She shined the flashlight around from corner to corner and saw an additional wall that must house a room in one corner. Maybe it held tackle for horses and farm supplies, she thought. Moving the light still farther to the left of that room, she noticed some objects that were out of place—red, modern-day gasoline cans, several piles of rags, and paper grocery sacks filled with something she couldn’t see. Those shouldn’t be there, she whispered to herself. So intent was Grace as she looked at the objects and tried to rationalize their presence with the dilapidated tools in the barn that she didn’t hear the soft footsteps that stole up behind her. Suddenly, she felt a sharp pain in her head and all went to blackness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
* * *
A surge of smoke washed over Grace in the darkness, and it felt like a layer of smothering waves. Not to panic. Calm. Don’t get flustered. Feel your way. But her blood rushed to her head, and she was covered in sweat, and her heart pounded. This is so hard. She covered her mouth to ward off the smoke.
She realized her eyes were closed. She opened them only to tiny slits. Still darkness. Am I dreaming? My eyes are open. Why can’t I see anything? She moved her hands out from a blanket that covered her. She was on a hard floor. But she wasn’t back in college. This wasn’t college. What? Where am I?
She moved her head a little and groaned. “Ahhhh. Oh, my head,” she moaned out loud. Her hands touched the light blanket and, exploring the blanket and floor, she realized she had a pillow under her head. But where? Where was she? The floor was hard, maybe dirt. The air was in-your-bones cold and the darkness was total. This is no fire dream. Her head pounded, and she thought if she moved it the pain would be worse. Gingerly, she placed her hand on her cheek and moved it cautiously around, over her ear, and toward the pain near the bobby pins Lettie had put in her hair. Grace felt a sticky, wet place and a clump of moist hair where the ache began. Ahhhh, she thought. I must have had an accident. I hit my head? She could feel her shoulders and neck ache too, infinitely painful as she moved each part of her upper body.
Pushing the blanket off carefully, Grace moved first her right leg and then her left. Something cold and hard touched her left ankle. She bent over from her waist, still lying on the floor, and moved her hand down her left leg. Trying to ignore the ache in her head and shoulders, she touched something solid, ice-cold. It felt like a circle, hard, metallic, cold, like the handcuffs TJ wore on her belt. She investigated it with her fingers and found a place where it latched. It was one of a set of handcuffs. But it was around her ankle. She reached farther down her foot and discovered that the cuff was attached to a chain of some sort, its mate dangling in the air. What? What happened? Why am I tethered here in some dark place? Where is this? She pulled tentatively on the chain and discovered that it had quite a bit of give. She inched it toward her, moving ever so slowly, and listened to it slither across the floor. Finally, it stopped. It was caught on something.
Shivering, she pulled the blanket back up over her and tried to think. She was at Tully’s bar having . . . coffee and pie. When was that? Hours ago? It must be dark now. Then what? She ate pie and talked to Bill and then she left to do . . . what? Ahhh, her head kept up the dull, rhythmic pain.
She lifted her head gently, despite the pounding, and peered into the darkness. Her eyes started to adjust to her surroundings and she looked up—oh, God, that hurt—and saw a bit of light that came through some opening way up high.
“A barn. But how did I get in here? I was looking for Kessler’s barn. I remember walking through the trees at dusk and I had a flashlight . . . where did it go?” she said out loud. She felt around on the floor but didn’t find any objects near her. “My car. Somebody should see my car when it gets light. I just have to wait.” And then she remembered the chain attached to her leg. “I was walking toward the barn door and something hit me on the head. That’s why the blood. Someone hit me. I’ve got to get up, got to try to find a way out. Whoever it was will come back.”
She pushed off the blanket and used her hands to press up from the dirt floor. A wave of dizziness hit her and she stopped and took some deep breaths. Slowly she pushed against the ground again, untangled her legs, and got up to her knees. Another rush of light-headedness stopped her and she waited until it subsided. I need to figure out this space if I can move far enough, she thought. She could smell the mustiness of the barn, its dampness because it had been closed up for so long. She remembered looking in through a window and she thought she saw a room near the back with a door that had a piece of lumber across it, sitting on brackets. That must be where I am, she thought. She listened for sounds. It was totally quiet except for crickets. Then she heard an owl outside and realized that she could hear because the window up high was open. Maybe that was her way out.
Putting one foot on the ground, she pushed up from her other knee and suddenly felt wooziness in her stomach. She waited for the nausea to taper off and then pulled her other leg up, the left one with the cuff and chain. Now she could see the window up high—it had no glass—and it was open to the night. The light source was a full moon whose edge she could barely detect on one side of the squared opening. The pale light was just enough that, as her eyes got used to the darkness, she could make out black shapes in the room.
“Time to explore,” she said to herself. “Let’s hope nothing but me moves.”
Going in the direction of the chain, Grace followed it with her foot and then barely caught herself as she almost fell over something on the ground. She knelt, put her hands out, and discovered the chain was attached to a ring shaped like an “O” that rose up from a small slab of concrete into which it had evidently been sunk. She placed her hand on the metal ring and pushed. It was immovable. Sitting down next to it on the dirt floor, she tried to move the metal “O” but it wouldn’t budge. Suddenly, the impossibility of escape hit her like a blow to her chest. She felt a rush of anxiety and her breath came out in gasps. Calm, she thought, panting. I have to stay calm. Breathe. Breathe. Slowly. More deeply. Her breathing evened out a little and she waited, motionless.
Once she reached a degree of composure, she stood again—this time a bit more easily—and began to edge toward the nearest wall. She placed her hands on it and felt the wooden boards. Then, slowly, she crept along the wall, probing each board, and occasionally she wiped a cobweb off on her pants. Her foot touched something solid and she reached down, seeing the shadow in the dim light from the window. It was a pile of small boards stacked up against the wall. Inching past them, she once again situated her hands on the wallboards and edged a few feet until she felt the corner of the room. Pausing for a second, she followed the wall past the corner, moving her feet slowly sideways to make sure she didn’t fall over any unseen objects. Her foot touched something solid and she reached down tentatively and discovered a wooden crate, open at the top, and propped up sideways against the wall. It was empty. The owl hooted again somewhere outside the barn, and she could hear the trees rustle in the wind.
Grace moved past the crate and touched her way down the wall. Suddenly, she felt a bit of give in the surface. She pushed on it. It must be the door. She moved her hands along the surface and found hinges. Pushing on it again, she could feel a little give, but it must be locked on the other side. Then she remembered that she saw the piece of wood across the brackets inside the barn. She sidestepped over and felt her way around the edge of the door from the top and down the side. No doorknob. No handle. No nothing. It was perfectly smooth, so you could only open it if you took the wooden piece off the brackets on the other side.
Until now she thought she might find a way, despite the chain, to get out. But now the desperateness of her situation caught up with her and she slid her back down the wall and dropped to the floor. Tears formed in her eyes and her chest began to heave in deep sobs. “Ahhh.” She winced as she realized it hurt her head more to cry, but her misery outweighed her pain and she wept until eventually she had no more tears—only pain and
throbbing and darkness and the dejection that came with the impossibility of escape.
It was totally quiet now, except for the sighing of the trees outside and the occasional hooting of what she began to think of as her friend, the owl. I’m going to die here alone, she thought. Whoever hit me will come back.
And then it was still and shadowy all around her.
She straightened her sore shoulders and aching head and thought to herself, I won’t let them defeat me. I need to stop feeling sorry for myself and find a way out of this.
TJ. What would she be doing now? Why wasn’t she looking for me? They should miss her by now. Of course, she didn’t even know what day it was. Maybe it was still the same night that she came to the barn. Or maybe it was Friday night. TJ and Deb and Jill and Lettie. They’d know she was missing. Why, they might even have a search party out for her already. She felt for her phone in her pocket. What had she done with it? Left it at home? In the car? Then she remembered that it had fallen down between the seat and the console in her car.
No, I’m through crying, she thought. Maybe someone was in the area. She could yell. Maybe someone would hear her. She stood up and moved over toward the wall with the window. Then she looked up, put her hands around her mouth, and screamed, “Help! Someone help me. I’m stuck in the barn. Help!” and she repeated it three times for good measure. Her head hurt so badly, and she felt so dizzy after the gargantuan effort that she had to sit down again before she passed out.
Silence. Only the crickets and the owl listened. But people will know I’m missing, she thought. They’ll look for me. I need to be ready when they come. And she began to massage her shoulders and neck with a gentle, circular motion. Now she could hear a new sound: her stomach growling. How long was it since she had eaten?
“Ah, I guess that depends on what day it is, or what night,” she muttered.
So, we can check off screaming. What’s next? She pulled on the chain and found it to be strong and unbreakable. Can I find some solid rock or something I can use to smash this chain? The only items she could touch or see in the room were wooden boards and that crate. So that left the handcuff around her ankle. She felt it and found the tiny keyhole that kept it latched. No use thinking about that.
Why would someone do this? And who knew she was out here? Not Lettie—she’d been too rushed to leave a note. And if I ever get out of here I’ll hear about that from Lettie. She laughed.
Why, oh why, didn’t I wait until daylight when I could get those pictures? She tried to come up with what she had told people over the past week. Again and again her mind returned to the Kessler fire and the good-luck charm and her assumption that Ted Kessler was still alive. She tried to think about how old Ted Kessler was. The fire happened in 1968. Ted Kessler would have been about fifteen. That would make him fifty-eight today. Come to think of it, everyone in town knew I was working on this story. Endurance has a lot of fifty-eight-year-olds. Tully must be that age and he sent me out here.
But why did he put me in here? Why would Bill Tully do this to me? He’s always so friendly. Why not just kill me? And how could he pass all this time when he’s really Ted Kessler? Wouldn’t someone have known him? And when will he come back? If it’s still Thursday night, everyone will be out at the fireworks tomorrow night. I have to think about how I can get this chain off, she thought.
So far nothing came to mind. If she could get the chain off, maybe she could find a way to get out of the barn without using the door. She walked over to the far wall again and presumed that the door was on the inside wall of the barn opposite this wall. Getting down on her knees, she felt near the barn’s foundation. The wall came down solidly on the dirt floor. She moved along the bottom of the wall boards and felt for a place where the wall and ground didn’t meet, perhaps an opening she could enlarge. Moving a few inches at a time, she came to a spot—her fingers could feel a space between the wall and floor. I could use the corner of one of those boards to dig out some of that dirt, and possibly create a space where I could crawl out. Well, I could crawl out if I could figure out how to get the chain off. “One problem at a time,” she could hear her mother’s voice in her head. “Yes, Mother.” Then she wondered if she was becoming delusional from lack of food and water and a large knot on her head. Perhaps, she thought, but it’s a plan.
She wobbled cautiously back to the corner of the room and used her hands to feel the ends of the boards in the stacked pile. “Ouch!” she said out loud as she felt a splinter go into her finger. She put the board down and tried to feel the end of the splinter to pull it out, but it broke off in her fingers. “Great. One more pain.” She moved several boards over to the area where she planned to dig and thought that if anyone came back she could cover up the opening with the other boards. She’d have to feel it, however, since it was still really dark. Using the corner of a board, she pushed it into the dirt as hard as she could. The dirt was solid but not impossible to move. This may take all night, she thought. Well, what’s time?
Grace worked at the escape hole and then took a break when her shoulders and arms got tired. She began to see a little more light in the room. She looked down at her wrist to check the time and then remembered she didn’t wear her watch anymore. Now that was a stupid decision, Grace. It must be near morning. At least with light she wouldn’t feel as isolated as she did in the dark. She worked steadily and listened to the voices in her head.
Grace under pressure, said Hemingway. She almost laughed out loud at the play on words. Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string, from her old friend, Emerson. It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog, Twain wrote. And her mother’s voice said, “You’re stronger than you think, Grace. Believe in yourself.”
By the time the light was brighter and she could see her surroundings, Grace had a decent, wide—although not very deep—hole near the wall. She quit digging and put the boards in front of the hole in case Tully came back. She’d work on it more in the daylight once she’d rested for a while.
Exhausted, she sat down again, her back supported by the wall. Her head still pounded, but it didn’t feel quite as bad as before. She thought about what she had seen when she approached the barn with her flashlight. It might help to remember what the barn looked like when she tried to make her escape.
Escape? Who am I kidding? She thought. She pulled on the chain again and now in the daylight she could see that it was solidly attached to the ring in the floor. She examined the cuff around her ankle and pulled on it, but her effort produced nothing but scrapes on her skin. Collapsing against the wall again, she examined her memories about the barn. Huge double door, wagon wheels, farm implements, a door in the back . . .
And then her anxiety came back . . . Gasoline cans and rags.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR:
TJ
* * *
TJ relaxed in her squad car at the corner of Main Street and Lincoln Avenue. On her way to a meeting of the murder task force, she had time to drive around the main part of town and look at the burgeoning decorations.
Everywhere people had attached signs, streamers, and red, white, and blue bunting. Banners hung from the street lights on both sides of Main Street. On the corner, the Penny Saved Shoe Store had plastered their windows with colorful drawings of shoes worn at the time of the town’s founding and colored by one of the elementary school classes. Across the street the Clip ’n Curl Hair Salon had arranged dummies in the window with various hairstyles from the early 1800s. The Senior Center, First National Bank of Endurance, and Maloney’s Law Offices had bunting hanging over their windows and balconies, and Mildred’s Boutique had window dummies dressed in fashions from the 1800s, probably borrowed from the college costume department.
As she drove into the next block, TJ blinked twice before she realized it was only a realistic mannequin of a woman who held a book in her hands outside Harlow’s Bookstore. The book was a copy of a simplified Endurance history written f
or elementary schoolchildren by the librarian and printed by Stafford’s Printing Company, a local business. Everywhere she looked TJ saw red, white, and blue, along with signs, banners, and pictures of the town’s earlier days. All of Endurance wanted to get in on the centennial celebration. How surreal this seems, she thought, when we’re in the middle of two murder investigations.
She took a sip of her coffee and listened to a dispatcher’s message over the radio. Driving past Tully’s she saw the usual cars of retirees who played cards at the bar each morning. Otherwise, all was quiet there. She saw Patrick Gilmour walking out of the restaurant, a black satchel in his hand. Grace probably had him in school, too. Slipped outside the back door during gym class and smoked pot. And sold it. Now he’s selling legal drugs for a drug company. Who says high school doesn’t get you ready for the real world?
TJ knew what was normal for the area during the morning hours and nothing unusual stood out. No unusual behavior, no one running except the familiar joggers. Farther up the street near the Endurance Grain and Dryer and The Feed Service she noticed the carnival people had just pulled into town to set up a Ferris wheel and rides for the kids. An extraordinary Friday morning in Endurance is on the horizon, she thought, and I’m working on two murders.
Turning the corner at North Pine Street, she drove to the police station, glanced at her dashboard clock, and pulled into her parking spot at 7:55.
As she unlocked her office door, TJ glanced up at her whiteboard, or, as she called it, her rogue’s gallery. Wakeley was now at the top of her suspect list and cooling his heels in the jail downstairs. So far he’d admitted nothing and his lawyer, Frank Becker, was in to see him as soon as they booked him. He had no priors, unlike Mike Sturgis who had a list a mile long. So far Wakeley’s wife hadn’t been in to see him.
Three May Keep a Secret (An Endurance Mystery) Page 18