by A J Rivers
“Because that's what you believe she did,” I say.
“It's what she did,” Rachel insists. “So, there's no reason to believe anything else. She left and started another life because she was too humiliated to face the community she attempted to deceive. The only thing anybody was ever able to say is that my father went to the same hotel where she was last seen. That was a very popular hotel at the time. A lot of people stayed there. He had a standing reservation. He was on a completely different floor from the one where she was staying. Nobody saw them together. Nobody saw them arrive together or leave together. Nobody can even prove he was there that night. Just that he always had a reservation.”
“And can you prove he was somewhere else?” I ask.
“Yes,” she nods. “As I told countless media outlets twenty years ago when any of this mattered, he was at a fundraiser. I have pictures of him with some of the other donors. Ironically enough, they are some of my favorite pictures of him. The light inside hadn't completely died yet.”
“But you helped him get that light back, didn't you, Rachel?"
“You say that as if there's something wrong with it," she says. “I worked hard for my father. From the time I was a little girl, I knew he was going to be one of the most important men in the world. When that woman tried to tear him down, I made sure he got the revival he deserved. He was vindicated, and everyone got to see what an incredible man he was.”
"What about Lilith?" I ask.
She visibly retracts in response to the name.
“What about her?” she asks.
“What was your relationship with your stepmother?”
“I don't even like to refer to her that way. She was a useless person who was never good for my father. Nothing ever satisfied her. She never had enough. Enough money. And things. Enough attention. It was just never enough. Then when Lindsey Granger came along, Lilith jumped on the opportunity to play the withering scorned wife in front of my father and lapped up the attention for being strong and standing by him in public.”
"So, she believed it," I note.
"Yes. You know, there was a time when I thought she might be responsible for Lindsey’s disappearance. Before I realized what actually happened. There were a few newspapers that ran editorials wondering if dear Lilith might have offed her." Rachel crosses her arms over her chest and cocks her hip to the side. "I almost wish she had. Then I wouldn't ever have to deal with either of them again."
"Do you know where Lilith is?"
"No," she answers quickly. "And I don't care. The instant my father died, she was no longer related to me."
"What happened to the inheritance?" I ask.
"What business is that of yours?" she asks. "Not that any of this is."
"It's just a question. It's public knowledge your father left you the bulk of his estate."
"Yes," Rachel nods. "Because he knew the type of woman Lilith actually was."
"But that still left a considerable amount of money for her."
"More than she deserved," she confirms.
I nod. "How did your father die, Rachel?"
Her face goes dark, and her arms slide down her body to hang in fists at her sides.
"Get out. How dare you come into my office and try to pry into the most painful moment of my life? Get out of my office, and don't let me catch you digging into my private matters anymore. Leave me and my father's memory alone. Don't call again. Either of you."
"Have a good evening, Rachel," I say.
I start toward the door, unswayed by her threats.
My phone is in my hand before I get to the car. Rachel said not to call again. Either of us.
I don't even have to ask what that means. I call Lydia. There's no answer. That's odd, so I hang up and call again. And again, it rings several times before going to voicemail. That's very strange. Every time I've seen Lydia, she has been obsessive about her phone. She checks it every few seconds, gripping it hard at her side or in her lap if she isn't on it.
I've never seen her phone ring and have her ignore it. This is especially true if she thinks that she's on the path of something.
Of course, it's entirely possible she's just ignoring me. She might know I would eventually find out that she called Rachel and doesn't want to hear me tell her to back off anymore. At least, not until she has something she thinks will compel me to bring her into the investigation.
I don't have the time or the patience to worry too much about what Lydia is doing. Instead, I call the guys.
"It’ll be a couple of hours before I get back to the hotel," I tell Dean. "Sam has his phone off, so if you talk to him, will you let him know?"
"Don't go to the hotel. Meet us at Xavier's house," Dean tells me. "We called the precinct and left a message for Sam, so he'll know when he gets done with the detective."
"What's going on?" I ask.
"We might have found something interesting."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Six months after death…
She would be unrecognizable now. If anyone even knew she was there and came to find her, no one would know it was her.
All that was left that might link her to what someone remembered was her decaying clothing and some wisps of hair. Perhaps the ring that once meant so much. He didn't know she was still wearing it. Maybe if he had, he would have taken it back. Maybe if he had, she wouldn't be here.
Her beauty was gone. From the time she was very young, she was told not to rely on her looks. One day they would be gone. But no one ever thought it would be like this.
The cold weather was gone now. Her grave had gone through two seasons. Chilly fall rain became ice around her. For a short time, it seemed it might hold tight to her. That it might keep her as she was. But that couldn't last forever. The spring came. It always would.
With the warmth came the thaw. And more people. More voices. Everywhere around her, there were more people, but nobody knew. They walked right over her. Lay beside her. Laughed and shouted. Worked and bled.
But not one ever knew she was there. Not one stopped to notice her.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“So, we went to City Hall, and they weren't a lot of help”, Dean explains. “Turns out, all the property records from the town dated from a certain year backward are all kept in deep storage. Essentially it would take weeks to be able to find a deed or any other documents having to do with the temple.”
“Okay,” I say. “So, did you ask for them to find it for you?”
“We did,” he says. “But we didn't stop there. I couldn't imagine you would want to wait weeks for people to find this information for you, so we had an idea. We might not be able to find the ownership information right at this moment, but we can find out more about the building.”
“How?” I ask.
“The library,” Xavier cuts in. “That’s where all the old memories of town are held. Where they put them, so people won’t forget.”
“There are reference books in the library for all the historical buildings throughout town. The old hotel. The original post office. Some of the old houses. All the information,” Dean translates. “When they were built, who originally lived in them or used them. And blueprints.”
“Blueprints?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Well, not necessarily blueprints,” he acknowledges. “But plans. Drawings of the layout of the buildings. Some of them from the original plans. Of course, some of these buildings have been modified many times over since they were originally built, but it's the basic structure. The original concept of what each building was.”
“Did you find the temple?” I ask.
Xavier nods. “We remembered everything.”
I walk with the two of them into a large formal dining room where a massive table is spread with large photocopies. Standing over them, I see they are several sets of plans for the building. Alongside them are old maps of the city.
“What am I looking at?” I ask Dean.
“You proba
bly already guessed it, but the temple was originally a church. Built more than two-hundred years ago as one of the first buildings in this area. Before the concept of the town of Harlan even existed. The church was much smaller then, but the sanctuary is actually original. So are a couple of the rooms. Essentially, the center of the building is the original church. Over the years, different groups expanded it. Then when The Order of Prometheus took over, they expanded even further. But there was one section they didn't modify.”
“What section?” I ask.
Xavier points to one of the images. “The basement.”
“Do you notice something odd about it?” Dean asks.
I'm staring at it, trying to figure out what he's pointing out to me when Sam comes into the room. He leans down and kisses my cheek.
“Hey, sweetie,” I smile.
“What are we looking at?” he asks, poring over the map.
“I'm not sure,” I tell him. “They think they might have found something about the temple. But I'm not catching on to it.”
“Look,” Dean says. “Look at the original pictures and then this one.”
I look at the buildings, my eyes going back and forth. There's something but can't put my finger on it.
Sam suddenly leans down closer, turning one of the pictures so that he can look at it at a better angle.
“They're not in the same place,” he notes. “Is that just something wrong with the drawing?”
“No,” Xavier says. “They are, and they aren't. A basement in a basement. A door that isn't a door.”
“This is the original basement,” Dean says, outlining the area of the building with his finger on the original depiction of the church. “And this is the basement about a hundred and fifty years after the church was built. It's bigger and higher up in the building. not by much, but enough to keep the original one hidden.”
“Why would they want to do that?" I ask.
"What year was the basement modified? Sam asks.
"Nineteen twenty," Dean says.
Realization dawns on me.
"Oh, holy shit. It's a speakeasy."
“That would be correct,” Dean grins, his satisfaction at keeping me guessing clearly obvious on his face. “And if you will turn your attention to the maps of the city that my good buddy Xavier analyzed for me, you will notice some very strategic construction happening around the town at that time.”
Xavier steps up and starts pointing out buildings and their arrangement throughout the town. Using his fingertip, he draws lines between the various buildings and the temple, then each of them and the river.
“Tunnels,” Sam says. “There are rum-running tunnels.”
“Documented rum-running tunnels,” Dean adds, pulling out another piece of paper and showing me a scan from a book on the history of the area. “It doesn't mention the temple. Probably for obvious reasons. But it says that the bootlegging activity in this area was legendary. The proximity to the river and the woods made it easy to create and transport alcohol without anybody noticing. Now according to this, almost all of the buildings that contain those tunnels have been destroyed. The only tunnel that is recognized goes from the basement of the original hotel to a spot out by the river where there was a house. And that tunnel has been sealed.”
“But what if there are other ones?” I say. “Ones they don't talk about.”
“Exactly,” Dean says.
“A door that isn't a door,” Xavier says.
“A basement that isn't the basement,” I say.
“A place to hide and a place you can go where no one will know what you've done,” Sam says.
“I think the heart of the building showed itself to you,” I say.
“So, when are we going?” Sam asks.
None of us can wait for the morning. It's dark and cold, but we dress in layers, get flashlights, and head to the temple. If the guys are right, this explains how the members were able to get out without being spotted. Then how they were able to get back in and out again, even when the building was under surveillance. It changes everything.
There are no officers on duty as we approach the building. Now that we've been inside, we know better how to navigate it. The only problem is the heavy padlock on the door.
“What do we do about this?” Sam asks.
“We had a search warrant,” I tell him. “We were granted access.”
“Does it cover now?” Sam asks.
“I don't have the paper in front of me,” I admit.
“As long as we're on the same page,” he says.
“Dean?” I say.
He gives a single nod. “Let's go.”
He leads us around the side of the building and into the cellar he originally brought me into.
“Convenience,” I comment. “Can't get enough of it.”
“Alright,” Dean says. “We have to figure out how to access the original basement. Remember, it's not going to be easy to find. These doors were hidden. Even people who frequented the building probably didn't know what was going on right downstairs.”
“What happens if it's sealed?” I ask.
“What happens if it's not?” Xavier asks.
I reach over and let the back of my hand touch the back of his. He moves one finger around to squeeze mine. That's enough.
“Dean, you and Xavier go to one side. Sam and I are going to go to the other. Keep your flashlights on and your phones accessible. If you find anything, let us know. But be aware there might be people in this building that we don't know about,” I tell them.
We part ways, and Sam holds my hand tightly as we walk through the dark basement, searching for any indication of a passageway. We sweep our phone lights slowly back and forth, up the walls and into the hallway, looking for something—anything. But all we see are cobwebs and dust.
A few times, I think I catch the flash of movement, but it’s just a bug skittering away from the light. We scour every inch methodically, once, twice. But nothing. An hour in, I'm losing hope when I notice a piece of furniture up against the wall I hadn’t seen.
“What is that?” I ask. I keep looking at it, trying to figure out why it's there.
“It's an old desk,” Sam says. We walk toward it, and he shines his flashlight on it. “A really old desk.”
I walk up to the side of it and run my fingers down along the edge.
“It's attached to the wall,” I say. “Why would they attach a desk like this to the wall?”
Sam hands me his flashlight. “Hold this.”
He runs his hand over the roll-top portion of the desk, then along the edge. He goes back and does it again, pausing when he reaches one corner.
“Did you find anything?” I ask.
“Maybe,” he says. “I read a book once that told about a desk that had a hidden slot. If the pieces were arranged exactly right, it unlocked a latch. There's something loose here.”
I move to shine more light where he's looking. I can see a piece of wood that looks slightly different from the others.
“Look,” I point. “That dip of wood right there. It looks as if it's been worn down from being touched a lot.”
“Get the guys,” Sam says.
I set his flashlight down on the top of the desk and make my way back across the cellar. I'm using my phone as a flashlight, but if I can't find Dean and Xavier, so I call for them. Fortunately, I don't have to search far. They're only a few dozen yards away from us.
“Hey,” I tell them. “Sam thinks he's found something. Come on.”
We turn around, but by the time we get back to the desk, Sam isn't there.
“Where is he?” Xavier asks.
“I don't know,” I say. “He was right here.”
“Move the desk,” Sam's voice comes from the dark.
It startles me, but I step up to the side of the desk and press on it. It shifts slightly, and both men come up behind me and take hold of the furniture, shifting it easily out of place.
It swings into the
rest of the room, revealing a small gap in the stone. I shine my flashlight into it and see four steps leading down. Sam's face is at the bottom.
“Found it,” he says.
Dean lets out a celebratory laugh, and we start down the steps, but I notice Xavier isn't following.
"Should we leave a note?" he asks. "Just in case we get lost down there?"
"The only people who would find a note we left are the ones who would just as soon seal us in," Dean points out.
Xavier nods and gives a half-shrug, knowing this makes complete sense, and steps forward without hesitation. I go down first, followed by Xavier. Dean stays at the top to swing the desk back into place. As soon as the door closes, inky, almost tangible blackness presses in around us. It absorbs the light from our phones and flashlights so we can see only inches around us.
Pitch black.
"Well, isn't this just scary as all get out," Dean mutters.
"Thank you for the slogan for our journey," I reply.
"Where do we go?" Sam asks.
"There's only one direction," I say, nodding straight ahead. "Let's find out who was helping the lost flock drown their sorrows in demon rum."
Chapter Thirty
The tunnel is dark and dingy. The stone walls radiate the cold back to us, so I shiver despite the layers I packed on. As we move down the stairs, a creepy feeling crawls up and down my spine. It almost feels like there are other people in here with us, even though I can't see them.
Occasionally, one of us flashes one of our lights behind us and to either side. We all feel the same thing. As if eyes are skittering along the wall after us. The tunnel itself is alive. It knows we're there, and it's tracking our every movement.
We've been walking for almost half an hour when we get to a dip in the wall. Sam stops and places his hand on it.
“I think this used to be an offshoot of the tunnel,” he says. “It's been bricked up; you can see the different patterns.” He shows us with his light.