HIDDEN DOORS, SECRET ROOMS

by Jamie Eubanks

  It was the answer to the question that had driven him all but insane, ever since the blizzard: Yes, Jillian Braedon was still alive.

  “Kevin?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Our shift ends in a couple of hours, and they’ll be here with the chopper. I know it’s been a long night, but I think one of us should pay Mills another visit.”

  “Why just one of us?”

  “We don’t want to intimidate the man. We have a bad enough reputation as it is without pushing around a celebrity. He’d be more relaxed if one man, instead of two, shows up on his doorstep. And...if he feels confident, he’s more apt to slip up. You know, just drop by, pay a friendly visit, and see if he needs anything from town.”

  “You think I’m right about him, don’t you?”

  “Let’s just say I don’t like leaving anything to chance.”

  “Fine. You go. I’m sure Mills would rather see you than me.”

  Andrews nodded then downed the rest of his cooling coffee. That was exactly what he’d thought Brewster would say. Besides, Brewster couldn’t pilot the chopper.

  <<>>

  Time has a way of becoming distorted during the passage of night. Minutes are like hours; hours, like minutes. Tonight, the latter held true. The moon remained hidden and only a scattering of stars could be seen from the window. The night passed quickly, too quickly.

  John left his makeshift bed in the living room to check on the sleeping woman. Slowly, silently, he opened the door. There she lay on her side – the woman who had quoted Sappho – resting between the cool satin sheets, her face a shadow against the pillow.

  The hall held on to the hour’s darkness, but John felt no need to turn on the light. He took the long way around the hall, so he could check in on Valerie. The child slept soundly on her side, both hands balled into loose fists beneath her chin, knees drawn toward her stomach. Although no one could take the special place in his heart reserved for his son, he had come to the conclusion that there were other special places. And Valerie, the little chatterbox chipmunk, had filled one of them quite neatly. She seemed to have stolen Bear's heart, as well. Bear got up from the rug at the foot of the bed and padded slowly to the door, following John into the living room.

  The transponder Brewster had given him rested on the mantle, positioned between the two brass cannons. John picked it up, turning the object in hand. He looked down at Bear and then shook his head. "I'm a fool; you know that, Bear? The man says: 'Look before you leap.' Well, I'm looking. What I see in the distance is heartache, but I'm about to leap anyway. Does that make any sense to you, boy?"

  Bear padded off and John returned the transponder to the mantle. He used the poker to stir the coals and then added a few sticks of firewood. As he headed towards the library, the grandfather clock disturbed the silence by chiming three times. Physically, he felt exhausted. Artistically, he was in rare form. Many years had passed since he'd written anything other than the occasional letter he sent to his uncle in Dover. And now, a haunting melody came together in his mind, complete with lyrics. As he had always done in the past, he took a moment to mentally examine the composition in the making, to be sure that it was an original and not something he had heard before. Once convinced that the music belonged to him alone, he searched his pocket for the box of matches he usually kept there, lit the candle, and took a seat at the small table.

  By the yellow flame of the candle, John scratched the notes, one by one, down on the pad. The composition came so swiftly, flowed so evenly from mind to hand to paper, it seemed as if he were merely a tool of delivery, enabling the music to give birth to itself. Nearly two hours passed before he bit down on the end of his pen, going over what he'd written. After several moments of tedious deliberation, John set the pen down, rested back in the chair and gazed at the transparent ghost of the room that reflected off the window. It was finished. The grandfather clock chimed five times, reminding him that daylight was only a few hours away, and he had yet to get any sleep.

  He reached for his cane and suddenly stopped. His attention returned to the window. Something moved just beyond the glass. He blinked. He blinked again, attempting to focus his weary eyes on the dark outside, only to realize what he'd seen in the glass was his own reflection.

  CHAPTER 23

  It gave him an odd feeling to think his home might be bugged, which added another good reason to not wait until the roads were clear to make his trip into town. One slip‑up, one more visit from the creature that lived in Jillian's nightmares, one sleepwalking venture of a singing child – and everything could fall apart. He knew the woman's snowmobile couldn't have been left too far away. But even if he could find it and managed to repair the damn thing, using the stolen snowmobile to get into town could turn out to be a dangerous mistake. Twenty miles stood between here and Sandstone. Twenty miles of open space to cross without being caught by Brewster. A simple check on the vehicle identification number would prove who owned the snowmobile and lead them straight back here to Jillian.

  John had something else to consider as well. The trip would take hours, and in that time, Jillian and Valerie would be here alone. Anything could go wrong. Brewster could show up and have the entire house either bugged or torn apart before John returned. Jillian might have another nightmare and – God forbid – Valerie would be alone to deal with her mother's screams and possibly alone to deal with the beast itself.

  More and more, this house felt like a prison. He couldn't leave. It wasn't safe to stay. He had to deal with this situation and he needed to deal with it now.

  John ran a hand down the length of his face and considered taking a much-needed rest, when inspiration struck. He had a way to get a message out to Mel Talbot, and it could be accomplished without leaving the house. If Mel were alive, and if he were at the same address, he could be here within four or five days. And if Mel could get here, then Mel could find a way into town and get things rolling.

  John returned to the library and lit the candle. He took a seat, flipped the writing tablet to a clean sheet of paper, and took up a pen in his left hand.

  Dear Mr. Talbot:

  This is in reference to the equipment we discussed during our first meeting at the pub. I have given it a great deal of thought and am enclosing a cheque for the full amount.

  You will also find a little extra to cover the cost of your trip here, in the event you decide to bring it in person. And I do hope that will be the case, since I am most certainly in need of instruction.

  John paused for a moment. In the event someone else first read this letter – someone gainfully employed by the FBI – it was important that this seem like an ordinary, innocent letter. Which meant there had to be some reasonable basis for his request. He drummed his fingers lightly on the table, grinned, and wrote down the following:

  I am in the middle of striking a new deal with a recording company. But it’s on the hush, not presently meant for public consumption. I'm sure the programs and equipment we discussed will be most beneficial in that venture. Anything that can give life to my music and further my career will be well worth the expense.

  Unfortunately, this part of the world has been hit by one snowstorm after another. There is no guarantee that it won't snow again just before your arrival. And since I am without a telephone, there is no way for you to contact me with your flight information. Consequently, I won't be able to meet you at the airport. Time, however, is of the essence.

  If you fly in to the Phoenix airport, I'm sure you'll have no difficulty finding a helicopter to bring you here. Yes, I’m still in Sandstone, Arizona, U.S.A. To save on delays, please bring everything we discussed during our first meeting. The recording deal is to be decided within a month, and I need time to refine my presentation.

  Looking forward to seeing you within the next few days.

  Give my regards to the Iron Lady and her bank account.

  Sincerely,

  John E. Mills

  He read it once, twice, then
set down the pen and left to get his checkbook, address book, and an envelope from his desk in the master bedroom. If curiosity over the letter didn’t bring Mel here, the amount of the check – thirty thousand American dollars – would do the trick. No, Mel wasn't interested in money, at least not the Mel John had known a few years ago. The check, however, should help insure the letter would be taken seriously.

  After addressing the envelope and drawing a map of the area, John left the library and went to his safe. He slid the six high stack of canned tuna out of the way, pressed the button beneath the shelf, and the door slid soundlessly into the wall. He stepped inside the triangular shaped room and eased himself down on his knees. His fingers slid beneath the edge of the carpet, pulling back to expose a concrete floor that was home to a rectangular metal plate roughly the size of a shoebox lid: the cover of his safe. He removed the cover and withdrew a strongbox. He brought the strongbox into the pantry, took the key that was hidden between two boxes of Earl Grey tea, and slipped it into the lock. A moment later, he shuffled through the hundreds until he came to the smallest denomination in his possession, a twenty dollar bill – and pealed three of them off the pile, more than enough for expedited overseas delivery.

  Now, the time had come to hide Jillian and Valerie so he could summon the delivery boy.

  <<>>

  If the house was bugged, it only seemed appropriate to use it for his benefit. John took an old T-shirt from the rag cabinet in the laundry room and tied it in three knots. Next, he went into the kitchen and set the table with one bowl, one glass, one napkin and one spoon. He set a small kettle of water on the stovetop and pulled the oatmeal canister from the cupboard. From there, he went into the pantry and opened the door to what Valerie referred to as ‘the secret room,’ and what John referred to as ‘the vault.’

  “Comfortable, ladies?” he asked.

  Jillian shone the flashlight into his eyes. “Like two peas in a pod. What about Bear?” she asked.

  “Don’t worry. Bear will be outside.”

  Valerie dropped her head onto one of the two pillows on the floor and huddled beneath the blanket. Jillian scooted down beside her and John closed the door.

  He found Bear in the living room, stretched out by the fireplace, black fur highlighted blue by the flames.

  “Something wrong, boy?” he asked. He took the knotted T-shirt and playfully shook it in front of the dog’s muzzle. Bear reacted as expected. The dog snapped at the shirt just as John pulled it away. Again, he shook the shirt in front of Bear. As the dog snapped for it, John pulled back.

  Barking, the dog got up. “What’s wrong, boy?” John asked, using the shirt to lead the dog towards the foyer. “Is someone out there?” This time, when John teased the dog with the shirt, he let the dog get hold of it. Bear tugged, growling playfully.

  John tugged, pulled to the left, to the right, and backed his way to the large oak door, which wasn’t easy considering that he had only one good leg and Bear had four. When he opened the door, Bear barked. And goading the dog even more, John made as if to throw the shirt outside while yelling, “Go, boy!”

  Bear darted out into the crusted over snow and John looked up, shielding his eyes from the glare of sunlight as a helicopter came into view. Even if his house were bugged, John didn’t believe they could get here this quickly. He closed the front door to keep Bear outside then went into the laundry room to deposit the shirt in the washing machine, first untying the knots. Next, he went into the kitchen, turning on the gas burner beneath the kettle. He filled the glass from the table with water and before replacing it on the table John took a satisfying gulp. Outside, the helicopter whined as it descended to the ground.

  As he headed to the front door, he went over the mental list he’d created earlier. The beds were made. The extra toothbrushes were wrapped in plastic and hidden in the linen closet. The shotgun was once again loaded. The hairbrush had been checked for dark hairs. The letter he had drafted earlier was in the library. And his two favorite people in the whole world were safe and sound in the vault. Everything seemed to be in order. Yet John’s stomach needed an Alka‑Seltzer.

  And now with the stage set, his stomach tied in knots, and the audience waiting at the door, the time had come for the show to begin.

  <<>>

  "This is a coincidence," John said, as Andrews stood before the doorway.

  Andrews slipped his dark sunglasses neatly into his inside breast pocket, looking as if he’d not slept in days. His face was unshaven. The bags beneath his eyes sagged like small bruised water balloons. "Coincidence?" Andrews repeated.

  "Yes. Just before you arrived, my dog started barking. He doesn't bark that often. I thought, perhaps, the woman you were looking for might be nearby, and I was about to use the transponder Agent Brewster had given me. Please, come in."

  Andrews stepped inside, snow clinging to his hard-soled shoes. "Your dog probably heard the chopper."

  "Yes. I'm sure that's what it was. Any news on the woman?"

  "No," Andrews replied, as they walked into the living room.

  John wanted to make small talk, hoping to set his visitor at ease. "Would you care for a cup of tea?"

  "Thank you. A cup of coffee might hit the spot." "Instant?"

  "Instant's fine. Thank you." Andrews slipped out of his overcoat and draped it over the arm of the chair. "No cream. No sugar," he said, pulling at the knot in his tie.

  "Make yourself comfortable. The kettle should already be boiling. I'll be right back."

  The kettle wasn't boiling, but it was close enough, considering he didn't wish to leave Andrews alone for very long. When John returned to the living room with the coffee, he found Andrews standing over the Steinway, staring down at the keys. "This is quite a piano."

  "It is. I had it shipped here from London when I moved. Couldn’t bear to leave her behind. Do you play?"

  "Me?" Andrews said, smiling. "No. But I admire those who do. Tell me, Mr. Mills...I've always wondered... What's it like to be on stage before thousands of adoring fans?"

  John passed Andrews a steaming cup of black coffee. The question was one he'd been asked countless times in the past; so his answer, casual in delivery, was well rehearsed. "It's like being on the wildest roller coaster ride of your life. It's scary as hell, and the fear is fuel to the excitement. I miss those days."

  "I bet you do."

  "Which is why I'm planning a comeback." He dropped his gaze to the polished ivory and ebony. A melancholy smile briefed his lips. "It may not happen quite the way I plan. So, I would appreciate it if you don't mention it to anyone else." He shook his head lightly, as if to say: Where are my manners? Then said, "I'm sure you didn't come here to discuss my music career, Special Agent Andrews. How may I help you?"

  "Actually, I dropped by to see how you were doing. I'll be heading into town soon and was wondering, since you're snowed in, if you'd like me to bring you back anything."

  "No," John replied. "I'm all set here. But I'd like to thank you for...Wait," he said as if an idea just occurred. "There is something you could do for me, if you don't mind. I have a letter that needs mailing. It's very important. You might say my career hinges upon its timely delivery. Is there any chance you'll be going near a post office or Fed-Ex any time soon?"

  "I'll make sure it gets mailed today. It's no trouble at all."

  CHAPTER 24

  Andrews and Brewster walked down the quiet, snow-lined sidewalk, side by side in their three-piece suits and overcoats, looking very much out of place in this small high-desert town. They passed a young boy on the sidewalk who wore oversized rubber boots and a tattered bleach-stained denim jacket. The boy's brown hair was disheveled; smeared chocolate added a little more color to his lightly freckled face and hands. He appeared to be waiting for someone to come out of Sandstone Pipe & Supply. They passed a toothless, elderly woman who sat on a bench, gumming a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while waiting for the bus. Two teenage boys, dressed as if they'd just
stepped off the cover of a lumberjack magazine, cut across the street with a basket of clothes each, and went into The Washateria.

  Cars went by. A sixty‑seven Mustang labored up the street with a faulty muffler, motor rumbling, wheels spinning in the dirty slush. An old Pontiac with the words: "WASH ME," written boldly in the filth of the rear window, pulled in front of Eileen's Diner, choking and sputtering even after the owner had pocketed the key.

  Andrews and Brewster stepped into the diner. It was a small restaurant with booths lining one glass-paneled wall, round tables towards the center of the room that could comfortably seat four, and stools set along the length of the counter.

  They spotted Laurel immediately, an easy discovery with her red hair and pale complexion.

  "Need a favor," Brewster said as he slid into the booth seat across from the woman.

  Laurel looked up at Andrews then scooted over to make room. Andrews, however, remained standing. She turned to Brewster, smiling. "What's up?"

  "I want you to run a check on a guy named Melvin Talbot from Hammersmith, London."

  "England?"

  "That’s the place," Brewster replied. He reached into his breast pocket and threw a sealed envelope on the table. "I need the info right away. We have a letter that needs to be mailed; but first, I want to know if it's safe to send the damn thing."

  She eyed the return address on the envelope, observed no stamp, and said, "Where did you get it?"

  "Mills gave it to Andrews to mail for him."

  Laurel tucked a lock of red hair behind her ear, while dunking a French fry into a puddle of ketchup on her plate. "John Mills just handed it to you? Wouldn't it be simpler if you just opened the letter and read it?"