Authors: Donna Andrews
“Tunnel door needs opening before your cousin can go in,” one of the knitters said in an undertone. “We were going to haul it up while everyone was applauding the polka players, but there were too many students still around.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “The play will have a lot of noisy parts.”
Spike looked up hopefully when I stepped into his pen, then sighed and went back to sleep when he saw that I wasn’t bringing him one of his playmates.
In the crawl space under the bandstand, Horace was crouching by the closed trapdoor. With his back to it, actually, and his nose buried deep in the case in which he kept his crime scene tools and supplies.
“Horace?”
“I need to check my kit,” he said. “It’d be pretty stupid if I got over there and didn’t have some key piece of equipment, wouldn’t it?”
“You could come back for it,” I said. “Or send for it.”
“Time’s critical right now,” he said. “So I’ll just check my kit before I go.”
Checking his kit seemed to be a rather stressful task. His hands were shaking slightly, and sweat had broken out on his forehead.
“Horace, have you been through the tunnel before?”
“No!” he snapped. “I haven’t had any need to go there. If you ask me, entirely too many people are traipsing back and forth through that tunnel. Maybe it’s traffic in the tunnel that’s causing all the cave-ins.”
“Horace, it’s okay,” I said. “No one’s been hurt in any of the cave-ins, and we haven’t had any for a long, long time.”
“Overdue for one, then,” he said. He was hunched over slightly, clutching his kit with both hands. “And what if we have another earthquake? Remember what happened last time when—”
“Horace, we’re back,” Rose Noire said. She and Michael had just walked in carrying what looked like a moth-eaten bearskin rug. “Put this on and you’ll feel better.”
Horace blinked slightly, then put down his kit and grabbed the fur mound. He shook it out, revealing his beloved gorilla suit. There had been a time when Horace could barely have said two words to another human being when not wearing the suit, which meant that for years he’d pretended to think every single social occasion he went to was a costume party, so he could go as his big ape alter ego. Lately we’d seen a lot less of the suit—he’d worn it on Halloween and Mardi Gras, and occasionally, after a very long hard day at work, he’d put it on to watch TV at home. Ever since he’d begun his new career as a crime scene technician, Horace had blossomed.
But clearly he was more than a little spooked at the idea of having to crawl through the tunnel. So if the suit helped him deal with it, so be it.
He was putting it on now, and his body language was changing. His shoulders weren’t so hunched, and the hands pulling the zipper weren’t shaking.
“Excellent!” Michael said. “Now put this around your neck—under the suit.”
He handed Horace what looked like a leather necklace with an incongruously modern pendant on it.
“What is it?” I asked.
“GPS tracking device,” Michael said. “One of Rob’s employees gave him a few of them to use for tunnel trips. In the unlikely event of a cave-in, this will let your rescuers pinpoint your location and get you out in minutes.”
I was about to point out that we’d tested the GPS devices during the first few weeks we’d been using the tunnel and found they didn’t work underground. And that the Shiffleys had carefully surveyed the tunnel’s course, above- and belowground, and could easily pinpoint the location of a cave-in from that.
But Horace was clutching the GPS device in one furry paw and stroking it with the other, like a lucky amulet. Clearly Michael intended the GPS device for reassurance, not practical use. I took a deep breath and said nothing.
“And hold your cell phone in your hand,” Rose Noire added. “That way you can keep us posted on your progress.”
Only if Horace’s cell phone provider had figured out a way to send a signal underground. But again, I bit my tongue.
“It’s hard to hold it in my paws.” Behind the impassive gorilla mask, Horace’s muffled voice was anxious. “What if I drop it?”
Michael and Rose Noire looked at each other.
“I suppose you could keep it in your…” Rose Noire trailed off. Horace’s pockets were now rendered largely inaccessible by the furry costume.
“Here, let’s use this,” I said. I grabbed up a roll of duct tape and pulled off a strip. “You can attach the cell phone to your hand and have it instantly accessible without any danger of losing it.”
We managed to split the duct tape into narrower strips and secure the phone without covering up any of the buttons. Then, at Horace’s request, we taped a pen to the other paw, since his furry gorilla fingers made it difficult to dial anything on the phone. And we topped his outfit off with a construction helmet that had a small LED light attached to the front.
“I think you’re ready,” Michael said.
Horace nodded. Rose Noire went out into the tent to keep watch. Michael and I waited until the battle noise from above reached a crescendo, then hauled up the trap door.
Horace waddled over to the opening, started down, and froze.
“Oh, my,” he said softly.
“Horace?” I couldn’t see his face, but I’d be willing to bet it had turned bone white.
“Just getting my … um…”
“Would you like one of us to lead the way?” Michael asked.
“Um … yeah,” Horace said. He sounded eager and grateful.
Michael and I looked at each other.
“I’ll go if you like,” he said.
“You need to be here for your students,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
“Take one of the helmets,” Michael said.
I put the helmet on and turned on the lamp. Then I stuffed my notebook into my pocket, made sure my own cell phone was in the other, took a deep breath, and began climbing down the ladder.
It looked light, but it was actually a fairly sturdy ladder that one of Randall’s carpenter cousins had made to replace the rickety original ladder. He checked it out nearly every day, and made any necessary repairs as soon as there was enough noise to cover the sound of his working. The ladder only went down twenty-five feet or so. Why did it seem so much farther? By the time I reached the bottom of the ladder, the open trapdoor seemed at least a mile away.
I heard a soft squelching sound as my shoes hit the mud at the bottom of the ladder.
“I really hate this,” I muttered.
“What was that?” Michael called from the top of the ladder.
“Remind Horace to wait until I send the cart back,” I said, loud enough for him to hear. “In fact, keep him up there and send him down when you see the cart again.”
“Will do!”
“Hate it, hate it, hate it,” I added under my breath.
There was barely enough space for me to maneuver there at the bottom of the shaft and the mouth of the tunnel. A pulley was attached to the wooden wall to the left side of the tunnel mouth, about a foot above the floor of the tunnel, with a heavy rope threaded through it. The two ends of the rope disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel.
Randall’s cousin checked out the tunnel every few days, too, I reminded myself. Tested all the boards and investigated the cause of any dirt sifting down. Why did that seem so reassuring when I was on the surface and so hollow down here?
I squatted down so I could grab one of the ropes and began hauling it, hand over hand, until the cart finally appeared. It was actually a small steel mesh garden cart, about two feet wide and four long. I’d removed the sides and the front handle and welded sturdy rings onto the front and back of the frame. With a rope threaded through the pulley and tied to the front and back rings, you could pull the cart back and forth from either end, or even haul yourself along by lying on the cart and pulling the rope.
I made sure my helmet was fastened on securely, lay down on my stomach on the cart, and grabbed the rope.
“Hate it,” I muttered one more time. Then I began hauling myself into the tunnel.
Chapter 13
There was a trick to pulling yourself along without gouging your hands on the front corner of the cart. Rob had probably become expert. I’d only done this once before and hadn’t planned on ever doing it again. I’d have to be careful.
Instinct told me to pull as hard and fast as I could, to get through the tunnel as quickly as possible. But if I did that, in addition to the danger to my hands, I’d risk becoming exhausted midway. I definitely did not want to have to rest and catch my breath down there in the tunnel. So I reminded myself to pull slowly and steadily.
After what seemed like half a lifetime, the cart gently bumped to a stop at the end of the rope in an area where the tunnel became slightly taller and wider before narrowing again when it took off at a forty-five-degree angle from the first stretch. I had to crawl off the cart and onto its twin for the second half of the journey.
I wondered, not for the first time, why they hadn’t just dug a single tunnel. Was the jog deliberate? Or the result of a massive miscalculation? And if the builders had erred that badly on a simple compass reading—
Not something I wanted to think about while I was in the tunnel.
The second cart was, of course, at the courthouse end of the tunnel. Was I the only one who bothered to send the cart back for the next person? Once again I had to haul the rope hand over hand until the cart emerged from the tunnel into the junction area.
Waiting for the second cart to arrive was my least favorite part of the trip. For some reason, the extra foot or so of headroom at the junction only emphasized how very many tons of rock and dirt were looming over my head, waiting for just the right moment to fall down and crush me. And while the whole tunnel was damp and clammy, the junction was always the worst, with standing puddles in all but the driest weather.
Once the second steel mesh cart was ready for me, I turned around and sent the first cart back into the tunnel so it would be waiting for Horace when he climbed down. If waiting at the foot of the ladder for the cart to emerge unnerved me, I couldn’t imagine what it would do to Horace. More than a few would-be tunnel rats had lost their nerve and fled before the cart loomed out of the darkness. Our chances of getting Horace onto the cart were much higher if he found it waiting for him.
Then I flopped down on the second cart and began pulling myself along the second leg of my journey. Which, according to Rob, was actually the slightly shorter leg, though you couldn’t prove it by me. Several centuries appeared to drag by as I puffed and hauled, until finally I emerged in a small, stone-walled cell.
I rolled off the cart and onto my back, looking up at the stone ceiling, a spacious six feet above my head, and taking deep breaths until my heart slowed down a bit. Then I sat up and sent the cart back to wait for Horace.
That done, I lay back to savor being by myself for a few moments. No need to be encouraging for Horace or look brave in front of Michael or my brother.
And maybe before I had to go back through the tunnel, Chief Burke would decide to break up Mr. Throckmorton’s long siege.
Well, I could hope.
The stone cell was about eight feet square, with the tunnel entrance in one wall, a closed metal door with a barred window in the opposite wall, and a built-in stone bunk running the length of one of the remaining walls. An oversized gray metal supply cabinet occupied the fourth wall, and a dozen or so cardboard file boxes were stacked on either side of the tunnel entrance.
I stood up and tried the doorknob. Locked. But doubtless the cellar’s other occupants would open it eagerly as soon as I knocked. I reminded myself that it really had been a cell. Back in the days before the present police station and jail had been built, they’d kept prisoners in the courthouse basement.
I wondered if any of them had succeeded in escaping through the tunnel.
My heart had slowed and my breathing was back to normal by the time Horace popped out of the tunnel like a giant fur-clad missile. He propelled himself off the cart, ricocheted off the metal cabinet and then off the far wall before curling up in a fetal position, whimpering and hyperventilating.
I crawled over and patted him on the back.
“It’s okay,” I said. “You’re safe now. And if you like, you can stay here until the chief opens the blockade.”
Horace stopped whimpering.
“You think he might do that?” he whispered.
“Seems plausible,” I said. “Let’s get out of this tiny little room and into the main part of the basement.”
“Okay.” Horace bounded to his feet and looked around. I pointed to the door. He raced over and twisted the doorknob.
“It’s locked,” he said. I could hear a thin note of returning panic in his voice.
“You’ve got to give the secret signal,” I said. I joined him at the door and gave the familiar “shave and a haircut—two bits” knock.
“Who’s there?” Rob called.
“Open the damned door,” I said.
The door flew open and Horace and I stumbled out into the basement corridor. Normally I’d have found it a little cramped and claustrophobic, but it looked as spacious as a palace after the tunnel and the cramped little cell where the tunnel came out. The ceiling was a lofty seven and a half feet. The walls might be cold stone, but they were lined with so many file cabinets and boxes of files that hardly any of the stone was visible.
Sammy, Rob, and Mr. Throckmorton waited in a tense semicircle. Rob and Mr. Throckmorton were holding their hands up like prisoners, apparently to show that they were doing their best not to touch anything before Horace tested their hands. But their arms were drooping, as if they probably couldn’t keep it up much longer. Sammy and Rob, who were both over six feet, loomed over Mr. Throckmorton, who was about five feet four, skinny as a rail, and had been shortchanged at birth in both the shoulder and chin departments. I knew he’d been at school with Randall, which meant he was probably in his early forties, but he could have passed for any age from twenty-five to fifty. He was dressed in gray slacks, a white shirt, red suspenders, and a neatly knotted bow tie. I had a feeling that under normal circumstances he’d have been wearing a coat or at least a sports jacket, and that the slightly retro-looking suspenders made him feel less underdressed in his shirtsleeves. He peered at us through thick bifocals and squinted as if he might be overdue for new, more powerful lenses. He radiated a sort of precise, prickly formality, which probably accounted for my strange reluctance to think of him as “Phinny” instead of Mr. Throckmorton.