by J. M. Madden
“It’s really just some planks that Penn and I nailed together to close the opening. We didn’t want it to disappear completely. Of course, I come out here every so often and clear it off so things don’t completely grow over it. When the old jail project is finally finished, I’d like to show the tunnel. But I’ll need to talk with Jaymee before I do that.”
Cage grunted, uninterested in the historian’s plans. He and Lee each took a side of the rotting door and began to pull. Dirt and grass had enveloped it, as if the earth were trying to reclaim it. Finally, a loud sucking sound, and then the wood gave way. Both men stumbled back, fighting for their balance. Cage took the wooden door and tossed it aside.
He smelled the familiar scent of old, closed up earth. Of decay and insects and secrets. He didn’t like being underground. And the last time he’d been inside a secret passage, he’d gotten stabbed and nearly died.
Lee seemed to read his mind. “Don’t worry. No humans to worry about this time. Just the ceiling caving in on you.”
He glared at the older man. “Thanks.”
Lee knelt down and spread out a crude drawing: a schematic of Magnolia House’s basement. “Now, Penn gave this to me years ago. If Jaymee’s moved things around, you may have some trouble.”
“I don’t think she’s been down there since she inherited it.” Cage felt certain of that, and he remembered the layout from his inspection shortly after she inherited the house. But Nick could have easily been down and changed something. “Either way, this is the best I’ve got.”
“Good point,” Lee said. “So we’re here.” He tapped a badly drawn hill. “The tunnel is a fairly straight shot because Dupont wanted to move quickly. He got his slaves cheap, and he didn’t want to get caught. And I’m sure that’s not the only trade that went through the tunnel.”
Cage looked toward Magnolia House. It appeared just like it did every other day, and yet a pall had descended over it, as if the house held its breath to see if Cage could pull this one off.
“I’ll wait here and make sure the entrance stays open,” Lee said. “I won’t leave until Gina tells me it’s okay. I swear to you.”
Cage caught the earnestness in his voice. He knew Lee desperately wanted his forgiveness. He supposed this should count towards earning it. “Thanks.”
He secured the pack on his good shoulder and peered into the tunnel. It was about half as tall as he was. He’d have to go in on hands and knees. In the pitch-black dark, where countless other men and women had been dragged through like property. Some of them may have died inside. He didn’t really believe in ghosts, even though he lived on a plantation that had all sorts of strange noises and occurrences. But if anyplace was haunted, surely it would be this damned tunnel.
“Sonofabitch.”
SEVEN
Penn Gereau had obviously done some serious work to preserve the tunnel. Beams were in place every few feet with plywood resting on top of them. The wood looked old and smelled wet, but it didn’t have enough rot to be original to the tunnel. Gereau believed in his family’s history and preserved it the best he could without attracting attention. The man did a lot of things no one knew about.
Claustrophobia had set in almost immediately. Bugs that had probably gone years without seeing any source of light scuttled away from the small beam of his Maglite. Even more shallow than Cage thought, the tunnel’s low ceiling teamed with rotting, dangling roots and creepy-crawlies. Cage imagined the root ends as clawed hands dragging along his spine. Spiders probably hitched onto his back for a ride. Crawling into his ears…
He had to stop. Had to keep his head. Breathing through his nose proved gag-inducing, the air toxic with mold and trapped earth. Breathing through his mouth was nearly as bad. It should have been cooler underground, and maybe it was. Maybe his sweat came from fear. Didn’t matter because it stung his eyes until he thought he’d scream. Thankfully the heavy work gloves protected him from whatever lived inside the dirt. Hopefully the miserable vest would do the same.
Every movement reminded him of his damaged shoulder. Sometimes he felt the pain all the way in his toes.
So damned dark. Not enough space. Two hundred years or more since the tunnel had been dug. The beams seemed like a joke when Cage thought of how easily the old earth could shift. He had zero control over his fate. His only choice was to keep crawling forward, like a stupid earthworm.
Less than five feet into the tunnel, Cage’s cell phone lost all signal bars. He stuffed it into his butt pocket and very quickly wished he hadn’t. The cell would have been a nice emergency light, but the space had narrowed so much he couldn’t maneuver well enough to get to his pocket. Hopefully he could get to the Glock if he needed it.
But John Ward wouldn’t know about this tunnel. Jaymee would never have hinted at it if he did.
Unless he’d heard about it around town.
Panic crept through him. Too many variables in this whole thing. What if he’d made the wrong call? He should have been more patient instead of forcing Gina to do things his way.
That thought made him laugh, and some of the panic floated away. Gina never let anyone make a call for her. She believed this was the right decision. And in him.
Cage couldn’t worry about all the things that could go wrong. He’d committed the map to memory, knowing he wouldn’t be able to get it out of his pocket inside the tunnel. If it turned out to be correct, the tunnel should come out on the far side of the cellar. A plus for Cage, because that meant the entrance was far away from the family area where Ward had his hostages.
As long as Cage could keep quiet, he’d have a chance.
But that might be the real problem. If Cage remembered correctly, several pieces of iron–probably castoffs from the gate surrounding the house–lined the west wall of the cellar. Gereau had probably put them there intentionally to hide the tunnel. Cage didn’t know if it he’d come to a door or just a big wall of dirt he’d have to dig though. He had a feeling it would be the latter.
His spade was small. Digging out would take time. If he knocked over the iron, his friends were screwed.
A new distraction loomed. The pathetically small beam of his Maglite was trapped against something twisted and enormous. As the ceiling dropped further, Cage shimmied on his belly, his stomach rolling with fresh nerves. A tree root the size of a child’s leg suddenly appeared, its trunk buried well into the floor of the tunnel.
Cage’s heart stuttered. His head dropped to the earth. He didn’t have a knife, and that root was probably two hundred years old. He’d never cut through it. He didn’t have enough space to turn around. If he couldn’t get through, he’d have to shuffle backwards.
Gereau hadn’t done much to solve the problem. His beams stopped just before the root, as did the makeshift ceiling. They started up about a foot past the root. Leave it to Gereau to keep things just as they were, even if that made life a pain in the ass.
Cage didn’t have a choice. He had to keep going.
He wiped the sweat out of his eyes and stuck the flashlight in his mouth, trying to aim the beam straight. The mammoth root was surrounded by several skinnier ones, and these were pliable. If he sucked in his belly enough, Cage might be able to squeeze through on his side. Or he could get himself totally stuck with no way to call for help.
Lee knew he was inside. So did Gina. Someone would come looking. Eventually. He didn’t know how long he could live in the toxic air inside, but he figured he’d have the night at least. He’d go crazy from being underground first.
And his friends and Kendra Ward would probably be dead.
No more time to waste. He made the pack containing his supplies as small as possible and then lobbed it past the roots. Cage twisted onto his side, digging his teeth into the rubber of the Maglite. Using his left elbow and keeping his right arm tight to his side, he slithered between the tunnel wall and the mess of roots. His arm muscles tensed and complained, his legs and feet like lead as he tried to make himself small. His inj
ured shoulder throbbed as if the wound was being further ripped open. The pain made him dizzy. His stomach scraped against the big root, and then the thick stem caught the edge of the Glock. He clamped his right hand over the weapon and kept dragging forward. Finally his knees passed the root, and he was able to propel past.
Breathing hard, he dropped to the ground, resting his face on the knapsack. The spade dug into his cheek, but he didn’t care.
He’d never realized a flesh wound could hurt so badly. He’d need antibiotics and tetanus and God only knew what else. Whatever. He’d deal with that when everyone else was safe.
Cage had to keep moving. He didn’t know what had happened in Magnolia House since he left, and according to his dimly glowing watch, he’d already been in the tunnel for twenty minutes. Surely the root was the worst obstacle.
He started to crawl again, waiting to hit a wall of dirt where the plywood had failed and ground had caved in. Cage had no way of telling how thick the plywood ceiling was or when Gereau had put it up. He could only hope it wasn’t so old it had rotted. Even with the tiny shovel, digging out would take serious time.
The beams stopped. So did the ceiling, the plywood jammed right into the wall of dirt that now blocked Cage’s way. This had to be the entrance to Magnolia’s cellar.
A new worry tore through him.
Despite the house’s age, the cellar wasn’t all dirt. Walls had been put up with wood and cement blocks. What if the wall was concrete and Cage couldn’t get through? But that was impossible. Gereau had secured the tunnel so there had to be an entrance to the house. Unless he hadn’t gotten this far before everything went to hell.
No. He wouldn’t have told Lee so the tunnel opening was preserved. There’s got to be a way in.
Once again Cage’s plan seemed utterly stupid. He was stuck down here while his friends were less than fifty feet away. All the blessings of technology were worthless right now, their limits leaving Cage in the literal and figurative dark.
Had Ward fired his gun again? Had someone been shot? What if Cage’s impatience and decision to be the hero had cost Nick and Jaymee and Kendra Ward their lives?
He smacked the wall of dirt. The tension in his neck immediately shifted to anticipation. He’d felt something solid. Something that made a hollow thud he could only pray Ward hadn’t heard. Wood, not concrete.
Flashlight back in his mouth, he dragged his hand over the wall, scraping the dirt off the wood. He tried to keep his movements measured and quiet, but urgency pounded at his temples. Finally, the door was cleared off, and Cage realized it was the same kind of wood used to block the entrance near the jail.
Gereau must have done this at the same time. Didn’t matter now. Cage needed to figure out a way to get the door open without knocking down anything in front of it and alerting Ward.
He’d have to try to pull it forward. The wood had shrunk from time and moisture, and he was able to wedge his fingers on top of one of the planks. Thankful for the heavy gloves, he dug his knees into the dirt, his back damned near against the plywood ceiling, and started to pull. The wood snapped at its base, the sound loud to Cage. He held his breath, trying to listen for something happening above, but he was too insulated.
No choice but to keep going.
He tossed the piece of board aside. He now had a four-inch opening to work with, meaning he could control the break of the next plank. It gave easily but still with a screech that jangled Cage's nerves. As Cage feared, the iron was stacked up against the wall–probably Gereau’s way of hiding it. Before he pulled away any more wood, Cage tried to shine his light into the cellar, his head wedged up in the far corner of the tunnel, chin tucked to his chest. He needed to know which way to slide the iron. If he knocked something over, they were all in trouble.
As best as he could tell, he had space to the right. The entrance was exactly where he’d expected it to be. Slowly, he began to shift the iron, holding his breath for the sound of it scraping against the cement floor.
But nothing came.
He ducked his head down.
This part of the floor was dirt.
Thank God for small favors.
Sweat burned his eyes as he pushed the iron far enough for him to slip around. Then he pulled the next two planks, all the while listening. He thought he heard footsteps, maybe the low hum of voices. But nothing that suggested Ward heard the rat in the basement.
Finally, Cage had enough opening to crawl through, first his torso and then his long legs–the earth giving birth to a filthy giant with a bloody shoulder and a short fuse. Knapsack on his shoulders, he stood up straight. His back cracked, and he bit back the groan. Magnolia’s cellar was over two-hundred and fifty years old, but the air inside still smelled better than the tunnel. He breathed deeply, trying to catch his breath and figure out exactly what he would do next.
He checked his cell. No bars. Naturally.
Cage wiped the sweat off his face and then retrieved the extra ammo from his backpack as well as the pry bar and the radio. He jammed the pry bar into the back of his jeans and covered it with his shirt, clipped the radio onto his belt. The ammo went into his back pocket.
He double-checked the Glock, making sure it was loaded. Safety off.
The cellar made him think of a gaping black hole, spanning the length of much of the house. The far corners were blackness, full of history and dark shadows. Probably a lot of bad energy if slaves had been led through the place. The beam of the Maglite seemed even more anemic, but it was strong enough to guide Cage across the expanse of the cellar. His boots connected with the cement, and he knew he’d nearly reached the stairs.
He’d damned near rather go bursting through the front door than try to climb these things.
The stairs leading to the old kitchen were even worse deathtraps than the ones in Ironwood’s basement. Cage tested the first step, trying to visualize the old kitchen. He would need to move quickly once he’d survived the stairs.
The cellar door opened in the middle, and the box-shaped kitchen had two entries into the house. The first would be to the left, which opened into the dining room. That door would be locked from the outside. Using the pry bar on it would be too risky. The second entrance went into the servants’ area of the house, which had been turned into an office and storage rooms. That door locked from the inside and opened into the old butler’s pantry, now a part of the newer kitchen, its big western window overlooking the magnolia trees.
That would be his moment of terror. If Ward happened to be pacing the great hall, he might be able to catch a glimpse of Cage moving through the kitchen to the servants’ area.
Hopefully Ward would remain uninterested in it.
If nothing had changed, Cage might be able to get a visual before he made his presence known.
The cellar door would be locked. He dug the mini pry bar out of the back of his jeans. He’d make noise, but hopefully it would be quiet, and Ward would be far enough away he wouldn’t hear it. He slipped the pack off his shoulders. It would only slow him down now. He stuffed the flashlight and extra clip into his front pockets and then jammed the set of handcuffs into his back pocket.
He took another step. The stairs wobbled. Another step, a heavy groan. Four steps away, the door teased him.
Another step, another shudder.
Cage's heart beat so hard he couldn’t hear anything else. His soaked shirt clung to his sweating back and chest.
One more step, and then another. Finally, the last one. The stairs creaked and shuddered violently. Cage grabbed for the door. Locked. With the steps swaying beneath him, Cage wedged the pry bar between the door and the frame, but the quiet made him hesitate. If he pulled too hard, the wood might split. That meant loud noise. Slowly, he pulled the bar toward him. The steps bounced as if threatening to drop out from under him.
The wood started to crack. Cage stopped. He couldn’t let Ward hear him. How the hell could he pull this off?
A woman screamed. He didn’t r
ecognize the voice; it had to be Kendra. Cage jerked in shock, the stairs shuddering terribly. She screamed again, and Cage yanked the pry bar as hard as he could. The lock busted away, the sound mangled by Kendra’s screaming.
Cage eased the door open, gun ready. He checked to make sure the kitchen was still shut off from the rest of the house and then slipped out from the basement.
Kendra stopped screaming abruptly, and a sick feeling tore through Cage.
What had John Ward done, and who would be next?
EIGHT
Cage moved quickly, barely noticing the old cook stove that Dani insisted was worth thousands. Probably installed in the early 1900s, it was a rare brand and in good shape.
A big wooden table took up much of the space in the historic kitchen. Cage knew Jaymee had given Dani permission to catalog all the smaller items found in the kitchen, There had been plenty, and Dani had stored them all at the historical foundation until Jaymee was ready for them. Which meant no knives or anything else for an extra weapon.
Cage skirted around the table, gently pulled the deadbolt back, and then opened the old door. It ghosted against the wooden floor, but the hinges remained silent.
The kitchen installed by Gereau after his aunt had died stretched out before him. The old lady would have probably thrown a fit, but the builders had done a good job of keeping the historical feel of the butler’s pantry, even keeping the sink in the same place, right under the big window. The dirty plates remained on the table, flies still feasting. Gun at the ready, Cage eased into the kitchen.
John Ward's yell glued Cage’s feet to the floor.
“You stupid bitch.” Ward spewed filth at his wife, followed by a thud. Kendra sobbed in pain, the sound so raw Cage’s eyes watered. They were still in the east side of the house. He waited to hear Nick or Jaymee, but they remained frighteningly silent.
His phone.
Now he had three bars. He texted Gina his location and asked about eyes on the house.