The basement looked like a well designed mine. Crossbeams and trusses supported the ceiling with the help of numerous load bearing walls. This intricate foundation held the weight of the structure above and created a labyrinth of tunnels which disappeared into the dark.
Barry walked around the main area of the basement then came back. Slightly excited he said, “It’s laid out like the first floor. Look.” He ran his flashlight against the far wall and outlined the shape of the room. “This is the main foyer.” The beam of light danced in a bigger circle. “And this, this is the great hall.” Confident, he walked across to the corridor he had found. “This is the hall we went down to find the storage room.” He flashed his light at Beth. “Now the question is, where would someone like Griffin put a baby?”
The question made her recoil. It was hard to believe Griffin kept a dead baby. How could Barry be so certain that it would be here? “What if he buried it?” She pointed to the dirt floor. “It could be anywhere.”
The suggestion surprised him. It was obvious he hadn’t considered the possibility. He crouched down and touched the cold dirt, letting it slide through his fingers. After thinking it over he said, “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” She was incredulous. Griffin burying the baby made the most sense.
He looked up. “Because of my mom.” By the look on Beth’s face, he could see his words hadn’t clarified anything. “When I found my mom last night, her body was laid out on the bed in the same nightdress she must have been wearing when she…” his voice cracked. “…when she jumped.” He threw down a handful of dirt and stood up. “I think the baby is here in a room laid out just like my mom.”
She stared at Barry, unable to fathom a mind like Griffin Tanner’s. How could he do that? How could he leave them unburied? Their spirits couldn’t be at rest. They must be…She remembered the sound of a baby crying when she came through the kitchen. The sound had faded as she moved farther into the house. She grabbed the flashlight from Barry and moved to the opposite end of the room. He was right. The underground rooms aligned with the first story. There was a corridor leading into the darkness. On the main floor it would have led to the kitchen and the backstairs. She flashed the light at Barry, “Over here.”
If her instinct was right, there had to be a nursery off the back corridor. Griffin would have realized he couldn’t leave a dead baby on the main floor. If he had in fact not buried the baby then there had to be a makeshift nursery in the basement.
They walked down the dark corridor together, flashing the light from the left to the right. As they passed a big room Barry announced. “Kitchen.”
They kept going until they came to a tunnel that veered to the left. She stopped and flashed the beam of light down the small corridor. “Where are we?”
He walked a few steps ahead and came back. “This way is Griffin’s study and over there,” he pointed down the small hall, “is his collection room.”
“What’s farther down?”
“If we keep going we’ll hit a wall. That’s where the back stairs would be.”
Disappointed she flashed her light down the hall certain they had missed something. “I thought maybe there would be a nursery or something. Did you ever see a baby nursery on the first floor?”
He shook his head.
Unconvinced, she walked the length of the hall until she hit the wall he had predicted. “Damn. I really thought I was on to something.”
“Let’s try the other corridor.”
She nodded half-heartily.
Retracing their steps they were about to pass the kitchen when she stopped dead cold. “The collection room.”
He stared at her, understanding dawning in his young eyes. Rushing her words, she said, “He wouldn’t have put the baby in the nursery. He would have considered his son, his own flesh and blood son, a prize.”
He finished in a bitter voice. “Something to be put on display, something worthy of his private collection.”
The pain and suffering of fourteen years were in his eyes. How different would life have been if he were really Griffin Tanner’s son? Would he have been abused or cherished? What would have happened to him if his mother had not taken her own life and the life of her newly born baby? Would he have mysteriously disappeared?
Beth watched him, unable to imagine his thoughts.
When he looked up and saw sadness reflected in her eyes he spat out, “I wouldn’t have changed anything. I’m glad I’m not his, every beating I took was worth the price.”
Tears stung her eyes. She said in response, “I’m glad too. Robert was a good man. He deserves to have such a beautiful son, such a strong son.” She wiped her eyes and laughed, referring to Jared, “Two strong, beautiful sons.”
He looked at her in amazement. “You know? How? How long have you known?”
Her lip quivered. She said, “Upstairs when I saw your eyes—I saw Robert.” She wiped her eyes again and shook her head. “How could I have not known all these years? You look just like him.”
“You think so?” His voice was husky, his words choked out of a tight throat.
“Yes, I do.” She pulled back and looked down the dark passageway, “Now let’s go find the baby and get the hell out of this tomb.”
*
Large crates lined the walls of the collection room. In the center of the room was a single display case. There were several bronze plaques buried in the floor. In their single minded approach to finding the baby and getting the hell out of the basement they walked over the plaques without noticing.
Even knowing what to expect, Beth was shocked when she saw the tiny skeleton swaddled in a light blue baby blanket.
The name, Gideon, was etched on the plaque of the display case.
She touched the glass with uncertainty, unable to remove the case and pick up the small bundle.
Sensing her reservation, Barry stepped forward and pulled the shotgun sling over his head. He held the gun out to her. “Do you know how to use it?”
“It’s been awhile.”
He acknowledged her statement with his eyes then pointed at the chamber, “It’s loaded and the safety is off.” He placed the gun in her hands and said, “It’s up to you, I just can’t carry both.”
The gun felt heavy in her hands. She wondered briefly if she would have the strength to draw it up to her shoulder when the moment demanded. Then she remembered Griffin slamming the butt of his gun into Barry’s stomach and into his temple. She slung the strap over her neck. She would do whatever she had to do.
When Barry lifted the glass on the display case, a small shudder rolled through the foundation of the house. The support beams trembled. Dirt shifted, raining down on them.
She shouted, “Hurry up, we need to get out of here!”
He scooped up the baby, cradling the light bundle against his chest. The form was so delicate, he was afraid it would disintegrate inside the blanket before he could place it in his mother’s arms.
A large crack appeared in the dirt floor. One of the bronze plaques disappeared into the fissure. The crack widened, obstructing a swift exit. Around them, the walls continued to tremble and from the corridor came the distinct smell of smoke.
Holding the barrel of the shotgun across her chest and the flashlight in her right hand, Beth, looking more like a commando chick out of a B-movie than a single mom who worked down at the local diner, jumped over the widening crack and yelled for Barry to follow. “Jump!”
He jumped.
Something moved in the crevice. A hand reached up out of the earth. It grabbed his ankle as he crossed the dark gap. Barry fell forward, the baby clutched in his arms. Terrified, hot urine ran down his leg. In his prone position, his nose was literally touching one of the bronze plaques.
It was a grave marker.
Closing his eyes, he hollered as loud as he could. “Beth!”
Smoke billowed down the corridor. Beth turned back when she realized Barry had not come out of the room.
The smoke, seeming to sense her intent, pushed forward surrounding her in a haze. Disoriented she stumbled as she tried to find her way back to the room. The smoke parted like a curtain, wanting her to see what lay beyond, enticing her to step forward and test the boundaries of her own sanity.
Giant pecan trees loomed in the night sky. Crickets were singing in the long grass, and the wind was blowing. The musty odor of mesquite floated in the air. Small sharp stones bit into the flesh of her feet. She looked down, confused, unable to remember why she had left the house in such a hurry. An unfamiliar sound was in the air. It crackled.
Trying to identify the crackling sound, she moved through bushes. Sharp branches scraped against her bare legs. A fire burned just beyond a line of old trucks. This was the source of the crackling sound. As she came closer she saw tents on fire. Rising above the crackle was a new sound. It was the sound of screams, high-pitched and undeniably human.
People were burning.
Beth knew this scene from her own nightmares as a child. After coming upon her calling a little, black girl “a dirty nigger,” her father, Thomas Edwards had wanted to teach a young Beth Edwards a lesson about intolerance. He had sat her down and told her in detail about the burning of the gypsy camp. He described the burnt husks found the next morning, some as small as she. He had said, ‘Small children Beth, those men let their hatred loose and they went up there and burned up women and children.’ Thomas Edwards was a big man. She had never seen her father show weakness, but when he said that last sentence she heard his voice crack and she about curled up and died from the shame and disappointment she saw on his face. Wanting to make it better she had said, “I would never set someone on fire.”
Thomas spit a wad of tobacco in the dirt and said, ‘When you call names like that you may as well have throw’d a match at the little girl.’ He didn’t let the punishment go at just a talk. After, he had whipped her good. She couldn’t sit down comfortably for nearly a week. Even so, it wasn’t the whipping she remembered. It was his description of those burnt bodies.
Was she doing this? It felt real. Smoke was stinging her eyes. She could smell burnt flesh. She whispered, “I have to help the children.” She ran deeper into the gypsy camp.
A small child was on fire. Beth snatched up an army green blanket and chased after the burning girl until she dropped. She fell on her using the blanket to smother the flames. When she pulled back the blanket, only a smoldering husk remained.
She screamed, “No!” and rolled off the body. Stomach bile rose up in her throat. She spit into the singed grass. From a great distance she heard her name being called, “Beth.”
A dark skinned man appeared out of the smoke filled night looming above her. He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to her feet. Half his face was burned away. He snarled. “You did this, you threw the match.”
On the burnt side of his face, Beth could see the exposed muscle of his jaw, the raw, stringy tendons working as his mouth came together to form each word. A gold cap on his back molar glittered through the charred wreckage. She felt her bladder weaken. Sounding like she was nine again, she said, “I wouldn’t set someone on fire.”
The thing before her, twisted its burnt face and in her father’s voice said, “When you call names like that you may as well have throw’d a match.” A dark tongue shot out and ran along charred lips.
Again, from far away, Barry’s voice came through the smoke-filled night.
“Help Beth, I need you!”
The gypsy leaned closer and licked Beth’s face with its dark tongue
The shotgun was wedged between her and the gruesome apparition. Angling the gun, she closed her eyes and pulled the trigger. The shotgun blast hit the gypsy in the chest. The impact sent him flying onto his back.
Scrambling away from the burnt figure, she heard Barry’s voice again. This time she could see him. He was on the floor in the collection room, his legs dangling into the crevice. With the baby still cradled in his arms he was unable to climb out.
Smoke, real or imagined wafted through the corridor and into the room. Crawling across the cold, dirt floor she reached Barry. This time she had no choice but to accept the decrepit baby into her embrace.
Relieved of his burden Barry attempted to crawl out of the crevice. His leg was still snagged. Angry over his own fear he snapped. “Give me the flashlight.” Dragging his body as far as he could he reached back with the flashlight and smashed at the skeletal hand holding his ankle. The fragile bones shattered on impact, disappearing into the crevice.
They sat together for a moment each afraid to voice the things they had seen. She finally said, “The fire.” It was poised more as a question than a statement.
He tilted his head up and said, “I think it’s real. I think Griffin has set the whole place on fire.”
Breathless she asked, “The gypsies?”
He murmured, “Real enough. I don’t think they want us to take the baby.”
She looked down at the macabre form bundled in the blanket, half tempted to throw it down into the crevice—she didn’t owe Dora anything. The woman had been the cause of so much pain in Beth’s life. Why should she risk anything for her? She lifted her eyes and found Barry watching her carefully.
He said, “He didn’t cheat on you.”
Her lips quivered.
“I’m two years older than Jar.” He let the number sink in before adding, “It’s not for her anyway. It’s for me.” He held out his arms, waiting.
Placing the dead baby into his outstretched arms she said, “All right. I’ll do this for you.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Junction, Texas
A raging inferno engulfed the front of the house. The fire, not satiated by the foyer and the great hall, steadily climbed the stairs. Tongues of flame jumped out hungrily to taste the wood, the wall hangings and the drapery. Thick, black smoke, an emissary of the coming destruction, rolled through the halls.
Keeping low to avoid the dangerous smoke, Beth and Barry moved through the dark corridors toward the back of the house. Barry revealed the rest of his plan when they were safely in the small butler’s pantry. He intended to take the dumbwaiter up to the attic, lay the delicate bundle with his mother and come right back down. Throwing her a cocky smile he climbed up onto a small table and opened the door set in the wall. He said, “Don’t worry this shouldn’t take more than…” His words faded into a curse. “God damn it.” He was holding the end of a cut rope.
The boyish face once again turned hard. He pointed to the door that led outside. “Wait for me here. If the smoke gets too heavy just get out.”
She looked at him, understanding his intent. “You’ll never make it. The whole house is going to collapse. The fire’s already on the first landing. The second and third floors can’t last.”
“I have to do this.” He picked up the bundled corpse and walked toward the door.
She followed him into the hall, intending to go with him.
Turning, he blocked her. “Think of Jar. He’s going to need his mother when he comes home.” He leaned over, kissed her cheek and disappeared toward the back stairs.
Barry made the third landing without any trouble. Hazy smoke drifted through the hall. Swearing softly, he cursed Griffin for cutting the dumbwaiter rope. Expecting the attic door to be locked, he half-heartedly climbed the steps.
The door stood slightly ajar.
Laughing in disbelief, he gave it a cautious push. He peered in expecting Griffin to jump from the shadows. Nothing happened.
The attic was hot. The heat wasn’t coming from the sun or the long drought but emanating through the floors and the walls.
He didn’t have much time.
Pulling the blanket away from his mother, he rearranged her arms and placed the small bundle in her embrace. He kneeled down next to the bed and said, “Mom, I wish I could give you a proper burial, but the house is on fire and I won’t be able to get you out in time. I brought you the baby. I
hope that was the right thing to do. Robert is here now and he’ll keep you safe from the gypsies, and Griffin’s gone so you don’t need to be afraid anymore.”
He strained to remember what the minister usually said at a funeral. He stood up and whispered. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Then he awkwardly made the sign of the cross and said, “Rest in peace. Amen.” He stepped away from the bed. “I have to go, Mom.”
As if seeking an enemy the fire found him. Flames zigzagged down the hall of the third floor. The passage down the back stairs was still possible if he moved quickly. He pushed away from the wall ready to make a run for it. The flames shifted and blocked his way.
Not trusting his senses, he stepped to the right.
The flames shifted to the right.
He stepped to the left.
The flames danced to the left.
Understanding dawned on him. He murmured. “The gypsies.”
As if summoned from the depths of hell, the gypsies appeared gyrating on the wave of the flames. Their voices unified as one with the hissing and crackling of the fire. “Give us back the baby.”
Barry shouted. “No! He belongs with his mother.”
The flames shot up higher, climbing the walls and racing across the ceiling. His only chance of escape was blocked by the growing wall of fire. Backing up the stairs he slowly retreated toward the attic. The flames, sensing his movement, climbed the wall of the stairwell, trying to block his retreat. He threw himself through the fire, rolled into the attic and managed to kick the door shut. The smell of singed hair filled his nostrils.
Smoke tendrils drifted under the door. The temperature in the room grew hotter. The paper on his mother’s desk started to smoke, the fabric of her nightgown to curl. Any moment things were going to start bursting into flames. This was no ordinary fire.
The Drought Page 23