Barton grabbed my wrist and towed me into the large cellar under Rosemont. Turning, I found we arrived in fairy-tale fashion, through a bulky armoire, old and plain, its back cut away and set against the wall to conceal the passageway. He left the armoire doors ajar and pulled me forward.
In addition to the glowing lantern, waning sunlight sifted in from squat windows at ground level. The cellar stairs rose upward, farther over to our left. Barton and I picked our way through the treasures and trappings of cluttered storage. He knew the route and led me to the far wall, the distance I roughly estimated to be midway into the floor plan of the first level.
A row of the stock red bricks we still know today was embedded along this bearing wall constructed primarily of concrete block. The bricks protruded from the wall, fashioned after a wooden chair rail, and of similar height from the floor. Without hesitation, Barton marched directly up to one brick in particular—no different from the others within its ranks—and pushed. It recessed neatly into the wall. I heard a mechanical click and a grind, the brick rebounded, and a door sprung open a few inches out of the wall to his left. Evidently, he learned well under Trey’s tutelage.
I stood awed by the masterful engineering and the ingenious man from the eighteen-forties who conceived it. I wanted Clay to know about Jonah Rosemont’s secret passageways, hidden latches, and doors that popped out of nowhere. Depending on how things went, I thought Barton might let me leave Clay a note before my departure from this world, saying how to access them. They must not be lost in history.
Barton’s fingertips edged into the crevasse between the thick stone wall and its hinged member. He guided the weighty door open. It pivoted on hardware equal to the task. I stumbled through the doorway ahead of him. He pulled the door closed with an interior handle and motioned me up a narrow stone staircase, no more than three feet wide. The rise of the steps was high; the stairs, steep. With no handrail and scant light, visions of toppling backwards tormented my every move. The climb was hard work. I became winded. Panic set in. I felt certain there was a lack of oxygen between the walls.
At last, I came to a modest landing. Shining the light along the walls, I saw the staircase rose in the opposite direction to a second level.
“Oh, no. I can’t climb anymore,” I wheezed, sucking in air. “I’ve got to rest.”
Barton slid past me onto the rectangular platform. “You can rest in a minute, after we get out of here.” He, too, spoke with a trace of breathlessness. “This place gives me the creeps.”
“Not a fan of close quarters, Barton? You should ride in a trunk. Compared to that, this is spacious.”
“You might want to consider staying on my good side for these last few minutes of your life. Now, shine the light over here.”
His sober words struck me as good advice. Instead of antagonizing him, I would make good use of my time. I fixed the lantern’s beam on the landing’s back wall, prepared to watch his movements carefully. A full working knowledge of the passageways might be tantamount to my escape. As the seconds ticked by, escape was foremost in my mind. “What are you looking for?”
In the yellow cone of light, his gloved hand appeared eerily disembodied off the end of his white shirt’s turned-up sleeve. His hand grasped a vertical block of wood, the size of a chalkboard eraser and affixed to the wall at chest height. I watched Barton slide it a few inches until it nearly met the wall on our right. There was a muffled click, like a latch releasing, and what I thought was a wall morphed into a door. Unlike the cellar door, this one was made of wood, lighter and less thick. It sprang forward as energetically as light from the room beyond leaped in to greet us.
Pushing the loosened panel open with one hand, he unnecessarily pulled me by the elbow with the other, like I would have willingly stayed behind. We spilled out like dice through the newly borne doorway. Instantly, I recognized the morning room’s aged and dusty flooring. We both stopped to breathe deeply, trying to replace the surreal experience with the stuffy air of the closed-up house. I turned to face the full expanse of the room with its high ceiling, its many casement windows, and its view of the estate, wide open and sunlit. The trunk and the cramped corridors had their effect: I could now list claustrophobia among my fears.
Sufficiently recovered and hearing Barton stir, I turned to see that we jettisoned ourselves from the sidewall of the fireplace. The room had two outstanding features: its expansive vista and magnificent fireplace. The latter, fashioned of limestone and oak, was easily eight feet across and jutted four feet into the room. I knew now that allowed the hidden staircase to be concealed behind it. The first-rate masonry work superbly accented the craftsmanship of a talented woodworker.
I watched Barton close the slender oak panel and saw it magically disappear, once again taking up its role as a wall. Handcrafted framing concealed the side gaps of the door. The height of the door precisely matched the height of ornamental molding that ran the three sides of the fireplace. Skillful design placed the latching mechanism within the overhead molding. Depressing a small section between two perfectly mitered cuts would spring open this secret entrance and give access to the passage within the walls. I studied this route of escape closely.
“I don’t suppose Trey mentioned why his ancestor built secret passages into his house?” I asked Barton.
“Up to no good, I suspect.” His answer was curt.
My marvel and apprehension over the passageway wound down, only to be replaced in rapid proportions with uncertainty and fright. I listened for other noises in the house, evidence that we were not alone. The voices I hoped to hear—Elmore’s, Baines’, or through a long shot, Clay’s—did not come to me. On our way to the morning room’s door, we dodged a tattered and lumpy sofa, a box of odds and ends headed for the trash heap, and a dinged-up toolbox.
We moved through the double doors, open to the hallway, the foyer’s grand staircase, and the tiny downstairs bath under the stairs.
I’d been so thirsty for so long that I pleaded with Barton for a drink. Miraculously, he agreed. I slid in front of the chipped and iron-stained porcelain sink. In the small quarters, the flashlight banged against it. I switched it off. Barton leaned against the doorframe, watching me. I twisted on the cold water and lapped it out of my hands. I closed my eyes as the liquid cooled and moistened my parched throat. I wiped my chin with the back of my hand, and then my hands on my pant legs. Clay had not provided a towel.
I was ready to thank Barton when he said, “Pretty soon, you’ll have all the water you can take.”
“What do you mean?” My voice sounded little. A threat lived in his words.
“Do you know where the fishing pond is?”
In my mind, I saw the puddle of Crayola blue drawn on Ruby’s and Clay’s map. “Out front, down the path into the north woods. Why?”
His smile gleamed with malicious satisfaction. “I’ve decided that will be your final resting place.”
He stepped back, and I emerged from under the stairs. My ears rang with this knowledge. Earlier, I told myself knowing as much about his plan as possible could only be an advantage. Now, I doubted that wisdom. News of my final resting place threw me. How long would it take for my bloated body to pop up to the surface? Would I even be recognizable? And Gideon—I couldn’t even imagine what he’d go through. Would he have tried to move on by then, only to have this grisly sight return from the depths to start his heartache all over?
These thoughts whirled in my head, and Barton dragged me by the arm in the foyer’s direction. The rolling toolbox still occupied the main hall. That might’ve brought a flicker of hope if it still housed Clay’s gun. But Elmore, in his tainted wisdom, ordered it taken for ballistic tests.
We rounded the foot of the stairs. Barton angled me up. I looked over the banister to the place where Trey’s body had lain in the doorway. A trace of death remained on the marble floor. Barton hadn’t so much as glanced at the faint outline of blood. Instead, his grip tightened, and he doubled the pa
ce of our ascent. Our footsteps echoed in the empty house.
I recalled my post-murder tour with Clay and gauged that the fireplace wall would join the upper floor in the first small bedroom. When Barton didn’t slow, I asked, “Don’t the passageway stairs come up in there?”
“Yes, but the artifacts are down here. We’ll get them quick, then get out.”
We passed another bedroom, heading for the door at the end of the hall. Barton’s handgun remained in his waistband. With one hand on me, he used his free hand to twist the master suite’s door handle, and we entered.
I swallowed hard. Time was drawing to a close. As soon as he collected the artifacts, I became immediately expendable. My steps faltered with the thought.
“Come on. Quit stalling.” His complaint came with a tug.
He whisked me across the long and cavernous room. It stretched along the front of the house with plenty of windows and French doors leading to a balcony. The tops of red oaks hovered within view, insulating the room from the afternoon sun. A large dressing room and a sitting nook, minus the chairs in which to sit, were nestled in opposite corners, separated by a somewhat scarred hardwood floor. I gave particular attention to the two fireplaces. In a continuing theme, they were not flush with the wall.
We passed up the first, to the left of the door, and drew up to the near side of the second. A column of glazed red bricks folded around from the front, then a rich cherry panel covered the remaining width to the wall. A delicately carved lion’s head, also in cherry, protruded from the wall itself. At shoulder height, it was centered beneath the mantelpiece’s scrolled supports. The wooden sculpture’s muzzle filled the palm of Barton’s grasping hand. He gave it a quarter turn, and the wild, wavy mane spun as one with the animal’s carved muzzle. I heard connections being made, like tumblers in a lock, then he pushed. The entire apparatus depressed, and a cherry panel to the right snapped inward on spring-loaded hinges. Again, a span of decorative molding disguised the opening, which was narrow, but tall, like a broom closet. In the lower right corner, about twelve inches across and very deep, a side niche was recessed behind the fireplace. A black canvas carryall, like the ones Penny used for her larger landscapes, occupied the alcove. The carryall was constructed with a sturdy handle and of a size to accommodate the Theban mask.
“We’ll just get these antiquities in hand, then go take a look at the finishing pond. Want to?” asked my tormentor. I swallowed. “Now, take two giant steps back.” Instead of saying please, he brandished the pistol. I knew what that meant. The two of them would keep watchful eyes on me from my position at the room’s center-stage. Heaven forbid, I sneak out and run far, far away.
Before he reached in for the large woven envelope-like container, he shifted the gun to his left hand. His other hand disappeared into the niche. When I saw it again, it held the top corner of the canvas bag. The bag was tipped up. His eyes were checking on me when his startled reaction and refocused attention told me he struggled with his pinched grip. I thought his decision to slide the carryall out at an angle across the floor caused the contents to shift off-center. I pictured the weighty and oval-shaped mask as the culprit.
Barton automatically drew on his gun-toting hand for assistance. It joined all efforts to protect the antiquities. I knew he understood the artifacts were priceless. I held my breath. Throughout, Barton held his tongue. That is until something unseen clattered to the alcove floor. It sounded small and metallic.
“Imbecile!” he shouted.
I jumped. “What did I do?”
“Not you. Trey.”
His assignment of blame to a man who wasn’t here had a negligible effect on my anxiety, already spiraling at top speed. I fully expected his wrath to fall on me.
With marked intensity, but with all due care, he steadied the carryall by slipping the weapon, still held in his left hand, inside the niche. His right hand and arm stretched in for the handle.
When the canvas satchel cleared the sidewall, he slapped at a small end-pouch that wasn’t properly closed. A lengthy repertoire of insults and curses followed. The nicest word was moron. The concern with which he laid the prized satchel aside conflicted oddly with the venomous look in his eye when next he turned my way. He was all outrage. I froze in place, confused by the dramatic approach and deathly afraid to ask what it meant.
“Goddamn it. Come over here.”
I complied with his order. Together, we peered into the narrow slot.
“Shine the light in there,” he said.
I fumbled with the switch, then angled a shaky beam to the spot the canvas occupied a few seconds before.
We both saw what lay there.
Two keys on a ring.
For a second and a half, the world stood still.
Barton dropped to his knees. Placing the gun on the floor in front of him, the tall man angled himself into a strained position, trying to accommodate shoulders too broad for the offset area. Red-faced and empty-handed, he pushed himself back on his heels. He cast around for something the right size and shape that he could use to slide the keys out, but the room was bare. I kept the idea of using the gun to extend his reach to myself. The more time he used to get his hands on the keys, the longer my hopes for rescue lived.
I watched panic descend on him. “My fingerprints are on those fucking keys. Shine the light!”
Amateur, I sassed mentally.
Waist-high would not get any of the light past him and into the cubbyhole. With a calm ease, I unhooked the flashlight from the belt loop where it viewed this joyride. When he crept back toward the opening, I raised the heavy lantern at an angle over his head and, with all my strength, sent it crashing down on him.
The force of the blow wrenched the light from my grip and shot him, face first, into the brick-lined interior. Blood spurted from his nose onto his white sleeve. With an “umph,” he crumpled to the floor and, unfortunately, on top of the gun. That opportunity lost, I whirled and sprinted for the door. My heart knocked in my throat. He moaned, but was still folded in a heap when I caught the edge of the door and slammed it into the frame behind me. A resounding echo filled the empty house.
I curled my toes into my shoes and ran.
My first thought was to flee down the staircase and out the front door, but I knew it was locked. I didn’t know if it took a key from the inside. If it did, I would lose precious time for a dead end—dead being the keyword. A split-second later, Barton made the decision for me. I heard him wrestle with the knob, then the door banged back on its hinges. He coughed. I imagined him spitting up blood. His footsteps seemed uneven, lumbered. Was he still dazed? I didn’t dare look back. Using the front stairs now would leave me wide open. I pushed on to the end of the hall, where the back stairs led to the kitchen and options.
Two steps from the landing, a bullet zinged past my head. Splinters sprayed from the doorframe where the bullet lodged itself. I took a cringing sidestep in reflex. The deafening explosion seemed to propel me full-force into the wall. My right arm suffered the impact, and forward momentum sent me careening off. A second bullet drilled a wall behind me just as my head passed into the fleeting safety of the enclosed staircase.
My survival was now tied to my grip on the handrail. The steps were narrow, steep, and uncarpeted. I made quite a racket, but managed to stay upright and in my shoes. I measured his pursuit by his gagging and spitting. I leaped over the last two stairs and dodged a length of countertop. That took me out of his line of fire. I didn’t hear him on the steps. The flashlight meeting his skull had done some damage and bought me time.
From the kitchen, I had another access to the front of the house. I doubted that even fear for my life could force me into the fireplace passage again. Without the flashlight, it lay beyond consideration. Two other doors in the kitchen remained as means of escape. Indecision nearly brought me to a stop when a plan conjured itself into being. Something Clay told me the day we found Trey’s body revived itself.
But did I ha
ve the time?
Barton shouted my name. His rage spurred me into action. It sounded as though he reached the staircase.
I lunged for the cellar door. Two times my trembling hand slipped off its wedged burglar chain, losing precious seconds. On the third try, I freed it with a force that left it swinging madly. I pried the door open, then spun on the spot, bolting into the mudroom. An old threadbare rug muffled my steps. My gasping breaths worried me. Although I knew it should be silent in my chest, my hammering heart worried me as well. I risked everything on a form of the old bait and switch when, at arm’s length away, stood the back door. Freedom lay beyond it. But what if it creaked on its hinges?
I sunk instead into the corner between the old chest-style freezer and the wall, and prayed he was lured to the cellar, prayed Clay’s description of the cellar steps’ deterioration wasn’t exaggerated. Luring Barton to the cellar wasn’t enough. Racing to relock the door wasn’t enough. He had the gun. He could blow the lock away once he realized the trick.
“Dammit, Wrenn!” His tone was nasal. His footsteps scuffed the linoleum. Even with a wall between us, I could picture the smoking gun, the bloody swelling nostrils, and his mental processes slipping into gear. My echoing footsteps on the back stairs had not transferred, at the very least, into a tapping on the cellar stairs. Then, almost as if I willed it, a distant scraping sound rose out of the basement. Barton sprang into action. “Wrenn! Wrenn, you won’t be able to lift that hatch. It’s too heavy. Wrenn, stop! You’ll just get yourself trapped. Wrenn, answer me!” His voice reverberated in my ears. It ricocheted in the kitchen’s alcove where it met the cellar and mudroom doors.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I held my breath. The next sound I heard was the thunderous crack of a rotten board on the cellar stairs, then another, followed by the sickening tumble of a six-foot man plummeting full tilt to the cement floor below. Dead weight hit again and again. Clay hadn’t exaggerated by any measure. When all was quiet, the silence rang in my ears as loudly as his shouts.
Deadly Homecoming at Rosemont Page 29