by Mollie Hunt
Finally I resorted to sitting on the floor and scooching on my butt. The tunnel itself was narrow, only about two feet wide, and looked as if it ran the distance of the wall. I started to pull myself up but found there wasn’t space to stand. I squatted again and waited for the wave of claustrophobia to settle. That I was barely into the passage and already feeling faint, flushed, and cowed was not a good sign.
Rather than abating, my innate and elemental fear of closed spaces increased. I could hear my heart beat fast, ocean breakers inside my ears. I couldn’t breathe right; I thought I might pass out. Though I desperately wanted to save Cary Grant and Clark Gable, maybe I wasn’t the man for the job after all.
That was okay, I told myself over and over. The kids would come any minute. They would save me; they would save the cats. They were young and fearless and could get flashlights. Clark and Cary might have to hold on a little longer, but it would probably be faster in the long run.
Grabbing a convenient board at the side of the opening, I prepared to maneuver myself back out into the room. To my surprise, the two-by-four did a flip-flop, slipped out of my hand, and before I could comprehend what was happening, the wainscoting slammed back into place, just missing my fingers. I jumped backward—not really jumped because I was crouching, and not really backward because there was nowhere to go. All I really accomplished was to hit my head on a stud.
Rats, I thought, shouldering the solid wood hatch that had suddenly become a barricade. Like the wall that it was built to resemble, it didn’t budge.
Rats! I reiterated. Locked in a hole, locked in a room. Now that was a crazy conundrum, even for me.
The panic I had felt from merely being within the mouth of the corridor ramped into utter terror. I felt the walls begin to close in like the garbage scene from Star Wars. There had been a monster in the water; were there monsters in my passage too? Spiders? Snakes? A wayward scorpion? I needed to pull myself together, and fast! Otherwise I’d surely go insane.
I started by tuning my senses into the things around me, a technique for calming anxiety I’d learned from a guru psychiatrist. Deep breath, in—out. Listen, smell, feel, see. Do it again. And again. After a few iffy moments, the panic decreased a few notches.
Aside from a razor-thin line defining the entry, the place was absolutely lightless. My eyes played tricks, imagining shapes and spaces, so keen were they for something to see. Okay, I’d wait here. When Seleia and Freddie came, they would just have to unlock two doors instead of one. Yeah, it would be embarrassing, but I would deal. Seleia wouldn’t make that much fun of her old granny, and maybe Freddie would be too polite to laugh.
Where were they though? I hugged my knees, hating the dark space. I thought I felt something tickle my cheek: a strand of hair or that monster arachnid?
Then I heard a sound that made me forget all about creepy crawlies. The cats again, but this time is wasn’t a meowl of dissatisfaction; it was an all-out scream of fright. Without thinking, I hefted myself toward the cry.
Scurrying farther into the passage, my knees scraped the age-hard floor. Then all of a sudden, there was no floor. I lurched rearward but it was too late; I was falling. The last thought I had before I hit the solid bottom was of Alice down the rabbit hole.
Chapter 22
In hot weather, brush your cat daily. Matted fur, especially for long-haired breeds, can trap heat and make your cat more susceptible to heat stroke.
I landed with a jar and a scream. Everything hurt: my back, my head, but most of all, my left ankle. I’d sustained a broken ankle once before as the result of an alcohol-fueled car crash, and I was pretty sure this was the same thing. Then again, I could be overreacting. Pain is always more intense in the dark.
I must have gone down a full story. Thankfully it was more of a slide than a straight drop that would have put me in the hospital for sure. The ankle pangs were receding now; maybe it was just a sprain after all.
I let out a string of help-helps! and was met with complete silence. Even the cats had ceased their cries. I prayed that meant they were alright and not something more sinister.
“Clark? Cary? Kitty kitty?”
Nothing.
Oh, no! What if...
The claustrophobia was beginning to swell again, the breath-choking dread rising like bile in my constricting throat. Groping in my pocket for my cell phone, my link to sanity, I found only lint and a crumpled Kleenex.
My panic heightened. I felt blindly around the floor in wider and wider circles, but all I came up with were chunks of loose plaster and bunnies of dust. Logic told me it had to be somewhere nearby, not lost in space or vanished into the fourth dimension, so ignoring my throbbing foot, I stalwartly expanded the search.
Finally my fingers found the sleek, cool plastic. Grabbing it like a lifeline, I clutched it to me. Sadly the screen was now black. I fiddled with the startup button but got no result. I pressed again, holding the button down for dear life. This time it lit but the neon rainbow prism that greeted my eyes bore no resemblance whatsoever to the kitty picture wallpaper and cute little icons of my smart phone.
“No!” I cried out loud, as if mourning the loss of a loved one. I poked and pressed the side controls, all the while trying not to let dread get the best of me. I turned it off and waited the long scary seconds for it to come back on. Eventually the screen relit, but with that same helter-skelter pattern.
Without the screen prompts, the thing was essentially useless. In a fit of melancholy, I thrust it into my lap. Leaning my head against the old dry wood, I breathed in its dusty scent and sneezed. I couldn’t imagine being more miserable. I was lost in the guts of an antiquated building, and not only did no one know where I was, they didn’t even know this place was anything more than the vivid imaginings of urban myth.
There was still no sound from the cats. Their prolonged silence was more disturbing than their cries, especially after that last yowl which still echoed in my head. Without their vocalizations, I couldn’t begin to guess their location any more than I could guess my own.
I don’t know how long I remained an inert lump of gloom. Then there it was, Cary Grant’s dinner meow. There was no mistaking it. Not pain, not hurt, it was simple hunger! And what’s more, it seemed closer than ever. With that single, hopeful mrow, strength flowed back into my benumbed limbs.
I picked up the broken cell phone. Its days as a communication tool might be over, but its usefulness as the only light source in that blind passage had just begun. I cautiously rose onto my good foot and held the phone like a torch. With its steadfast glow, I might at least keep away from any more rabbit holes.
I glanced up at the opening through which I’d stumbled and the chute that had brought me to where I was now. Alongside it ran a wooden gutter holding what was left of a hemp rope pulley, probably used to move goods from one story to another. Maybe I could get back up that way, but I doubted it. Besides, the cats were in the other direction, somewhere farther down the passage which traveled beyond the phone’s luminescence into darkness. That was from where the meow had come and that was the way I must go.
This new corridor was a few inches wider than the one above and tall enough for me to stand, which made it seem a little less intimidating. Shining the light ahead of me, I took a bold step forward and promptly fell back to the floor. Broken, sprained, or strained, that ankle wasn’t about to let me walk anywhere. Again the panic, but this time it just made me more determined to get myself out.
I shone the little phone around the space and saw an ancient rag mop leaning against the chute. I scooched over to check it out. In spite of the cloud of dust that rose from its stiff gray string head, the wood handle was straight and firm. Using it to pull myself back to a standing position, I crooked it under my arm like a crutch. It was a little long and unwieldy but it functioned as it should, and with its dusty aid, I hobbled forward without falling. In spite of the pain, I paused only to call for the cats and listen to the eerie echo of m
y own feeble voice.
I’d maneuvered about half the length of the building if my calculations were anywhere near correct when I came to another passageway angling off to the right. It was strewn with rubble where the lath and plaster interior walls had failed, and shafts of latticed sunlight beamed from the other side.
Excitedly I shuffled to the first hole and peered into the ancient kitchen space of an empty apartment.
“Help!” I shouted into the six-inch crack, though no long-gone ghosts answered my plea.
I pushed on to the next break which was slightly bigger. I thought about ripping the rough plaster with my hands to widen the hole, tried it, and found it harder than I’d expected. Still no sign of the cats.
Then “Mrrrowweeow!” It sounded closer than ever.
“I’m coming,” I cried back. “It’s going to be okay.”
I began humming a tuneless melody to let Clark and Cary know I was on my way. Peeking through each of the gaps, I finally saw the silhouette of a dog crate shoved into the back of a tiny dark room, most likely a closet. Though I couldn’t pick out any detail, Cary’s cries assured me I was in the right place.
This time I didn’t balk at the jagged, cutting plaster but tore at it until my fingers bled. The cats were getting hyper, clawing at the wire bars of their jail. Even quiet Clark sent up a yowl or two. They were frantic—I was frantic, but no matter how I grappled with the glass-sharp shards, I couldn’t make any headway.
“Settle down, guys,” I soothed. “Ripping out a claw isn’t going to help anything.” As I said it, I realized I should probably take my own advice. For all my own clawing, I’d only managed to enlarge the hole by a few puny inches.
I glanced down the passage. If I could make it into an adjacent room, I could find the cats from there. I moved along to a larger break where the light comparatively glared. I could no longer see the kennel, but there was a door in the far wall. Maybe I could get in that way.
Again I began tearing at the plaster. This time it came away in slabs, rotted by an ancient roof leak. Smashing through the lath with the mop handle, then prying at the thin old cedar, I made a gap large enough to scrape by. Not heeding the sound of ripping denim, I stumbled single-mindedly toward the closet.
I grabbed at the brown ceramic knob like a lifeline but the door was locked. I quashed the long wail of frustration that began to rise from my gut; the hexter might still be nearby and the last thing I needed was for him to know I was there.
Again, again, again, the deep breaths. I considered my options: I could go downstairs and get help or I could break the door down with my granny superpowers. Then a third possibility hit me. What if the hexter hadn’t wanted to carry the old-fashioned and fairly obvious skeleton key on his Batman key chain? What if he stashed it nearby, assuming no one would come to find it but himself?
I stretched up and felt along the top of the door jamb. Copious dust sprinkled across the late afternoon sunbeams, golden motes like stars in the night sky, then there it was! If I’d been physically capable, I would have jumped for joy.
I could just barely touch its metal shaft with the tips of my fingers, but slowly, careful not to push it even farther back on the ledge, I eased it to the end. It dropped, hitting the ground with a tinkle.
I scooped it up and unlocked the closet door in a single turn. There was the cage, just as I’d imagined it, with Cary and Clark blinking in the abrupt light.
Crossing the floor in two strides and a hobble, I dropped to my knees, nearly weeping with relief. “Hi, sweethearts!” I whispered, shoving my hands between the bars to caress their excited bodies. I felt down their backs and under their bellies. They seemed fine; a little matted and a lot outraged, but unhurt.
I didn’t want to let them out into the strange room with its gaping wall hole in case they decided to bolt into the murky passageway. There was a carrier by the cage; the one the hexter must have used to steal them from the trailer. I pulled it over, slowly opened the dog kennel, and was about to usher Clark from the one box to the other when he sped in by himself with Cary only a sprint behind. The two stared at me as if to say, “Okay, let’s get the heck out of here.”
“I second that,” I replied.
I latched the carrier, and with the aid of leftover adrenaline and my trusty mop, hefted their substantial poundage nearly effortlessly. My ankle still throbbed, but not enough to keep me from fast-pacing through the apartment and out onto the mezzanine in triumph.
* * *
The elevator was working again. We got in, I closed the manual gates, and pressed the old-fashioned button emblazoned with the number four. With a clack and a jolt, the archaic contraption shuddered into service, and in unnerving fits and starts, up we went. At the fourth floor, we quavered to a clunky stop. I opened the gate once more and we headed for apartment twelve, making the full circle.
I set the cat carrier down and paused on my makeshift crutch to take in a wonderful and comical sight: Seleia rocking nervously and banging on the door while Freddie crouched with the slot screwdriver. I watched him get the door open, watched the two rush in, crying out for me. When they didn’t find me, they turned in circles of surprise and concern.
I could barely keep from laughing, though I knew their distress was real and with good reason. Only moments ago, I had truly been in dire circumstances, but I had prevailed. I had found my way out of the claustrophobic passage. I had rescued Clark Gable and Cary Grant from the horrible hexter. Now I was giddy with elation. Oh, what the hay; I laughed out loud.
Seleia and Freddie whirled at the sound, then stood, mouths open, staring in disbelief.
I smiled and asked them lightheartedly, “What took you guys so long?”
Chapter 23
A snoring kitty can be the cutest thing, and most cats snore from time to time, but as with humans, snoring can also signify an underlying illness. Watch for other symptoms such as runny nose, coughing, mouth breathing, or snoring when awake. Then it’s time to consult your vet.
I lay in the little trailer bed under the considerable weight of two very tired cats. I had made the decision to sleep over on the set as opposed to taking them back to my house for a number of reasons, the most pressing being that I was just plain too exhausted to drive home.
By the time I’d made my escape from the tunnels, the detectives had already left the building so I had to phone the police station to report the catnaping. It seemed a little after the fact since the cats were back safe, but they needed to add it to their ever-increasing list of misadventures on the set of McCaffrey & Jack. I also told them about the conversation I overheard in the psychedelic room. They found that very interesting and said I should expect a personal visit from Detective Abernathy and his partner sometime soon.
There had been no sign of the arguing men on the fourth floor when the police arrived to search. The whole place was unoccupied; Angela was still MIA and not answering her phone. With the new information that the hexter was male, I could reasonably eliminate her from my list of suspects. For a moment, I wondered if she were alright, if I should try calling her again, but decided that such a daunting character as Angela T. Moore could most certainly take care of herself.
Once the detectives were through with me, we had taken Clark Gable and Cary Grant to be checked out by their vet. The cats seemed fine but it was important to make sure there were no hidden injuries or aftereffects from their ordeal. The clinic was over the West Hills in Beaverton, and what with chronic rush hour traffic, it was edging on nine o’clock when the very sweet doctor in her blazing white lab coat and cat-print skirt had proclaimed the pair in perfect health. Freddie had chauffeured us because my ankle still wasn’t working quite right and proved himself a steady and alert driver.
When we returned to Big Pink, I sent Seleia back to my house in a taxi cab where she would spend the night and care for my cats. I told her I’d call her in the morning and let her know what was happening with the show. I had my doubts she would be need
ed, and since I’d essentially been dismissed myself, it seemed very unlikely I’d have an excuse to hang around much longer in either a cat-handling or a sleuthing capacity. She was reluctant to leave but presented only a token argument before giving in and bidding Freddie a poignant goodbye that included the exchange of phone numbers and multiple social media sites.
Before going to bed, I had written down what I remembered of the argument in number thirteen. That conversation nipped at me like a cat with a string toy and I was the toy. Two men, no discernable vocal characteristics, accents, or affectations; it could have been anyone with the exception of Roger whose southern drawl would have given him away in a heartbeat. I was sure one of the speakers was the person responsible for the hex hoax—he had as much as admitted it—but he’d also claimed to have given up the pranks after Juno was killed. If that were true, then who had dropped the gargoyle, set the fire, and catnaped the cats? Had the hexter inadvertently opened a door to a genuine supernatural hex or was there a second player? Neither possibility seemed very likely. More probably the man had lied.
I’d been hounded from all sides to go to the hospital or at least Urgent Care and get checked out myself, especially the ankle which had turned a gruesome shade of purple. It was probably a good idea but once I got back from the vet’s, I was done in; there was no way I was going to a crowded ER to wait untold hours for a MA to tell me I needed x-rays, MRIs, and a colonoscopy for good measure. Besides, Louis, the show medic, had looked at it when I’d first appeared with the rescued cats. He said it was a sprain and I believed him. He’d iced it and wrapped it and told me to keep it elevated and not to walk on it any more than necessary: I promised, and even believed I would comply.
