by Maggie Pill
“And the garden?” Iris asked. “It needs a lot of attention or the weeds will choke out the little plants.”
“They’ll see to that, too,” I told her, hoping Cramer, Bill, and Carla knew carrots from pigweed. I doubted they did, but it was no longer Iris’ job to worry about it.
“Are they living in our house?” Daisy asked.
I was honest. “Someone has to be there to see to everything.”
She nodded, her eyes downcast. It had to be hard knowing someone new was in what the girls thought of as home.
“We tried to take care of things after Mom left, but we were getting low on feed.” Pansy glanced at Iris. “We told Ben about it, but he didn’t act like he cared.”
Daisy wasn’t keeping up with her ice cream, and I foresaw disaster for the new outfit. Noticing, Iris took the cone from Daisy’s hand and licked around the outside to remove the melted part. When she handed it back, Daisy took a lick and said, “Ben was busy, ’cause he was fixing up the cabin for us.”
“It’s not like we asked him to.” Pansy’s tone was resentful.
“It was nice of him, though,” Iris said, her tone so mom-like I smiled. “He made us a playhouse, and we should be grateful.”
“Ben was remodeling the cabin for you?” Going out of his way for the girls seemed out of character.
“He kept buying stuff and hauling it down there, but it was a big secret,” Pansy said. “We weren’t allowed down there, but when he finally let us see it, it didn’t look that different.”
Iris was still trying to be grateful. “He fixed the door, and he built bunk beds.”
Pansy shrugged. “It didn’t seem like it was worth the time he spent down there. A new door, windows, and bunks. That’s all.”
“There’s another door inside the bed.” Daisy was doing better at keeping up with the drips.
I looked at Iris, who seemed surprised. “What door is that, Daisy?”
“You can’t see it unless you move the mattress,” She gave her cone another lick. “It’s a trapper door, like in Aladdin.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Faye
Retta called just after lunch. Dale had gone back to his workshop, and I was baking cookies. Relaying the girls’ story and Daisy’s mention of a “trapper door,” she strongly suggested I investigate. Setting the whole sheet of cookies in the fridge, I headed back to the farm. I figured Daisy had probably misinterpreted some hardware in the bunk and concluded it was a door, but I didn’t mind satisfying Retta’s curiosity. I’d meant to go out there that afternoon anyway, to check on my horses and see Bill and Carla, who’d arrived from Chicago in the early morning hours.
I parked in the driveway next to Bill’s ancient CRV, which was packed to the roof with boxes and tubs. Attached was a rental trailer containing what looked like the rest of their belongings.
Cramer came out of the barn, carrying an empty bucket. “Hey!” he called out. The knee-high rubber boots he wore were a wise choice for a barnyard in spring. Over a gate post hung a flannel shirt he’d shed, since the afternoon sun had become quite warm.
“How are you coping with the menagerie?”
He shrugged. “Almost everybody’s been fed—not that it will keep the peacocks from complaining.”
As if on cue, we heard a cry that sounded a lot like “Help!” The male came strutting out from behind the shed, very much the master of all he surveyed, at least in his little pea-brain. Next came the hens, a few steps behind, like repressed wives.
The house was silent. “Are Bill and Carla up?”
“Haven’t seen them. It was almost dawn when they got in.”
“I’ll look in on the horses first,” I said.
Nodding, Cramer went on to the shed with his bucket. Side-stepping barnyard hazards, I made my way to the barn and, squinting into its cool exterior, approached the horse stalls. “Want to explore a little?” I asked.
Snapping a lead rope onto the halter, I led first one then the other to the paddock attached to the barn. Anni-Frid did a little dance of joy when she stepped out into the sun. Agnetha followed more sedately, but she shook her head as I released her, looking around at the new surroundings.
I spent a few minutes with them, letting them get used to me in this new setting and wondering if I might possibly ride after thirty years out of the saddle. I didn’t want my horses to forget their training, but I couldn’t help but notice how high their backs were off the ground. A fall at my age wouldn’t be pretty. Might the Isley girls come out and exercise them? That would give them a chance to see their former home again, and I wouldn’t have to risk my neck—or a hip.
“Hey, Mom!” I turned to see Bill coming out of the house, dressed in rumpled sweats. Meeting him halfway, I embraced him. Like Cramer, Bill is tall, but he carries less weight. He’d grown a beard, and I gave it a playful tug. “New look?”
“I was going for farmer, but Carla says I look more like a deranged lumberjack.” He gestured at the car and trailer. “After we talked about it, we decided we didn’t need the expense of two trips. We brought everything on this one.”
“Things went okay?” It was my way of asking if they’d gotten out of their lease without legal difficulties.
“No big problems. We’ll see a lawyer to make sure everything’s ironed out.” He yawned behind a fist. “Sorry. Not much sleep.”
“I saw your phone message when you got in.”
“I kind of heard you pull in, I think.” Having finished his chores, Cramer approached to give his brother a manly hug that lasted all of one second. “I’ll help you unload your stuff later.”
“We’ll have to move the previous tenants’ stuff out first.” Turning to me he asked, “Did these people just abandon the place?”
“At least one of them is dead.” I gave a brief recap of the situation, ending with, “The littlest girl claims there’s a trapdoor in the cabin. I’m going down there to see if she’s correct.”
“Do you want us to come along?”
I gestured at the loaded vehicle behind me. “Looks like you have lots to do right here.”
Carla came out of the house, wearing jeans and a Northwestern sweatshirt and pulling her long, black hair back into a low ponytail. I noted gray streaks, though she was only thirty. Carla would never consider covering the gray, and on that we agree. Barb and Retta can do as they like; I earned every one of my gray hairs, and the world is welcomed to look at them.
After hugging me and Cramer Carla offered, “I can make coffee. There’s a really cool tin pot in the kitchen, and I want to try it.”
“I’m on a mission,” I said, “but when I get back, I’ll see how well you manage it.”
“It’s a long walk, if I remember,” Bill said.
“Not as long for an adult as it was for a kid. You guys go ahead and get your stuff unloaded. I won’t be long.”
Leaving them to the task, I headed up the hill, rounded the barn, and took the path to the cabin. This time there were no girlish voices, and I entered alone, flashing the light I’d brought with me around the interior. Going directly to the bunk-beds, I knelt and pulled the foam pad off the bottom one. “She’s right,” I muttered. In one corner there was a hasp, padlocked to the bed frame.
I glared at the lock, stymied. If the trapdoor was Ben’s secret, he’d have kept the key with him, probably on the ring the sheriff had found in his jeans pocket.
Glancing around the room, I looked for something shiny. Many people hide a spare key in case they forget or lose the first one. I’d done that a few times myself over the years.
I searched the cabin, feeling along the rafters and examining the walls. After encountering a lot of dirt and many cobwebs, I spotted it almost at the ceiling. Hung on a finish nail, the key blended with the tone of the wood. It was unlikely anyone would notice it, and I could just barely touch it if I flattened my body against the wall and reached up as far as possible.
After a few tries I managed to slide the ke
y off the nail, but it dropped to the floor. I spent a few more minutes lighting the floor with the flashlight in order to see where it fell. I found it in a corner, moved to the trapdoor, and knelt again, unlocking the padlock and removing it.
I felt a moment’s dread at the thought of what I might find down there, but I decided if there was a dead body I’d have smelled it by now. The trapdoor was heavy, and I couldn’t lift it from my crouched position. Standing, I braced my legs, gave a mighty heave on the handle, and pulled upward. When the door was perpendicular to the floor, I gave it a nudge with my hip, sending it onto the bed frame with a crash. As the sound echoed through the cabin, I knelt again, eager to see what was below.
It was a bunker. A crude wooden ladder led down to a dirt floor perhaps eight feet below. The light from the plastic windows didn’t illuminate the space, but I directed my flashlight into the hole. Perhaps ten by ten, the space was half-filled with boxes and crates stacked against the wall opposite the ladder.
With what I’d learned over the last few days about McAdams, I should have known he’d be prepared for Armageddon, whatever that meant to him. It might be terrorists, but it might just as easily be zombies, aliens, or the “gov’mint.”
Climbing clumsily down the ladder, I explored the contents of the bunker. There was food, of course, and bottled water, stacked on a rough shelf supported by stakes driven into the earthen wall. One corner contained a chemical toilet, with the appropriate supplies stacked beside it. An army cot lay folded along one wall, and beside it were a couple of rifles wrapped in clear plastic, presumably to keep them in working condition. Two plastic tubs in another corner held a rolled sleeping bag and camouflage clothing: pants, a jacket, gloves, a hood, and a pair of boots. There was no provision for a woman or children. It was a bunker for one.
The tubs sat on a wooden box about four feet by two feet, and I set them aside to examine the box. It had three latches. Two were the loop-over-a-catch kind common to briefcases. The center one required a key, but the key was taped to the end of the box. I removed the tape, unstuck the key, and used it to open the latch.
Inside was what looked like an over-sized shotgun. Near its barrel, four nasty-looking projectiles rested in packing foam cut precisely to fit their outlines.
A soft rustle behind me served as warning, and something shifted in the beam of my flashlight. I meant to turn, but before I could, a terrible blow landed just above my ear. I fell to the dirt floor, unable to move, think, or even protect my face from the impact. Pencil-thin strips of light came and went. Noises seemed to come from far away. I was pushed roughly aside, and I felt rather than heard my groan of protest. Feet stepped around me. Metal snapped against metal; wood scraped against wood. More steps, and the ladder groaned as weight shifted on and off its rungs. My brain was only beginning to recover when I heard, “If you’re a good detective, you’ll find a way out of here.”
The trapdoor slammed shut, and a metallic snap indicated the padlock had been set back in place. Steps sounded on the wooden floor above. Then there was nothing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Barb
Though I had anticipated seeing my friend Shirley for some time, I was distracted as I drove south. What if Rose Isley was still alive somewhere? Was I wasting time reliving the past when I should be working to find her?
At my age I miss very few rest areas, and each time I stopped, I checked for phone messages. There was nothing from Faye all morning, which meant everything was fine.
Shirley was preparing lunch when I arrived, so I sat in her kitchen as she worked. We spent a while catching up as we sipped iced tea. It was good to laugh at our young selves and the things we’d done, said, and believed.
It was just after one when my phone rang. Shirley was clearing away the dishes, and I excused myself to answer. The caller ID said it was Retta, but it was Pansy’s voice I heard when I answered. “Ms. Evans? I have something to tell you, and Mrs. Stilson is busy. She said we could use her phone if we needed to.”
“Okay.” I was pleased she’d chosen to tell me something first, before she told Retta. Iris was sweet and Daisy was cute, but Pansy was a sharp little cookie, and it appeared she trusted me.
“What is it, Pansy?”
“We’re at your house. Mrs. Stilson is inside and Mrs. Burner is gone, but I think I saw Sharky drive by.”
My first thought was Why is Retta at the house? Chiding myself for being overly suspicious, I focused on what Pansy had said. “Are you sure it was Sharky?”
“Well, no. Iris and Daisy didn’t see him at all, and I just got a quick glimpse. This guy drove by in an old beater, and he was stretching his neck to look like Sharky does, you know? Like a turkey buzzard pecking at road kill.”
On one hand, I trusted Pansy. On the other, I couldn’t think of a reason Sharky would drive by my house. It was possible her fears had turned an innocent passer-by into the monster she feared. With all that had happened to her lately, it was understandable.
“It might have been Sharky,” I said, “but it might not. You shouldn’t worry about it.”
“But what if he’s looking for me—for us?”
“I can handle him,” I said, “and I’ll be back home tomorrow afternoon. If you see him again, though, tell Retta to contact Chief Neuencamp. It’s very important that we locate him.”
“I will,” she vowed. “I want to be a detective, like you.”
That made me smile. “Thanks for the call, Pansy.”
Shirley drove into the city, showing me the sights. Though I enjoyed her company, I couldn’t stop thinking about what was going on at home. Had Pansy really seen Sharky? Might he have plans to kidnap her? Should I warn Retta to be extra vigilant?
I hate it when people constantly check their phones for messages. It seems to indicate they’re looking for someone or something more interesting than the person they’re with. Still, I sneaked a look at my messages several times that afternoon, once while Shirley visited the restroom and twice while she was trying on clothes. Nothing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Faye
“Mom?” Cramer’s voice was the sweetest thing I’d ever heard. “Mom, are you in here?”
I’d promised myself my sons would come looking for me, but when it finally happened, I sobbed aloud with relief. Rising stiffly from the corner where I’d sat for almost an hour, I used a two-liter water bottle to bang on the trapdoor. “Under the floor! Take the mattress off the bottom bunk!”
Cramer found the trapdoor easily enough, but he called out, “There’s no key.”
They’d tossed it. The hopeful feelings I’d begun to let grow were squashed back into the pit of my despair. I heard Cramer pulling at the door, grunting with the effort. “There’s no place to get a hold,” he said. “And there’s nothing to use for a lever.”
I thought about the rifles I’d seen earlier. Could I load one, shoot through the trapdoor, and destroy the padlock? I doubted my marksmanship, having last fired a gun several decades ago, and there was also the fact that I had no idea how to load a rifle.
Cramer was thinking more logically. “I saw some bolt cutters in the tool shed,” he shouted. “I’ll get them.” Pausing, he asked, “Will you be okay?”
“Yes,” I called. “But hurry.”
I’ve always had a fear of heights. I hate bridges and skyscrapers and roller coasters. This new experience was revealing another panic-inducing fear. For those first few minutes after the trapdoor slammed, I’d thought I might lose it completely. It was hard to breathe, though I could see the ventilation holes Ben had dug in the walls and feel the fresh air they provided. Knowing they were there wasn’t enough. My chest still felt like it would explode. My arms and legs twitched with repressed fear. I tried to dig my way out for a while, but with only forks and spoons for tools, I’d been unable to even make a start on the hard-packed walls.
The tiny logical part of my mind that remained whispered that Cramer or Bill would come looking
when I didn’t return. I struggled to remember what I’d told them. Had I mentioned the trapdoor? Had I told them the trapdoor was hidden by the bed frame? I couldn’t recall, but they’d figure it out. At least that’s what I tried to believe.
I held onto my sanity by singing. Recalling lyrics and thinking up the next song kept my mind busy, allowing me to avoid turning into a raving lunatic. Mostly I sang hymns, but I threw in some Blondie and a little Doctor Hook for diversity. It took everything I had not to give in to panic, but belting out “The Cover of the Rolling Stone” helped a little.
The last stretch of time was easier, knowing Cramer would return. I followed him in my imagination: Out the door, through the woods, down the road that circled the barn, and into the tool shed. Once he found the bolt cutters, he’d stop and tell Bill the situation, and he and Carla would return with him. I imagined them coming up the slope, around the barn, through the woods, and back to the cabin. I tried not to hurry them, but it felt like eons before there were steps above me again.
“We’re here, Mom.” Cramer was panting from exertion. “I had trouble getting to the bolt cutters because we moved so much stuff out to the shed.” Metallic sounds accompanied his words, and I heard the snap that signaled the end of the padlock’s usefulness. With rattles and thumps, the lock disengaged from the hook, and I heard it clunk as Cramer tossed it onto the plank floor.
I rose from my corner, knowing I should stay out of the way but unable to do it. I wanted out of there more than I’d wanted anything for a long time. When the heavy door rose and light spilled down on me, I started singing Sting’s, “If You Love Somebody.” Always willing to support me in my craziness, Cramer did backup as I climbed the ladder: “Free, free, set them free.”
Our song didn’t keep me from bursting into tears as I hugged my sons and blessed the daylight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Retta
When Cramer’s name came up on my phone, I assumed he had a question about the farm. “What’s up, dude?”