The Hiding Place

by Paula Munier

  She pushed again and the cardboard panel gave way easily, revealing a large opening about three feet wide and two and a half feet high. She focused the beam of her flashlight into the opening, illuminating a tunnel running several yards into the unknown. “Bingo.”

  “What is it?”

  “Our way out.” Mercy knew that she needed to get Bea away from there, but she didn’t like leaving the trunk with the guns and the money behind. Not that she had any other alternatives. She could only hope that she could get backup out here before whoever was in the house caught up with them—and the trunk.

  They heard muffled voices and more shuffling above.

  “I was going to check this tunnel out before we all went in there. But we may not have enough time for that. Do you think you can crawl through this?”

  Bea stared up at the blocked entry of her staircase where the noise continued before answering. “That looks like our only option.”

  She helped Bea off the crate and over to the cabinet. “Go as far as you can on your hands and knees. If the tunnel narrows, you may have to drop down and crawl like a soldier on maneuvers.”

  Bea managed a wan smile. “I’m sure that means more to you than it does to me. But I will do my best.”

  “At least you’re wearing jeans.” She slapped her thigh and Elvis trotted over to her, ears perked. “We’re going to let Elvis go first. He should be able to make his way without crawling, or at least be able to crouch his way through. You follow him.”

  Here she was, putting the dog in danger again. Maybe there was something wrong with her. She’d think about it later. After they got out of here. Pointing in the tunnel, she snapped her fingers. “Out.”

  Elvis dove into the tunnel without hesitation. Mercy helped Bea worm her way into the cabinet and through the opening and out into the tunnel. She handed the woman her cell phone. “Use the light so you can see where you’re going. As soon as you get out, call 911.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to make sure no one follows us.” As Elvis and Bea proceeded down the passageway, Mercy got to work. She didn’t have her gun, but at least she had her pack. Her Swiss Army knife. Her duct tape.

  She crept into the tunnel opening backward, quickly brushing away their tracks as best she could in the dark. That would have to do. She pulled the cabinet doors shut. She couldn’t lock them from the inside, so she simply duct taped them closed and hoped nobody noticed. On her hands and knees, she backed up, and replaced the cardboard panel, also securing it from the tunnel side with duct tape. She crawled on her hands and knees, pulling her pack along as she went, pushing herself backward toward what she hoped would be the light at the end of the tunnel.

  It was slow going. As she suspected, the tunnel did narrow for a time, forcing her to drop onto her belly. She said a quick prayer of gratitude to whichever saint of Martinez’s was the patron of push-ups and planks, a thank-you for her strong if increasingly fatigued forearms.

  She had dirt in her hair and her mouth and everywhere else. If this tunnel went nowhere, they’d run out of oxygen and have to go back the way they came. But she didn’t think that would happen. The tunnel was lined with rough planks and supported by wooden posts and was in better shape than it could have been. Which meant that someone had been using it. If not recently, in the not-so-long-ago past.

  She couldn’t see Bea or Elvis, but she could hear a faint scratching down the line, which grew louder as she continued to propel herself backward, cursing silently at the splinters scraping at her stomach whenever her Henley pulled up. Which was with every push.

  The tunnel widened again, giving her more headroom. The gloom lightened, too, and she hoped that meant she was growing closer to Bea and her cell phone flashlight.

  “Whoa.”

  Mercy felt her hiking boots hit something soft. “Bea?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank God.” Mercy wriggled herself around so she was face up. Then she curled herself into a small ball, so she could turn around to face the other way, toward Bea and Elvis and the light.

  “We’re stuck,” Bea said. “The exit is blocked.” She directed the beam at Elvis, who was digging frantically at the ground above him. The way out was obstructed by dirt and rocks and roots.

  “Good boy.” Elvis paused in his digging to acknowledge Mercy’s presence and went right back at it. She pulled her Swiss Army knife out and released the largest blade. “Sit back.”

  Bea did as she was told. She didn’t look good. They needed to get her out of here, fast.

  Mercy hacked away at the roots and dirt, stopping to wrench out the bigger rocks with her fingers. Elvis shoveled away, his sharp claws nature’s digging machine. He was panting hard. He shouldn’t be exerting himself this much, Mercy thought.

  After what seemed an eternity, light broke through the debris. She and Elvis dug faster.

  There was a thin layer of ice at the top, which Mercy just punched through with her fist. Her knuckles hurt, but she didn’t care.

  “Go on,” she told Elvis, and the dog wriggled up and away into daylight. He shook the dirt from his coat, and then pivoted back to Mercy, his handsome head above her looking down at her.

  “We’re coming,” she assured him.

  “I don’t think I can do this.” Bea was having trouble breathing and her face was wet with perspiration despite the cold.

  “We’ve got this. I’m going to lift you up by your hips. You grab Elvis, and he’ll pull you out while I push from behind.”

  “Okay,” Bea said, but she didn’t sound okay.

  Mercy squatted behind Bea, grasping her hips and shoving her upward toward the light. “I’ve got you. Now balance your belly against the ground.”

  “Down,” she said to Elvis.

  The shepherd lay down next to Bea.

  “Grab his collar.”

  Bea reached up to the shepherd with her pale hands, the sleeves of her coral sweater slipping down around her forearms, revealing the tattoo of the two red cherries on the inside of her left wrist. “Got it.”

  “Good.” Mercy stared at the tattoo. Lady Luck. The muse of gamblers. The goddess of fate. The personification of Las Vegas. She took a second to breathe. “Back, Elvis.”

  Elvis backed up, dragging Bea forward out of the tunnel as Mercy prodded her from behind.

  When she was free and clear, she crawled back to the edge. “I’m out.”

  “Where are you?”

  Bea looked around. “About a hundred yards from the house, in a wooded area to the left of the garage.”

  “Out of sight?”

  “Yes, I think so. What about you? How will you get out?”

  “I’ll be fine.” Mercy rose to a standing position. She was in a hole about four feet deep. “If you can get a signal, call 911.”

  She braced her feet against the opposite sides of the hole and jiggled her way up and out of the exit of the tunnel. She collapsed on the cold slushy ground, breathing heavily. Elvis licked her face, and she laughed softly.

  “I called 911.” Bea’s face appeared above hers. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, Bea. Or should I call you Beth?”

  SUMMER 2000

  They’d been driving for a couple of hours, on back roads, in country Beth had never seen before. She’d lived in Vermont all her life, but she’d rarely left the county. And she never had learned to drive. Neither her father nor her husband would allow her that kind of freedom.

  Ruby was a flatlander and yet she navigated the remote byways of these woodlands like she’d lived here all her life.

  “How do you know where you’re going?” Beth was still in the back seat of the Audi, but she was sitting up now, staring out the window at the endless forest that surrounded them, the only man-made element the ribbon of road stretching ahead.

  “You can’t sell listings you can’t find.” Ruby slowed down as they approached an old wooden bridge. “Look for a small sign with a red arr
ow that says PRIVATE. On the right.”

  Beth peered into the fully leafed woods, thick with thigh-high ferns and blackberry bushes and wildflowers as well as maples and birches and oaks. “There it is.”

  Too late. Ruby stomped on the brakes and the Audi screeched to a stop. She slammed the gearshift into reverse and backed up so they could see the sign, nearly hidden by a tangle of rambling rose. She steered the sedan onto the narrow dirt road by the sign, two rutted tracks with a strip of grass running through the middle.

  “Almost there,” Ruby said, as they bounced down the lane toward a large clearing where a once-handsome hunting lodge seemed to rise right out of the forest itself.

  “What is this place?”

  “Playground for the rich. Where they can get out of the city and pretend to be big game hunters.”

  “It looks abandoned.”

  “The owners moved to the South of France ten years ago. It’s been sitting here unused ever since. No other family wanted it, so they’ve finally put it up for sale. I told them they need to clean up the place before we list it, but they don’t want to spend the money. Rich people can be so cheap.”

  Ruby pulled the Audi up to the massive front porch that fronted the property.

  “Bring in your stuff and we’ll get started.”

  Beth followed her up the steps to the porch, to the carved oak front door. Ruby opened the lockbox, withdrew the house key, and let them into an imposing room with an enormous granite fireplace, several groupings of log furniture, and dozens of trophy heads and antlers adorning the walls. The dead animals looming over her gave Beth the creeps.

  “Come on into the bathroom.” Ruby led Beth down a long hallway graced with old-fashioned prints of bird dogs carrying dying pheasants, red-coated hunters riding with the hounds, foxes on the run.

  The ladies’ room—marked by a sign reading HUNTRESS—was a long room with stalls on one side, a long mirror and sinks on the other, and faded red-and-white toile wallpaper.

  “First, your makeup lesson.” Ruby pulled her shiny silver-and-gold metallic cosmetics bag out of her big Louis Vuitton purse. Beth didn’t wear makeup, neither her father nor her husband approved of it, and she’d never developed the knack other girls had for enhancing their features with its deft application. She only used it to hide the bruises. Camouflage, not coquetry.

  Ruby made up Beth, showing her how to darken her brows and eyelashes with mascara, sweeping her cheekbones and her eyelids with color, brightening her lips with a deep red gloss. By the time Ruth was finished, Beth barely recognized herself. She looked into the long bathroom mirror that ran the length of the ladies’ room and watched as Ruby brushed her dark hair off her forehead and wrapped it up on top of her head, securing it with a scrunchie and bobby pins.

  “The final touch.” Ruby pulled out a blond wig and tugged it onto Beth’s head. She straightened the hairpiece, tousling the shoulder-length bob until it fell into place as naturally as Ruby’s own. Bombshell hair, thought Beth. She’d never had bombshell hair.

  The two stood side by side. Before they had looked vaguely alike: about the same height, same shape, same round face, same dark eyes. Now they could have passed for sisters. Even twins, if you didn’t look too closely.

  The resemblance startled Beth. “Amazing.” She shook her head, and the curtain of blond hair swung back and forth. “How is this possible?”

  “The miracle of makeup.” Ruby reached over and pulled Beth’s shoulders back. “Stand tall, girl.”

  “I’m you.”

  “Almost,” said Ruby. “I told you it would work. At least for as long as it takes to get us out of here. But get that nose fixed as soon as you can. For both our sakes.” She loaded all the makeup into the cosmetics case and handed it to Beth. “All yours now. Use it well.” She looked at her critically, and then smiled. “You’re going to like being a blonde. We really do have more fun.”

  “What about you?”

  “This was practice. So you know what to do when we get to Albany.” Ruby pointed to the pack of wipes on the counter. “It’s not showtime yet. Now take it all off and meet me outside.”

  Ruby left her alone in the bathroom. Alone with her brand new face and her brand new hair and her same old fear. It was one thing to be brave when Ruby was with her. She had enough courage for both of them. But what would happen after she got on that bus all by herself?

  A flash of movement behind her. In the mirror she saw him. His face distorted by rage.

  Thomas.

  Nowhere to run. Her husband blocked the door. His pale blue eyes were bloodshot but his fingers were curled and clenched. Drunk enough that she might outrun him if she could get around him. Not so drunk he couldn’t kill her if she couldn’t.

  “You look like a tramp.” He grabbed at her, and she ducked. All he caught was hair. The wig slipped off, and Thomas stared at the blond mop in his thick hands, as if he weren’t sure what it was. In that moment she wriggled away from him and darted through the door.

  She heard a roar behind her and kept running, down the hallway and into the lobby of the lodge. Aware of all the deer and moose and bear staring down at her with their gleaming dead eyes.

  An uneven pounding of steps behind her. Thomas lurching after her. Unsteady on his feet but steady with his fists.

  She had to get out of here. Into the woods. He could never find her in the woods. It was always her best hiding place.

  She tripped over a loose plank, stumbling to her knees. She caught herself with her arms, recovering her balance, hitching up her legs to sprint off again.

  It was all the time her husband needed. Thomas rampaged above her. He tromped on her heel, hard, and kicked at her calf. She went down again. Banging her cheek on the floor. She crawled forward.

  A pair of shiny black high heels shimmered in front of her.

  She heard the crack! of a gunshot. Followed by a long stammering wail. She looked up. There was Ruby, standing like a cop on TV, grasping a revolver in both hands, aiming straight ahead.

  Behind her.

  Beth twisted around and saw her husband, his ruddy face marred by a hole right in the center of his high forehead.

  Thomas pitched backward. Falling falling falling as if in slow motion. Thudding to the ground.

  She stared at the sad hulk of him, willing him to move and praying that he did no such thing. Finally, she looked over at Ruby. “What have you done?”

  “I did what needed to be done.” She lowered the gun and nodded toward the body. “Now it’s your turn.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “When did you know?”

  “I didn’t. At least not for sure.” Mercy took her cell phone from Bea, and texted Troy. The sooner he got here, the sooner she’d be able to figure all this out. Until then she had to keep Beth Kilgore safe.

  They were standing about ten feet from the edge of the wood. Mercy could see Bea’s house through the trees. “We’re too close. The more space between us and them, whoever they are, the better. These woods lead to Old Church Road, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “We used to hang out here when we were kids. If I remember correctly, it’s about a quarter mile. Do you think you can make it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s go.” She texted Troy to tell him they were on the move.

  Mercy was wearing her hiking boots, but Bea was only wearing ballet flats. The ground was half-frozen, a sludge of mud and ice and snow covering rock and root and dead wood. The petite brunette slipped and slid as she traipsed after Elvis. Mercy kept close behind her ready to catch her if she fell. When she fell.

  The beech and birch and maple trees grew thicker here. Elvis navigated this dense terrain easily. You’d never know he’d been so sick just two days before.

  Bea, not so much. Inevitably she tripped over a fallen limb. Mercy caught her—just—but not before she’d twisted her ankle.

  Bea tried to put weight on her foot and winced. “I don�
�t think I can walk.”

  Mercy eased the injured woman onto a squat boulder at the base of a large oak. Elvis stood at attention, sniffing the air, his nose pointing back toward the house.

  “I’m so sorry,” Bea said. “I’ve ruined everything.”

  “My fault,” said Mercy. “We should have stayed put. Run for the Jeep.”

  “We would never have made it without their seeing us.” Bea rubbed the side of her foot.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Let me take a look at that ankle.”

  “I’m fine. I just have to catch my breath.”

  “Hold on. Help is on the way.”

  As if to mark her words, sirens jangled from beyond the forest.

  Mercy smiled. “Told you.”

  Another noise not so welcome brought Mercy to her feet. A crashing through the woods.

  Elvis ran off in the direction opposite the noisy interloper. She didn’t know why he did that, but she didn’t call him back. The shepherd had his reasons and she needed to trust him. She grabbed a fallen branch from the forest floor, thick as a club, and took cover behind a small stand of spruce a few yards ahead of Bea. She raised her finger to her lips and Bea nodded her understanding.

  They both kept very still as the swish and swoosh and snap of someone running through the woods in winter grew nearer and nearer. Mercy was worried that Bea would cry out, but she stayed quiet even as a woman in ski clothes stumbled into the clearing.

  She was small and exhausted and as far as Mercy could see, unarmed. As she careened toward Bea, Mercy pushed the branch out across the ground and raised it high enough to trip her. The woman fell forward, and Mercy tackled her, clasping her wrists behind her back and pulling to her feet.

  The woman cursed. “Let me go.”

  Bea stared at the woman on the ground.

  Another crashing through the trees, this time from the other direction, and there was Elvis and Susie Bear. The woman on the ground screamed. Whether she was more afraid of the fierce shepherd or the enormous Newfie was unclear. Either way she didn’t appear very fond of dogs.