River Mourn

by Bill Hopkins

Chapter 27

  Saturday Night, continued

  Ollie retreated from the dark, heading out of the tunnel for the light. Rosswell peered again through the hole in the wooden barrier. If there was anything on the other side of the wall, it was bathed in darkness. He cupped his hand behind an ear, although with his superb hearing, he doubted it was necessary. No sound whatsoever. Rosswell chanced clicking on his flashlight again. Where the wall blocking their path met the sides of the passageway, the wood had grown soft over the decades. There were no metal braces where the walls joined, only wooden pegs. The cave's dampness might have softened the juncture after more than a hundred years.

  Rosswell pushed gently, avoiding a loud crash and bang that would bring Nathaniel or Turk or some other evil minion running to see what the clatter was. A soft cracking sound from the wood told him something had given way. He pushed harder and the wall across the passageway creaked when it separated from the main wall.

  The wall wasn't built as a barrier. It was a marker. No need to make it safe from trespassers way back then. Rosswell opined that all the early settlers who owned houses with secret passageways belonged to the same social club, Houses With Hideaways.

  Rosswell paused again to listen but could hear nothing from the direction of Jill's parlor and he could hear nothing on the other side of the crumbling blockade. Should he wait for Ollie? His research assistant wouldn't be gone long. Despite all his irritating behaviors, Rosswell counted Ollie's efficiency and loyalty as top rung characteristics.

  Rosswell needed to see what was on the other side of the wall. His impatience got the better of him. What would it hurt if he went in a little way past the wall without Ollie? He instantly thought about getting bitten by a rabid bat. Or getting captured by Nathaniel or Turk. Or falling down a fifty-foot deep hole and breaking his back, not being killed instantly, but screaming for half an hour before he died.

  He pushed the obstruction forward a couple of feet without any major collapse, allowing him to squeeze through. Once he emerged on the other side, he stopped and again listened. Now there was a soft wind blowing. It smelled fresh. He was getting closer to the cave.

  Rosswell tried to see without the flashlight. Darkness piled on darkness. Blacker than black. He could stand there the rest of the night thinking up similes. Or metaphors.

  It's quiet as a?well?tomb. It doesn't smell like a tomb. That's a good thing.

  Turning on his flashlight for a few seconds, Rosswell determined that the passageway on the other side of the barrier-he now thought of it as Nathaniel's side-continued straight. He cut off the light and pushed himself forward, ignoring his mind and body, which were both pleading with him to return to the sunshine.

  A few feet more, his right foot stepped into a hole. At least it felt like a hole. His center of gravity shifted and he threw his hands forward, trying to stop his fall, putting his weight on his left foot, which caused him to yelp when his broken toe protested. The pain shot up his left leg, giving his heart a jolt. His face smacking the dusty floor of the passageway with a wet-sounding thud caused a sneezing fit. A metal thump came from somewhere. Blood flowed from his nose into his mouth. The bright lights dancing in front of his eyes caused him to wonder if something had ripped the roof off the tunnel, revealing the sky, complete with stars promenading.

  Rosswell's right foot felt restricted, as if something had clamped its toothless jaws around his ankle. He searched for his flashlight. He patted himself down twice without success. Trying not to move too fast or too far since he didn't know if there were any other traps around, he patted on the floor around him, hoping to feel the flashlight beneath his hands. The thing couldn't be found. It could be two feet from him, but he had no way of seeing it.

  Centering time arrived. It hadn't worked before but it really needed to work this time to avoid panic. Rosswell drew in deep breaths. His eyes were wide open. He considered it a major miracle that he hadn't lost his eyeglasses, yet the darkness was as profound as if he'd been dropped to the bottom of a deep well. He was functionally blind.

  A ghostly body part floated before his face. The outline of his hand. As they'd taught him in the military, it was literally all in his head. What he actually saw was a sensor ghost, an image generated by his brain as it received signals from his body. He hadn't really seen his hand. His brain willed him to see it.

  Rosswell centered himself again before he could raise the courage to feel for his right foot. It wasn't a bear trap or else its teeth would be biting him. He ran his hands down his leg until he reached his right ankle.

  A cold metallic object surrounded his foot, its wide lip encircling his ankle, its rounded body ending in a flat circular bottom. Tugging at it proved futile. His foot was stuck. Ollie might have to fetch a blowtorch and cut it off.

  He felt of it again. The realization of what it was confounded him. His right foot was stuck in an old spittoon.

  Decades ago, the last shift of workmen who'd finished up the wall had forgotten to remove the brass object. Fortunately, over the last century or so, it had dried out. He told himself he could still smell the nasty crap. But it was dry crap. For that, he was thankful.

  Where was Ollie? He should've returned long ago. Maybe Rosswell should turn around and go look. Or he could forget the research assistant and clump up Nathaniel's side of the tunnel as quietly as possible. Perhaps if anyone heard him, they'd assume he was a ghost. He should be so lucky.

  After standing and stretching out his arms, he groped toward what he hoped was the way to the cave under Nathaniel's house. After what he figured was five minutes of walking, he discovered a small dot of light. The dot didn't move, even though he blinked several times. An artifact dreamed up by tired eyeballs? He closed his eyes for a few seconds and when he opened them, the dot still shined. Yes. It was real.

  A hole where he could peer into Nathaniel's house? Rosswell dragged his right foot, trying to keep the spittoon from making a racket. The stupid contraption had a lead-weighted bottom. Then he inched his left foot forward, trying to keep from moaning about the pain in the broken toe. Several times he fell against a wall of the passageway to rest. His heart had picked up a Sousa march and was goose-stepping down the main street of town.

  A thirst arose fierce enough to scald his throat. The Sahara had no claim to fame compared to his throat. Murder seemed a nifty idea if he'd gain a glass of water. And one of Ollie's cinnamon rolls. That would make killing worthwhile.

  Rosswell felt for his pistol. Not there. He'd left it in the truck. He hoped Ollie found it and brought it along with?whatever?what was he supposed to bring?

  Ollie went to get a bottle of booze. We'll have picnic in here. In the dark. Fried chicken and booze. What a great picnic.

  After an eon of struggle-the floor still angled upward-Rosswell reached the dot of light.

  Calmness. That's what he needed to quiet the ragged breathing. After he'd centered himself and lowered the volume of his wheezing, he leaned up to the illuminated hole and peered in. The room he saw was lit to the approximate strength of the noonday sun. His view, although restricted, was clear.

  Tina lay on a bed. Someone was delivering her baby. His baby.