Chapter Eight
EDEN awoke to the horror of someone’s hand pressed firmly over her mouth. Her first impulse was to lash out, but a face and a warm breath were near her ear. “It’s me, and please don’t hurt me again,” came the unmistakable voice of Jared McBride. “I’m still bleeding from the last time. There are people downstairs. If I take my hand away, will you be quiet?”
Eyes wide, Eden nodded. It was too dark to see his face, but McBride’s tone of voice told her this wasn’t serious. She first thought, What is he up to now? Slowly, he moved his hand away from her mouth, as though he didn’t want to move. He was very close to her, leaning over her so that he was practically in bed with her. She rolled away from him and reached for the telephone by her bed, but Jared stopped her. Silently, he pointed to the cell phone in a case on his belt, letting her know it would be better to use that. He motioned to the door, gesturing that they should get out as soon as possible. As far as she could tell, he meant for her to leave the room as she was, which meant running off with this man who she didn’t trust while wearing only her nightgown. She was glad that she’d been in too much of a hurry to put her clothes away the night before when she’d dressed to meet Brad. Draped across the end of the bed were her jeans, a sweater, and a T-shirt. She stuck her feet into her running shoes as she grabbed her clothes, then tiptoed out of the room behind McBride.
Since Eden had seen or heard nothing and had only McBride’s word that anyone was in the house, Eden couldn’t feel very cautious. In fact, she felt nothing but annoyance. What time was it anyway? She was glad to see that last night she’d been too tired to remove her watch. The house was dark, but the watch had a little button on the side that she pushed, and it lit up the dial. Ten minutes until five A.M.
McBride was crouching down like a character in an Xbox game and moving stealthily along the chair rail. Eden gave a yawn, then a shiver. Her nightgown had been fine under the covers, but now she was getting cold. She hugged her clothes to her and thought about stopping to put them on.
“Are you sure—?” she began, but McBride cut her off. In an instant, he had grabbed her and put his hand over her mouth to keep her from talking. What she wanted to say was a very sarcastic “I see that you recovered well.” But she said nothing. Last night she’d seen that the wounds she’d given him were bleeding. And he’d held his arm that was still in a sling as though it hurt him very much. She’d felt so sorry for him that she’d been tempted to spoon-feed him again.
But right now, he had one arm around her waist and the other around her head with his hand over her mouth. So where was his sling? Why wasn’t he limping? If he was lying about his injuries, just as he’d lied about everything else, then he was probably lying about someone being in her house. She lifted her foot with the intention of slamming it down on his instep. Her plan was to run for the phone while he held his foot in pain. She figured she could punch the buttons for 911 before he could get to her.
But in the next moment she heard whispered voices from downstairs and became rigid with fear. McBride was still holding her, but Eden was no longer fighting him. He said one quiet word: “Cellar.”
She nodded, and he dropped his hand from her mouth. At the end of the wide corridor upstairs was a door to what looked like a closet. It was true that there were brooms and mops in there, but behind them was a little door that opened to reveal an old staircase that was so narrow it was dangerous. It had been the fate of the poor overworked servants in centuries past to have to use those stairs, rather than the wide stairs in the front of the house.
As Eden pushed aside the handles of half a dozen old mops and a vacuum cleaner that was probably in use in 1910, she felt anger run through her. McBride had searched her house enough that he knew about the stairs down to the kitchen, which led to the other staircase down into the old cellar. Even when she’d lived here before, the narrow stairs to the kitchen had not been used. And only Eden had used the cellar. Mrs. Farrington had been accidentally locked in the cellar when she was nine, so she’d refused to ever go down there again. She’d wanted to fill the thing up with sand. But it seemed that Snooping McBride knew where the cellar was.
There was no light in the narrow staircase, so Eden went first and felt her way along the wall. Behind her, she heard McBride readjust the mops and brooms, then carefully close the little door. Eden had to repress a yelp when her face ran into a thick cobweb, a cobweb that made her realize that if McBride had seen the old staircase, he hadn’t been down it. Gingerly, she felt each step before putting her foot on it. She didn’t know if the staircase had been restored or was still made of rotting wood, as it had been when she lived there.
At the bottom of the stairs, McBride touched her shoulder, letting her know that he wanted to go first into the kitchen. When she stepped back into the tiny space, of necessity his body pressed against hers. She held the clothes over her arm tightly between them. Cautiously, he opened the door. Eden was relieved that the hinges didn’t squeak.
McBride stepped out into the dark kitchen and looked around. For a moment he disappeared from sight, then he came back. Putting his finger to his lips, he motioned for her to follow him.
When Eden stepped into the kitchen, she gasped. Outside a security light shone through the curtainless windows and showed her that her clean, tidy kitchen had been ransacked. Doors and drawers were open, canisters of food had been overturned. Through the window in the kitchen door she could see what looked to be a flashlight moving about on the screened porch. To her right, through the dining room, she could see the glare of another flashlight, and she could hear things being moved. There were at least two of them, and they were quietly shifting things around. She heard what sounded to be a sofa cushion hitting the floor.
Why aren’t they afraid of waking me? she wondered. She glanced up at McBride to see that he was frowning so hard that the furrows between his eyebrows were an inch deep. He didn’t like what was going on, and she had an idea that if she weren’t with him he’d confront the people in her house. In a gun battle? she wondered.
He pointed to the door that led into the pantry. It was a small room between the dining room and the kitchen. Inside was a trapdoor in the floor that led down into the cellar. Rarely did people see that trapdoor, as it was usually covered with boxes of cans. But Eden hadn’t bought enough food to fill the kitchen cabinets, much less the pantry. As she reached for the ring that was flush with the floor, McBride caught her hand. She looked at him and he shook his head no.
When he reached for a bottle of cooking oil, Eden nodded and took it from him. Feeling her way along the dark floor, she felt for the rusty old hinges, then uncapped the oil and poured it on the tired old metal. Setting the bottle down, she turned to him and nodded, then he picked up the ring and lifted the door into the cellar. He wanted to go first, but Eden pushed him away. She knew the stairs better than he did. There were ten of them, and they had been replaced just before she left—which meant that they were now “only” twenty-plus years old.
Taking a deep breath, she started down the stairs, cautiously putting her foot down before she applied her full weight. They held. When she reached the bottom, she turned to McBride, who was right behind her. He’d lowered the door above their heads.
Eden felt along the damp walls of soft old bricks and tried not to shiver when she touched the dirty shelves. When she’d lived there she’d kept the cellar clean because she’d used it for what it had been built for: storing produce from the garden. She’d wrapped up green tomatoes, apples, potatoes, and carrots, and had kept them in the cellar for months. And even though one wall looked as though it had been rebuilt, the room was full of the nests of insects and rodents. Bath, she thought. When I get out of this I want a long, hot bath.
Finally, she found what she was looking for: candles and matches. Because of the dampness of the cellar, the matches were always kept in a tight metal box. Now she hoped that they’d kept dry for all these years. Holding her breath, she opened
the box, withdrew a little box of matches, pulled one out, then struck it. It burst into a very welcome flame, and Eden lit three fat white candles. By the time this was done, McBride had his cell phone open.
“I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t call your sheriff,” he whispered, looking at her in the candlelight. “I think my people should handle this one,” he said.
Eden started to say something but didn’t. Instead, she watched him. She had no way of knowing what was going on, but she knew that something was making him very angry. He wasn’t frightened, and didn’t seem to be looking for a way to get them out of the house, which she thought was odd. Instead, he was calling “his” people. All things considered, she decided that Jared McBride knew a great deal more about what was going on upstairs than he was telling her.
Just as she heard his phone ring on the other end, they heard footsteps above their heads. In an instant, he had closed his phone and Eden had extinguished the candles. She could see nothing in the darkness, but she felt McBride’s strong arm as he pushed her into a corner of the room while he stood at the foot of the stairs. She heard quiet noises from him, as though he’d bent and picked up something from the floor. She wondered what it was. Something he could use for a weapon if the men came down the stairs?
She heard footsteps over their heads, and when she heard voices she listened so hard her ears hurt, but all she heard was that one of them said something about a “jolly good time.” They’re English, she thought.
When the men moved away, Eden felt the full thrust of her fear. Who were these people? What did they want? Were they just more aggressive jewelry hunters? Twice while she’d lived with Mrs. Farrington they’d awakened on Saturday mornings to find people digging in the gardens, looking for those blasted jewels. Both times Mrs. Farrington had fired a shotgun over their heads, and they’d run away cursing her.
But why would they be here now? she wondered. What always triggered the jewel hunters was the publication of a new book that included the story of the stolen necklace. But there’d been no new book published recently. There was the Internet, though, and the Farrington story was always there for treasure seekers to find.
When she heard the unmistakable sound of the lock on the door overhead being latched, Eden drew in her breath sharply. They were locked inside the cellar!
She looked across the blackness and tried to see McBride. Why wasn’t he upset that they’d just been locked in a cellar? But she heard nothing from him. He was silent. Eden was sure that she heard laughter as the people upstairs moved away.
McBride said nothing until there was no sound from upstairs, then he opened his cell phone and pushed a few buttons. In the silence, Eden heard the ringing on the other end, but he put the phone to his ear so she couldn’t hear what was said and by whom. “Come get us,” he said into the phone. “Now. We’re in a room off the kitchen. Look on the floor for a door. We’re locked in.”
He held the phone open so she could use the light from it to relight the candles, and when they were lit, she looked at him. He didn’t seem as angry as he had been, but maybe he was good at concealing it. “Turn ’round,” she said to him, and he turned to face the wall while Eden pulled on her jeans, T-shirt, and sweater. She wished she had socks, as her feet were cold.
“Someone should be here in about an hour,” he said softly, his back to her, then he held out his phone. “You could call someone else if you want. The sheriff or Granville.”
As she dressed, Eden thought about what he was saying. No, she didn’t want to call either of them. For all that she’d known him for years, the sheriff had a big mouth, and that deputy of his, Clint, would be sure to tell everyone in town what had happened. “Found her locked inside with that guy she beat up,” she could hear Clint saying. “If you ask me, there’s somethin’ goin’ on with those two.” No, Eden didn’t want Brad to hear that.
“Okay,” she said, “you can turn around.”
Leaning against the wall, his long legs out before him, he crossed his arms over his chest. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
“I’m part of a spy ring, remember? I have information to give to the enemy, and they came to get it. By the way, who is the enemy now? It’s not still Russia, is it?”
McBride seemed unperturbed by her sarcasm. He moved away from the wall and picked up a big quart jar full of pickled beets.
“I wouldn’t eat them if I were you. They’re over twenty years old, and they’ll probably explode if you open them.”
“Do you mean that you canned them?”
“Not exactly rocket science.”
He said nothing, just kept looking at the jar in wonder. “I never met a woman who could make pickles. That is what they are, aren’t they?”
Eden squinted at him. “Why do I get the impression that you’re glad that the two of us are locked in here together? I can’t imagine that you did it for some sex-thing, so what is it that you want?”
He kept looking at the jar of beets, but Eden could see a tiny smile play at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t know who those men up there are. I heard them and I got you out. I knew about the cellar, but I didn’t know about that skinny staircase. That thing is a danger! I almost got stuck twice.”
She didn’t stop staring at him or lose her train of thought. He was just too relaxed about all this for her taste. “What do you want? And how can I believe that you didn’t send those men into the house?” She had the satisfaction of seeing him blink rapidly three times.
“I truly believe that the information I want is inside your head, not hidden away inside your house, so why should I send ransackers?”
“Does that mean that you’ve already been through every inch of my house and know there’s nothing to find?”
“More or less,” he said, putting the jar back on the shelf and giving her a crooked grin. “But I didn’t get to see all that I wanted to because I was attacked by a wildcat.”
“I see that you recovered well enough. Where’s your sling?”
He didn’t answer but went to the side wall and pulled four boxes out onto the floor. They were boxes full of big canning jars, and when stacked on top of one another, they made uncomfortable seats. He took one and motioned to Eden to take the other. After she’d moved her two boxes to the opposite wall, far away from him, she sat down.
“I don’t know any spy and I have no idea why your spy would be interested in me,” she said in the tone of a person who knew that a long night was coming. She wasn’t sure if he’d set this up or not, but she had her suspicions. It wouldn’t surprise her to be told that help would arrive only after she’d told him what he wanted to know—which she’d do in an instant if she only knew what it was. “Did you check out whether or not he was writing a book?”
“We’re looking into it now. Are you warm enough?” He listened for a moment but could hear nothing.
“It’s silent down here,” Eden said. “You can’t hear anything except what’s going on on top of you. If I was going to be down here for more than fifteen minutes I had to get someone to watch my daughter. I wouldn’t be able to hear her clearly, even if she was just in the dining room. Maybe you should call again. Are you sure they’re sending someone for us?”
He looked at his watch. “It’s only been ten minutes. You have somewhere you need to be?”
“Since you’ve listened in on my every conversation, you know that I’m meeting Brad at ten.”
“Brad? The lawyer? Braddon Granville? Who names their kid Braddon?”
“I have no intention of explaining Arundel baby-naming policies to you. If we make chitchat you’re never going to find out what you want to know. If you have questions to ask me, then do it.”
“I would if I knew where to start. I was hoping that if I showed you Applegate’s photo you’d say, ‘Oh, that’s so and so,’ and the mystery would be solved. Are you sure you’ve never seen him before?”
“As I told you, I don’t remember if I have seen him. I co
uld have met him, yes, but then I’m an editor, so I meet thousands of people. When I go to writers’ conferences I meet hundreds of people—quickly. He could have been in one of those three-minute sessions where an author presents his ideas to me. I really don’t remember him.”
Jared looked at his shoe tips for a moment. “What you’re saying makes sense, and maybe that’s all this is about. Maybe the whole mystery is that Applegate was about to turn in a manuscript that told everything about everybody. You would have remembered a manuscript about a spy, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, and I would have turned it over to a nonfiction editor.”
“Maybe you haven’t come across the book yet.” There was hope in Jared’s voice.
“Maybe you should contact my publishing house and—” She broke off at a loud noise that came from upstairs.
Jared was on his feet in an instant, looking up at the ceiling of the cellar. In the next moment, they heard another noise, then silence.
Eden was standing beside him. “I hope they aren’t destroying the house, and I really hope they didn’t knock over the big secretary in the hall.”
“Those were shots,” he said, frowning. He ran up the stairs and tried the door. Locked. For a moment he looked as though he was studying the door, then he went back down. He opened his cell phone again and made another call. This time Eden realized that he was talking to a message machine. Again, he was calm, just saying that they were ready to get out.
“Nobody home?” she said, sitting back down. “That gives me great confidence in the FBI. Aren’t they supposed to always be on the alert? How come you don’t have a firearm on you?”
“I figured you’d find it and use it on me,” Jared said absently. He seemed to be thinking hard about something. “Is there any reason other than whatever the spy wanted you for that people would be ransacking your house?”
First Impressions Page 11