by Bill Hopkins
Chapter 26
Saturday Afternoon into Saturday Night
The name on the black mailbox painted in neat gold letters said Mabli. Rosswell again parked in a farmer's field a short way north of the house to avoid suspicion. People rarely notice a truck parked in a field.
After analyzing the map, Rosswell and Ollie decided that Jill Mabli's abode, a Georgian style house on the north side of River Heights Villa, offered a more direct route to the cave where they'd found Mary Donna Helperen's body. If they'd gone into Karyn Byler's house on the south side, it would've required a trip through Nathaniel's lair to reach the cave on the north side.
Now, from the safety of the woods, Rosswell, binoculars to his face, and Ollie, hand shielding his eyes, studied the huge house that was Jill's home. Sundown approached, slowly melting long shadows into night. Rosswell could smell the Mississippi River, its fishy odor pervading the bottomlands between the cliffs and the water.
How many slaves had fled across that water to gain freedom? Rosswell would never know, although he was thankful that he didn't have to choose between crossing the river in a leaky boat at night in freezing weather and liberty. Wasn't that why the government had sent him to war? To protect our liberty? Yes. Rosswell hoped.
He handed his gun to Ollie. "Double-check to make sure that thing's loaded and ready to go." Ollie checked the .38 while Rosswell inspected the front of the house. "I wonder if Jill's got any yapping dogs or squawking parrots or burglar alarms or whatever."
"One way to find out."
"Wait here." Rosswell strolled as casually as he could with a broken toe to the main door. A man walking in an easy manner rarely draws attention to himself, although the likelihood that anyone would see him from the highway ranked close to zero. Traffic was sparse. And who notices someone going in a house on the side of the road when you're zipping along a highway in a car? Not many people, that's who. In addition, there were no other residences in sight on either side of the road. Rosswell figured he was snug as a bed bug in a bunk.
A worn brass doorknocker in the shape of a woman's hand, complete with veins and long fingernails, hung from the massive front door. The hand held a globe about the size of a golf ball that rapped on a metal plate imbedded in the door. Rosswell stared at the thing, wiping his hands on his pants. He licked his lips. Then he grasped the hand and rapped repeatedly as hard as he could. If it wasn't his imagination, Rosswell heard the sound of his knocks reverberating inside the house, like the old movies where the traveler stops for the night at a place where he pounds on the door of a house full of demons.
Rosswell hated surprises. If anyone was home at Jill's house, he wanted to know it right away. Especially if they were demons.
There was no noise from inside. If there was a dog in the house, the mutt either didn't care, or was asleep or deaf. Rosswell opted for no mutt in the house. And no squawking parrot, either. He stepped off the small front porch and stood under one of the windows. He jiggled the windows one by one until he found one that wasn't locked and raised it from the outside a couple of inches. Nothing. No reaction from inside. No alarms. Regaining the porch, he turned the knob of the front door. Unlocked. The door eased open. Nothing. Not even a squeak. He slammed the door. Nothing. Again, no burglar alarm, no noisy animals. Jill was a trusting soul, especially after Ollie paid her some of Rosswell's money.
Rosswell signaled Ollie who ran to his side. Rosswell once more opened the door. When they were well into the house, they clicked on the flashlights even though full dark was still a few minutes away. The place smelled of Pine-Sol. The wood floors reflected the light from the flashlights. All the furniture was old although nothing was tattered. Rosswell surmised that Jill had bought chairs, tables, benches, cabinets, whatever, from country auctions or second-hand shops. Nothing in the place could be classified as a valuable antique. No dust anywhere. Nothing out of place.
Rosswell motioned Ollie to join him. "Congratulations." Rosswell offered his hand. "We should be proud of ourselves. How many felonies have we committed this week?"
Ollie wasn't able to squeak due to the gurgling in his throat. If he shared Rosswell's pang of conscience, the gurgling arose from fear and anxiety. Then Ollie swallowed loudly. "I hear that the accommodations at the Sainte Genevieve County cooler aren't up to snuff."
They stood in the main hallway, assessing the layout.
Ollie said, "This house is built a lot like The Four Bee."
"There weren't a lot of architects in Sainte Gen before the Civil War. Most houses built then have a similar floor plan."
"Did the assessor tell you that?"
Rosswell shrugged. "Informed guess."
"Then let's try the parlor."
Inside Jill's parlor loomed a bookcase similar to Mrs. Bolzoni's. Ollie opened it, finding a passageway. Except this one didn't feature a brick wall down the way a few feet that stopped progress as they'd discovered at The Four Bee. The beams of the flashlights disappeared into the gloom of a tunnel that appeared to go on forever.
"Great," Rosswell said. "My claustrophobia tells me to run out into an open field but all I see ahead is black ink growing blacker."
Ollie held his flashlight above his head, aiming it down the length of the passageway. "A flood of light dispels the dryness of the darkest night."
"Nice." Rosswell smiled. "Who said that?"
"I did. Didn't you hear me?"
Rosswell gifted Ollie with the courthouse stare, the one he gave miscreants right before he sent them to the penitentiary, although he doubted the research assistant could see the stare in the dark.
Rosswell smelled something.
"Ollie, follow me." Rosswell reversed his track and walked about fifteen feet toward the parlor, then stopped. The smell disappeared. He walked backward, Ollie following.
"Let me guess. Musical chairs?"
"I smell something. It's an odor of water. Dampness. As in a cave." He shined his light on the floor. "It's slanting up. We're headed into the bluff below Nathaniel's house. It's underground from here on."
"Gotcha. Underground. As are all tunnels. We're getting close."
"Silent running."
Ollie nodded.
That was when the wall blocking their path appeared in the flashlight beams. Rosswell felt the barrier. "An obstruction after all," he whispered to Ollie. "It's wood. Can't tell what kind but it must be really old."
Ollie said in a low voice, "We need a saw. And not a power saw."
"Hammer and chisel, too. Something we can use to break through."
Rosswell continued examining the wall until he discovered a hole. "Turn off your flashlight. We don't want anyone on the other side seeing our high beams."
With both lights extinguished, Rosswell's old friend claustrophobia decided to visit. Bands of fear squeezed his chest, cutting off his air. He ordered himself to breathe slowly and not panic. It was only darkness. Nothing would hurt him. Except maybe Ollie, but he seemed calm at the moment. They must've gone further underground now since the temperature had gone down and the air tasted stale. Claustrophobia had an answer for that one. Rosswell began sweating and realized he couldn't breathe. Worse, he would get a chill because he was soaking wet. Trying to look on the bright side of things in the middle of the pitch-dark hellhole, he comforted himself with the thought that he had only one broken toe.
After a few moments of adjusting to the total darkness, Rosswell placed his eye against the hole. "I think the passageway keeps going. Maybe we're at the property line. That's why there's a wall here."
"How can you see anything in the dark?"
"There's?something. A glow or something. Something."
"Rosswell, you okay?"
"Sure. Wonderful. I always sweat when it's sixty degrees."
"We need the handsaw and hammer from your truck."
"You'll be faster. I need to stay here until I center."
"Center? You think you're the center of the universe?"
"It's a replacement for the clic
h?, chill out. Besides, my toe is killing me."
And if he couldn't center, Rosswell thought Ollie might return and find him a corpse.
