“Convenience, laziness, habit. You name it. The tunnels went in when the complex was built. They’ve ended up serving every purpose you can name, from supplying overflow office space to giving people a shortcut to the cafeteria in winter. Not to mention plumbing, electricity, the Internet, heating pipes, and whatever else. To a certain extent, I don’t think anyone’s ever thought about the security aspects.” He pushed open the unlocked door and ushered them through. “And I never heard of anyone ever escaping this way, either, until now.”
Joe understood that the power was out and the place trashed by recent events, but even so, he found what lay ahead to be dark and threatening, and could only imagine that someone whose paranoia or mental illness was already in high gear wouldn’t want to venture too far down these earthbound corridors.
Teater switched on the lamp attached to his hard hat, prompting them all to do likewise. The sudden darting of lights suggested a mixture of fanciful images: a mud-floored, buried passageway to some long-forgotten burial chamber; a battlefield-blasted building interior, redecorated with the detritus of a full-fledged firefight. The reality amounted to a dank, stagnant, gluey obstacle course, blocked by office furniture and the same stationer’s fodder they’d encountered in the lobby.
“This should be fun,” Lester said with false cheer. “Like a boot camp obstacle course for astronauts.”
Already, Teater was setting the pace, scrambling over the tangle with the ease of years of practice. Joe followed next, feeling clumsy and amateurish, aware of Lester and the utterly silent fourth member of their party standing patiently in line. It was during situations like this that Joe felt his age the most, and was reminded of the decades that he’d spent in this physically challenging job, at first as enthralled by the challenges as were his three younger colleagues right now. He rued the toll it had all taken on his body.
Still, as Teater had promised, it didn’t take long to get used to the awkward suit and forget its restrictions, in the face of simply trying to keep moving.
The piled barriers weren’t the only challenge. They had a double mission here: to find Carolyn Barber’s dead body, and if not that, any evidence that might tell of her fate. The first demanded the shifting of heavy objects and mucking through any slime deep enough to hide a body. The second called for an opposite set of skills—more delicate and interpretive, less disruptive. Here, Joe or Les would briefly stop one of the techs from tackling a desk or file cabinet, in order to quickly read the scene before them.
Like a single blue slipper, shaped for a small left foot, found about an hour into their expedition.
Joe held it up before Teater’s lamplight. “You’re familiar with the hospital’s workings,” he said. “This look like something the patients wear?”
“Sure does,” was the answer. “Standard issue.”
Joe reached into the kit he had slung over his shoulder and extracted an evidence bag into which he placed his discovery.
To their frustration, that single slipper marked their only success for another three hours, during which they covered about half the campus, often traveling down routes that either ended at sealed doors or simply dwindled in diameter to make further progress impossible. More than once, Joe made a point of thanking Teater for his guidance—without which he became convinced that he and Spinney would have gone missing as well.
Finally, mirroring the topography overhead, they began seeing signs of the ground ramping up and the water having leveled off, to the point where the damage became reduced to a thin sloshing underfoot.
It was there, at a Y-shaped juncture—with one shaft leading upstairs—that Lester made their second and final discovery. A single bare left footprint was clearly stamped in drying mud, matching the slipper in size, two steps above the high-water mark. Then, nothing.
“Didn’t Robinson Crusoe find something like this?” Lester asked, readying his camera. They worked together to light their finding properly, placing a ruler beside it as reference, before straightening and looking up the steps, as if anticipating the appearance of a celebrity.
“Where’s that lead to?” Joe asked.
“Out,” Teater said simply. “That’s the bad news, I’m afraid. Above us is one of the least occupied and most open buildings in the whole complex. Anyone can just come and go.”
They headed up, their eyes on the treads before them, hoping to catch another telltale sign, but Teater’s implication was well taken. Assuming that Barber’s feet had dried quickly upon leaving the water, and that she’d met no opposition from either locked door or human being, there remained nothing to pursue. When the four of them stepped into the fresh air, outside a door a few feet from the staircase’s apex, they found themselves in a huge, flat expanse—not far from Main Street—with unlimited access in any direction.
Kevin Teater removed his helmet and peeled off his mask before radioing their location to the command truck. He then rubbed his face with his open palm and raised his eyebrows at Joe. “What d’ya think?” he asked.
“I think it would be a stretch to say that footprint didn’t belong to Carolyn Barber,” Joe answered indirectly.
“Which brings us,” Lester suggested, “from Robinson Crusoe to Cinderella.”
“Or the Hunting of the Snark,” Teater suggested.
His three companions each gave him a blank look.
* * *
Willy Kunkle killed the engine and observed his home, located defensively at the top of a horseshoe-shaped street in West Brattleboro. His neighborhood hadn’t suffered from the flooding, being situated on a slope above the otherwise devastated Whetstone Brook valley. There had been at most a damp cellar on the block or an old tree toppled because of overly saturated soil. But Willy’s house had suffered nothing, in part because of his own preparedness.
And not in advance of just this storm. It wasn’t Willy’s style to yield to a single threat. To him, there was nothing but peril all around—and all the time—which was why his house had been chosen for its strategic location, why his property’s trees and shrubs allowed for clear sight lines down both streets, why he had two sump pumps in the basement and a backup generator, and why his locks and doors and windows were all high security-rated.
The coming of Irene had been no more for Willy Kunkle than a confirmation of his everyday fears, and his survival of her passing mere proof that you can never be too cautious or too prepared.
But it wasn’t the condition of the house that he was contemplating. His thoughts were on its occupants, as Sam had left the office early to relieve Louise from her babysitting.
Sam had been steady from the start of their union, seeing beyond his paranoia to identify the love he held for her and now their daughter. For him, predictably, that had only added to his worries. Sam gave so much with her forbearance, her patience, and her generosity. When was that going to run out? When was she, like everyone else in his life—including him—going to realize that he was a lost cause?
Willy watched his large right hand, resting on the bottom of the steering wheel—powerful, capable, a veritable weapon to so many who’d suffered from its strength. But what did it represent? A surrogate for its useless left companion perpetually stuffed into his pants pocket; a reminder that he was a cripple in fact and in function. The arm had been destroyed by a bullet years ago, taken in the line of duty, and despite the handicap, Willy—with Joe’s urging and to everyone’s amazement—had battled back to requalify as a fully certified police officer. He’d done as well over time combating alcoholism, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, depression, a broken marriage, and the social isolation caused by a complete lack of diplomacy.
He closed the hand into a fist, acknowledging none of those victories. What he believed instead was that someday he’d wear out his welcome with the very family he’d traveled so far and worked so hard to create.
As if activated by his thoughts, the front door of the house opened and Sammie stepped out with Emma in her arms. Smiling a little sadly,
she crossed the lawn as Willy rolled down his window, and handed the little girl in to him, murmuring, “Here you go, sweetie. I think Daddy needs a hug.”
Willy looked into his partner’s eyes as he took the child to his chest and cradled her there, his earlier concerns struggling against the warmth and sincerity he saw in Sam’s face.
“How did you know?” he asked, kissing his daughter’s feather-fine hair.
“We watch each other’s back,” she answered simply, and opened his door. “Come on in.”
Willy swung out with surprising grace, given his handicap and his bundle, closed the car door with a foot, and fell in behind Sam on the way to the house.
“Hear from the boss yet?” he asked as the baby snuggled into his neck.
“Yup. He and Les spent hours making like moles and came up with a single footprint. They’re thinking Barber made it out alive, if minus one shoe.”
Willy took that at face value, knowing the rest would come later and in more detail. “What about her? Barber?” he asked next, referring to the assignment they’d been left by Joe. “You find out anything?”
Sam held open the front door to let him by, stroking his shoulder as he passed. “Not much yet. I wanted to clear off some other stuff on my desk first. I found out she worked for the state about forty years ago, and that she was the same Carolyn Barber Joe was talking about—the Governor-for-a-Day. He was also right about that being a one-shot wonder, never repeated. My gut tells me I’ll get more from talking with people than digging through files. Right now, she just looks like she was a clerk or a secretary or something almost invisible. How ’bout you?”
Willy had taken on what he was calling the “box of rocks” from the cemetery near Newfane. He turned into the living room and carefully slid into the rocking chair by the window, seeing that Emma had nodded off.
“Herb Rozanski,” he said in a soothing voice as Sam sat on the arm of the nearby sofa. “Only son of Bud and Dreama Rozanski. Brother of Eileen Rozanski Ranslow. Died twenty-seven years ago at the age of eighteen of an industrial accident at the family’s logging and lumber operation. The accident was witnessed by the father, the body checked out by the authorities, and all the paperwork signed, sealed, and delivered.”
Sammie smiled at the domestic scene and the tone of Willy’s voice. “They must’ve really loved those rocks,” she said.
Willy laughed gently. “Yeah. Well, you got that right. Guess I’ll be doing a little up-close-and-personal interviewing, too.”
CHAPTER SIX
Lester Spinney settled into the corner of one of the Waterbury fire department’s empty back offices and extracted his smartphone. Joe and he had ended up here to conclude the HazMat aspect of their day—returning the equipment and filing a report with the police chief about the state of the tunnels. The police department had been evacuated, forcing the chief to catch his meetings wherever he could for the time being, including in his cruiser.
None of which was Lester’s concern. He was more than content to leave that conversation to his boss, and to instead reach out quickly for home. Lester’s was the unit’s lightest heart—a family man, a Springfield resident, born and bred, married to the same woman he’d first met in community college. Stayovers like the one he’d just spent at Allard’s house were not his idea of a good time. He preferred going home every night.
“You out there, babe?” he texted.
“Hi,” came the near-instant response from his wife, Sue, a nurse at Springfield Hospital.
“What ya doin’?” he typed. His daughter, Wendy, had tried to educate him on the protocols and practices of proper text-speak, but he and Sue preferred their own version.
“Good timing,” she wrote back. “Babysitting a pt. in ICU. U?”
“Waterbury. Just went thru the tunnels here. Creepy.”
“Dangerous?” was the immediate reply.
“Nope. HazMat suits. Town a mess. Missed U last nite.”
“U2.”
“Dave do OK on test?”
“Thinks so.”
Spinney heard Joe calling out for him from somewhere in the building. “Gotta go, honey. Luv U.”
He was reading “Luv U2” when Joe poked his head through the open doorway and smiled. “Tell her I said hi.”
Les laughed and dutifully followed orders, reading aloud to Joe, “Tell him to give you back to me in one piece.”
“I promise,” Joe said, and crooked his finger. “I found a girl who knows a guy who knew our missing person—a nurse at the hospital. Maybe she’ll tell us Carolyn’s couch surfing in her living room.”
* * *
Gail Zigman stepped into the small back office on the top floor of the Pavilion building in Montpelier, located beside the statehouse, and closed the door behind her. Vermont governors were paid a little over $150,000 per year; were issued a security detail, complete with vehicle; and had a staff. They were also the chief executive, with all the attending perks. On the other hand, they still headed up one of the least populated states in the Union, which translated into Gail’s living in her own condo just outside Montpelier, although having access to an admittedly spacious combination office/apartment in this building, and another ceremonial office in the statehouse, equipped with a chandelier. There was no governor’s mansion, no stretch limo, no executive helicopter, and no palace guard to snap her a salute when she showed up for work every morning. Vermonters had other expectations of their leaders than their appearing like foreign potentates or overindulged chiefs of industry.
Not surprisingly, Gail had also quickly discovered, governors had virtually no privacy and little time to themselves. Which explained why she was standing here with her back to the door. After six months of agreeing to everyone’s requests of her to do what they wanted and to be where they directed, she’d finally demanded ninety minutes of complete solitude, every afternoon. It was impractical, and honored only about 30 percent of the time, but it beat what had preceded it. And she cherished every minute.
She wasn’t getting that now, however—not with the post-Irene mess demanding that she be in all places at all times. But when she’d announced five minutes ago that she was going to grab a little time for herself, her staff’s reaction hadn’t been stunned disbelief.
The downtime wasn’t so she could watch TV, do crosswords, or read a book. In general, it was to help her address the private daily duties that she set herself, for herself, outside the demands of her job, her constituents, and her omnipresent staffers.
This time, for example, it was to call Susan Raffner.
Politicians—even small state ones—are surrounded by a hierarchy of friends. Some are heartfelt associations, others practical, still others obligatory and occasionally onerous, as with party chairmen, committee heads, key lobbyists, and the like, with whom one is pretty much stuck whether one likes them or not.
For Gail, Susan Raffner was something else entirely—a fellow resident of Brattleboro, a friend and advisor for decades, a sounding board, an ally, a defender, and a fellow feminist of the old school, Raffner had early seen in her friend the potential that Gail had achieved in the last election. When Gail had first toyed with becoming a selectman, Raffner had been by her side, giving advice, fielding problems, and handling many of the logistical headaches, especially as the stakes had grown along with Gail’s successes. Beyond that, when Gail had been raped—and Joe almost killed—Susan had been beyond supportive, offering counsel and challenge during Gail’s struggle for balance.
Unusually—if typically for this woman—Raffner’s only request in exchange for all of this had not been a cabinet appointment or the leadership of some agency. It had been to request an endorsement from Gail in Susan’s run for one of the two Windham County state senate seats.
And it had worked, if controversially. Winning as a Democrat hadn’t been much of a reach in Vermont’s southeast corner; but Gail’s stirring of the pot by backing Susan against the Democratic incumbent had caused a real hornet’s
swarm. The man in question had been popular, if only mildly competent, and had been serving for sixteen years before Candidate Zigman had vouched for Susan on the stump. The two women broke the rules and outraged their own party bosses, and created an effective if inaccurate image of Raffner’s stunned opponent as a chauvinist, do-nothing male who was probably harboring malicious intentions toward women, children, farmers, gun owners, and the American Way. The poor bastard never knew what hit him, and on election night, Gail and Susan had briefly retreated amid the hoopla to raise a private glass to their dual success.
It wasn’t just the victory they were toasting. On various levels, they were angry women, fed up with the status quo, tired of waiting for change, and happy with the turmoil they’d stirred up. The fallout afterwards would be predictable, of course, and was already starting. Both women winning by popular landslides while thumbing their noses at the Old Guard—including Vermont’s Washington delegation, nicknamed the DC-Three—had prompted a chorus of angry muttering from the back rooms that guaranteed an untold number of future headaches for each of them. But in the short term, as for so many idealists preceding them, that hadn’t mattered. They were flush with success, and presumed that the spirit that had carried them here would sustain them while in office.
It was a miscalculation common to many a dreamer.
In the meantime, Gail now had her best friend in the senate. However, she’d also lost her closest advisor as a result, and Susan had already twice taken opposing views to a couple of the new governor’s pet projects, but such was the rigor of their mutual honesty that details like that mattered little. In an ironic homage to much of the politics predating modern extremism, they embodied the older tradition suggesting that close friends could be politically opposed while still finding enlightenment in each other’s insight.
As with right now. Gail pulled out her cell phone and dialed the number she knew better than her parents’.
Three Can Keep a Secret Page 6
