order. No pawns missing, he noticed idly. He gestured to the board. “Do you play, Dean Lock?”
Lock paused for a moment. “Yes.”
“Did you ever play with Colda?”
“Occasionally.”
“With his chess set?”
He nodded. “We stopped a few months ago.”
“Why?”
“Because I have more important things to do and Colda was annoying and feebleminded.”
Victor saw the truth behind the words.
And because you hate to lose.
He joined Brooke and they headed outside where they met an arriving police officer. It was another hour before they finished and Victor walked Brooke back to the dorm.
He felt suddenly awkward, unsure about what to say to her. Stick to business, Victor.
“We’ll go in tomorrow at sunrise. I’ll text Tuney.”
She didn’t answer. As they walked into a patch of moonlight, she turned her face to his. “Thank you. I know you’re only doing this because there’s the possibility of finding a Tarkenton, but I want you to know I appreciate it.”
The moonlight gilded her hair and lit the smooth contours of her face, her full lips and delicate brows. The urge rose inside him, strong and unexpected, the desire to pull her to him and press those lips to his.
She’s right, he told himself. You’re here for the treasure and for the truth.
But the feeling in his gut would not go away as he walked her to her dorm, a strange mixture of worry and longing, a desperate need to hold on to Brooke Ramsay.
He wondered if it would disappear when and if he held The Contemplative Lady in his hands.
SIXTEEN
Brooke found Stephanie and Denise whispering when she woke before sunup.
“Sorry, honey. Thought we’d let you sleep a few more minutes. You tossed and turned last night.”
Brooke sighed. Dreams had kept her sleep fitful at best, dreams of her father and Tad. She held them both by the hand, pulling them along in desperate flight through long and twisting corridors. She woke in a sweat-soaked panic, only to fall asleep again, this time to odd flickers of Victor climbing a rusted ladder and growing ever farther away.
Victor is here to find the Tarkenton and destroy your father, she chastised herself. He’s not your friend.
Nonetheless, as she closed her eyes and whispered her prayers, she found Victor again front and center in her thoughts.
“We found some info on Stryker,” Stephanie said. “His name really is Stryker, last name Leeds. He’s been a taxi driver in California for a while.”
Brooke heard in Stephanie’s tone that there was something else. “Where in California?”
“San Francisco.”
Her heart thumped. “This is getting to be like a bad movie.”
“He drove the neighborhood of your father’s museum.”
Brooke shook her head. “And now he just happens to show up here?”
“Curiouser and curiouser, to quote Alice,” Denise said with a frown. “But we’d better focus on the day ahead. I have a feeling it’s going to require all our powers of concentration.”
Stephanie checked her watch. “Hate to miss out on this adventure, but I need to go pick up my other brother, Luca, at the airport. I’ve been keeping him apprised of things, and he’s about to blow a gasket if he doesn’t get in on the action.”
“Sounds like Victor,” Brooke found herself saying.
“In the determination department they’re alike, but Luca’s got a silly streak, and he’s the kind that lets his heart lead him into trouble.”
“And Victor leads with his head, not his heart.”
Stephanie finger-combed her short, damp hair. “Yes, but you never know when circumstances will change.”
Change? She could not see the intractable Victor being swayed by the stirrings of his heart or soul.
She forced herself to eat a protein bar and packed several more, along with bottled water, into her pack. Denise did the same and they went to meet Victor at the library.
On the way Stephanie received a message on her phone, which put a smirk on her face. “I knew it.”
Brooke had no time to inquire as they entered the silent library, the air stale and scented with the faint aroma of old books.
Tuney was there, scowling as Brooke introduced them.
“We’ve met,” Denise said, declining a handshake. “You’ve been pestering Donald for four years. Brooke told me you went so far as to hire a woman to follow her.”
Tuney’s scowl deepened. “And that woman got murdered for her trouble, so there’s something going on with the Ramseys, isn’t there?”
“No, there isn’t, but how about you?” Denise asked. “Were you poking around Colda’s place last night?”
“Police already asked me, and no, I’ve got better things to do with my time,” Tuney snapped.
Stephanie stepped in between them. “I think Brooke and I have been able to sniff out a way around the collapsed area that will put you back into Colda’s tunnel about a half mile down, and it’s much closer than going back through the entrance behind the Professor House. Wish I was going along. Good luck, guys.”
Stephanie bid them goodbye and said something to Victor that made his face grave. She kissed him and gave Brooke a hug.
“Take care of my big brother for me until I get back,” she whispered in her ear. “Even if he seems like he doesn’t want you to.”
Brooke felt as though there was much more Stephanie wanted to say, but she gave Brooke a final squeeze and departed.
Victor took the lead and they made their way to the basement, clicking on the headlamps on the helmets. She heard Tuney’s breathing amp up, and she recalled his trepidation about the tunnels. She wondered if Victor had filled him in on the stranger they’d seen at the Professo
r House. Her own breathing accelerated a notch as the darkness swallowed up everything except the pale beams of their lamps.
Denise gasped at the pawn drawing illuminated next to the mouth of the tunnel they’d used before. “Who would have guessed it? He must not have been completely crazy.”
“Crazy enough,” Tuney grunted as they stopped at the pile of rubble. Footsteps sounded in the passage behind them.
Victor put a hand protectively out toward Brooke, sliding her around behind him, pulling her closer. The beam of a flashlight dazzled her eyes and she shaded her face with her hand.
Stryker emerged from the dark corner. “Ready for the second part of your tour?”
“We’re retracing our steps. I want to see the room we passed last time, the circular chamber.”
“Nothing to see there,” he said with a shrug, “but I’ll lead the way.”
Victor glanced at Brooke. “Hey, Stryker, you must have a good sense of direction, being a cabbie.”
“Yeah,” Stryker grunted.
“I understand you drove in San Francisco, right near Brooke’s father’s museum.”
He shrugged. “I drove a lot of places.”
Victor pressed closer. “Were you there the day of the robbery?”
“No, and after that happened, the place closed up for a while so business dried up. I had to go elsewhere.” He glared at Victor. “I don’t have a rich family to keep me afloat, you see.”
Though she wanted to ask him if he’d been in Colda’s apartment the previous night, Brooke could tell that was all they were going to get out of Stryker. Likewise she could also discern that Victor was not about to give up. A confrontation would occur sometime, and it would be soon.
Stryker pushed to the front and they skirted the rubble, finding once again the small passage that led away into the smaller tube. Victor made sure they all stopped for a drink of water before they pressed in, losing no time in filing one at a time down the ladder Stryker had showed them before.
Brooke’s face was sweaty in spite of the relative cool. She remembered Victor’s intensity from their previous entrapment. He made sure the women and Tuney made it down the ladder before he climbed down behind them. They began the long silent march through the tunnel, pants rolled up against the ankle-deep water.
Brooke touched her aunt’s hand. “I think Tad would love this adventure.”
She smiled. “I think you’re right.”
Thoughts of her brother cheered her. She’d be back home soon, with an adventure story to tell him. She desperately hoped she would have a happy ending to their treasure hunt. A knot of worry formed again in her stomach.
Chin up.
They continued on. Up ahead at the junction of the two tunnels, they came again to the strange room, the opening of which was six feet off the floor of the tunnel. No wonder she hadn’t been able to see inside. Victor’s tall frame enabled him to just peek over the top and into the enclosure. Whatever he’d seen there before had made him determined to return.
Her stomach tightened.
Victor heaved himself up after a boost from Tuney. After he made it up and through the opening, he turned back and then leaned over to assist the others. When he took her hand, Brooke again felt the tingle of excitement his touch seemed to awaken in her. He helped her over the edge, pulling her against his body as he did so before he gently put her on her feet.
Pulse revving, she looked around in wonder. The room was an oblong shape, the periphery crowded with barrels and old metal boxes.
“Some sort of bomb shelter,” Brooke surmised.
“Exactly,” Victor said. “They were common during the Cold War. Theory was that people would hunker down in here and be safe from the radiation. Kept them supplied with food, water, sanitary and medical supplies.”
Tuney snorted. “Not exactly a long-term solution.” He rolled his shoulders. “Who could live underground?”
Stryker was pacing. “So you’ve seen it. Let’s go.”
“Why so anxious?” Victor asked.
Stryker looked away. “Bad feeling here. Could be unstable.”
Denise looked at the stone roof above them. “He might be right.”
There were no windows leading out of the space, only a round hole about two feet across directly in the center of the ceiling, and on the floor a bundle of pipes ran the length of the space. Brooke slipped off her pack and set it down.
As she did so, she spotted a flash of red bundled between two metal casks. She pulled it out. “This certainly isn’t from the Cold War era,” she said, fingers sliding along the soft wool.
“This isn’t either,” Victor said, holding up a small paper bag and peering into the contents with his flashlight. He pulled out a small object wrapped in waxed paper.
“Someone has been living here,” Brooke said in astonishment. “Colda?”
“Nah,” Stryker said, kicking at a barrel. The sound echoed mournfully around the space like a funeral bell. “Probably just a bum.”
“He’s probably right,” Denise said. “Why live in a place you know will be demolished? It must be a vagrant.”
“I’ll have to disagree,” Victor said. With two fingertips he pulled out a half sandwich from the waxed paper. There was a look of triumph on his face when he spoke. “Half of a tomato and cheese sandwich, Colda’s favorite kind. It’s homemade. The cheese is only a little stale. He’s been here recently.”
“I don’t see any stockpiles of food,” Brooke said.
“He was probably hiding under the bed in the Professor House,” Victor said. “He went back for supplies, and you surprised him.”
Denise exhaled loudly. “He probably meant to stay out of sight until he could come back for the painting,” she said, beaming her flashlight in between the barrels, voice tight with excitement. “The picture might be in here.”
She began to search quickly, flashlight dancing in and out. “It’s dry, not too hot. If it’s packed correctly, there would be minimal damage.”
Brooke heard an odd squeaking noise that seemed to be coming from the center of the room. She let the conversation drift on around her as she moved closer.
“There’s no painting here,” Tuney said.
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Stryker said. “I’m out of here. If that crazy old man comes back, I don’t wanna be anywhere close.” He scrambled up to the opening and lifted himself over.
Victor made a move to stop him but Denise spoke up. “Oh, let him go. He’ll wait around for us to finish searching, I’m sure.”
Brooke wasn’t so sure, but she was still trying to find the source of the strange noise. All at once the sound changed and a trickle of water tumbled through the hole in the ceiling.
In a matter of seconds the trickle had turned into a torrent.
Victor heard Brooke’s cry mingled with the roar of water that was now pouring from the hole. “Everybody out,” he yelled over the din.
Denise’s face was stricken. “If it’s here, it will be ruined.” She splashed to the far corner, light glinting off the cascade that was now up to their shins.
“No way to save anything now,” he called.
Tuney and Brooke moved toward the opening, slogging through the foaming water.
“I hate tunnels,” Tuney griped.
Victor hoisted him into the opening, where he perched like a mountain goat. “No sign of Stryker. So much for a trusty guide,” Tuney called down.
Victor yelled again to Denise. “Let’s go. Water’s risen too much to save anything even if it is here.”
Denise looked as though she would ignore him but after a moment she turned and pushed to the opening, where Tuney helped her up and over. The water was moving with considerable force now, slamming at Victor’s waist and continuing to rise.
He beckoned to Brooke and she moved closer until he saw her small frame stop suddenly. A look of panic crossed her face.
“Come on, Brooke,” he called. “We’ve got to get out of here.�
��
“I can’t.” Her voice was high, tight with fear. “My foot broke one of the pipes. I’m caught.”
He immediately jerked off his pack, dove under the water and pulled himself closer, fighting the force that sought to push him away. Feeling his way along the pipes, he touched her hip and followed with his fingers down to her ankle. It was locked in tight between a solid pipe and the broken one. He tried to grab hold of the narrowest pipe, which felt to be nearly six inches around, but pulling did not budge it at all. He stood up and found the water was nearly up to his chest, which put it at her shoulders.
Panic began in his gut but the terror on her face made him put it aside. “I’m going to get something to pry the pipes. Hang on.” He had time only to squeeze her hand once before he dove back down looking for something, anything to force the bars apart.
Some of the boxes were floating now and the water was a tumult of half-empty cans and other debris. He found nothing. Dirty water obscured his vision and he flailed around, searching with his fingers for something, anything.
His lungs screamed a complaint.
Breaking the surface again, he caught sight of Tuney’s head in the opening.
“Brooke’s stuck,” he shouted. “Need a bar, something to pry with.”
Tuney nodded and disappeared.
Victor fought his way back to Brooke, who was now up to her chin in water. He grabbed her face. “I’m going to get you out. I promise.”
He saw that, in spite of the fear, she trusted him.
The deep pools of her eyes telegraphed her feelings back to him.
She trusted him.
He turned in circles. Somewhere in the disgusting mess there had to be a tool that could free her.
