by Penny Drake
“We’ll go in and let you know what we find,” Ms. Hawk said.
Belinda nodded and headed back to the car. I followed her, retrieved a spare flashlight from the trunk, and went back to the basement. Ms. Hawk was just inside—I could see her light beam dancing around.
The basement had a low ceiling, with thick wooden beams that could crush a Volkswagen if they fell. The only light came from our flashlights and the tiny bit of sun that snuck in through the bushes outside the door. My hands were sweating, though the cellar itself was cool and damp. I couldn’t see the walls—they were blocked by stacks of junk. An old bookshelf filled with mildewy stuffed animals. A weird cast iron machine. Anonymous boxes covered in mold. A piano with missing keys that gaped like broken dentures. Stacks and stacks of newspapers, neatly bundled and tied with twine. One stack was only shoulder high, and I shined my light at the top paper. Detroit Free Press, October 18, 1968. President Johnson might order a cessation of bombing in Viet Nam. Yoko Ono and John Lennon had been arrested for drug possession. Geez.
A narrow pathway wound through the piles, and we had to turn sideways to squeeze through. Boxes and crates pressed in on all sides, and I couldn’t see over the tops. Dust clogged my nose, and I kept pausing to sneeze. Ms. Hawk seemed unbothered.
The path led us through a low doorway into another room. The darkness and damp air pressed in around us, and cobwebs hung over everything like sleeping ghosts. They dragged through my hair and left dusty trails across my face. I shivered. Ms. Hawk kept her flashlight beam on the floor, scanning for more little wires. It slowed our pace to a crawl. Tiny noises scritched in the darkness beyond the light beams. Mice?
My foot came down on something that crunched. I jumped back, my heart beating at the back of my throat. Then I saw the little dark smear. Hundreds of tiny shadows scurried for cover.
“Cockroaches,” Ms. Hawk said. “The floor is covered with them here.” She made a small sound of disgust. “It’s like living in Madagascar all over again.”
Madagascar? Wasn’t that near Africa? Ms. Hawk didn’t have an accent, so I doubted she grew up there. Another strange piece of the puzzle that made up Diana Hawk. As for me, I reached down and tucked my pant legs into the top of my socks. Ms. Hawk noticed.
“Good idea,” she said, and stooped to do the same. I felt oddly pleased. This was the way I liked it—me and Ms. Hawk, working as a team. Sometimes I still couldn’t believe she had hired me, or that I’d had the guts to ask her for a job. Desperation had played a big role. My husband was dead, my parents weren’t speaking to me, and I had no degree, skills, or income. I thought long and hard about what I wanted to do with my life, and a week later, I forced myself to stride into Ms. Hawk’s plant-filled office.
“You want to hire me as your assistant,” I said.
Ms. Hawk raised a graceful eyebrow, and I rushed on to sell myself. I had no ties to hold me down, I was organized, I learned fast, and I was willing to work long hours. In the end, Ms. Hawk agreed to take me on—as a file clerk. I drove home to Toledo, breathless with joy, and started packing. For the first time in my life, I felt like I had a purpose, even if that purpose was shuffling pieces of paper around a filing cabinet. Once I was settled in town, I enrolled in martial arts training and learned to shoot. I discovered a talent and a taste for combat. My body and mind hardened, and Ms. Hawk began taking me along on some of her cases. Now, four years later, I had my PI license and an advanced red belt in karate, and I was involved in almost all investigations at Hawk Enterprises. I still don’t know why Ms. Hawk had invested so much in me, but gratitude for her decision drenched my every waking moment. I would walk across hot coals for her. Cockroaches? Bring ’em on!
We continued across the crispy floor. It felt like we were walking on Cheetos. The two of us crunched through another room, this one filled with just boxes. The ones on the floor were being squashed by the weight of those above. Another had burst open, revealing a tangle of wire coat hangers and a single light bulb. Saved so the uncles could see to count the hangers?
The path ended at a set of stone stairs tucked against one wall. The steps were predictably piled with more junk—old dishes, bundles of cooking magazines, a microwave oven with a missing door. It had a dead potted plant inside.
“You think any of this stuff might be valuable?” I asked as we picked our way upward.
Ms. Hawk skirted a milk crate filled with flattened cans. “I doubt it. Hoarders are usually unable to tell the difference between what’s valuable and what’s worthless. They simply can’t bear to throw anything away.”
We reached the first floor landing, opened a creaky door, and found ourselves in another room. Open boxes of paper spilled their contents onto the floor. I grabbed a handful and checked it by flashlight. Uncle Lawrence was a million-dollar finalist. And he could refinance his mortgage for low, low rates. He could even get a pre-approved home equity loan for ten thousand bucks. Gosh. No wonder he never wanted to leave the house.
Ms. Hawk, meanwhile, shined her light around. Dust-covered junk from floor to ceiling. The closest window was boarded up from the inside, and ragged curtains covered the others. Ms. Hawk blinked.
“I think we’re in the kitchen,” she said at last.
“We are?” I shined my own light over the area. After a moment, I could see that what I had taken for stacks of loose papers and food boxes was actually a stove. The refrigerator was obscured by a mountain of Styrofoam take-out trays. No one had used this kitchen for cooking in years. My foot crushed another cockroach, and I decided that maybe this was a good thing.
“Hello?” Ms. Hawk shouted, and I jumped. Even though we had Belinda’s permission to be here, it felt like we were trespassing. “Can anyone hear me?”
We listened. Nothing.
“So the big question is,” Ms. Hawk said, “do we split up or stay together?”
I thought about facing more cockroaches by myself. “Let’s stick together. I’m willing to bet Uncle Lawrence has a few more booby traps up his sleeve, and four eyes are better than two for spotting them.”
“True,” Ms. Hawk said. “Let’s go, then.”
A narrow trail through the piles led out of the kitchen into what we figured was a grand dining room. Or it would have been if not for the junk. Mounds of papers, stacks of milk crates, leaning towers of books. In one corner sat a pile of bags of instant cement. They had gotten damp, and the cement had set, creating a stack of paper-wrapped bricks. Perched on top of them was an old bird cage with a dusty plush parrot in it. A table long enough to seat thirty guests ran the length of the room. I saw no chairs. What looked like a hundred years’ worth of mail mounded every square inch of table space. Ms. Hawk found some windows that weren’t too badly blocked and flung the curtains open like a movie star from the forties. Sunlight, possibly the first bunch of natural photons to venture in since the sixties, flooded the room, and I flinched until my eyes adjusted. The mail on the dining room table differed from the junk flyers in the kitchen. These seemed to be old bills, bank statements, and other financial mailings. None of the ones I glanced at were less than ten years old. I checked the floor. It was uncarpeted hardwood, and the thin strip of bare floor that wound around the table was clear of dust. Someone was still walking around in here recently. I pointed this out to Ms. Hawk, who nodded.
“I noticed that, too,” she said. “Next room.”
We checked the threshold for tripwires before crossing it and found ourselves in a long, dim hallway faced with closed doors. Dusty gold-colored magazines were stacked against the walls all the way to the ceiling. National Geographic. Thousands of them. The air was hot and stuffy and tinged with something rotten again. I wrinkled my nose. How could anyone keep all this stuff? What was—
Something creaked. Ms. Hawk and I both froze. I shot her a glance, and she put a finger to her lips. We listened some more, and I heard it again—a faint creaking. It might have been footsteps, or it might have been the house settling. I felt rel
uctant to shout and announce our presence. Apparently Ms. Hawk felt the same way, because she eased up the hallway without a word. I followed.
The creaking stopped. I was nervous now, and a little excited. At the end of the hall, we found a staircase. It was piled with shoes. Men’s loafers, women’s pumps, slippers, baby booties, even a pair of snowshoes. A narrow path twisted up the left side like a mountain goat track. The steps were dusty, more or less. Something about them bugged me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Ms. Hawk checked for tripwires, then moved to head upward. At the last moment, it clicked. I lunged forward and grabbed Ms. Hawk’s arm.
“Wait!” I hissed. “Look!”
With my flashlight I pointed out the staircase. Every other step was clean.
“Someone skips certain steps,” I said. I knelt down and wiped the board with my sleeve. A perpendicular line appeared in the exposed part of the riser. I set my palm on it and leaned down, gently at first, then with more force. The wood snapped, plunging my arm into the staircase up to the shoulder. Half a dozen shoes tumbled into the hole and vanished.
“Precut staircase,” I said. “I think we need to skip every other stair.”
“Good eye, Terry,” Ms. Hawk said approvingly, and I felt a rush of pride. “Let’s go up.”
“House is in terrible condition,” Slava said. “You should find new housekeeper.”
Both of us jerked around. My friend was standing behind us looking at the stairs with interest. She had replaced the high heels with tennis shoes but was wearing the same red dress I had seen her in earlier.
“Slava!” I gasped. “What the hell are you—”
“Is all right,” she interrupted. “I already told you I know of this house. I decide is too nice a day to waste grading freshman essays, so I come here for look inside. Belinda was in car, and she say everything fine I come in. So I come in to find experience as field agent. Three heads better than two, yes?”
“No,” I said. “You’re not even dressed for this sort of thing.”
“So my dress get dirty,” she said. “I am rich American now—I have many.”
“Dr. Cherenko,” Ms. Hawk said, “it might be best if you waited outside. It isn’t safe in here.”
“Probably true,” Slava agreed. “But on day of big disaster, Chernobyl give me huge dose of radiation. My parents both die of cancer before I turn thirty. I will probably die same way. So I decide, what the hell? Either radiation kill me or big pile of cinder blocks smash me flat. At least with cinder blocks, I get to explore interesting house first. Besides—” she flicked a speck of dust from her sleeve, “—Belinda give me permission. I have perfect right to be here.”
Ms. Hawk sighed. “Just stay out of the way.”
I glared at Slava, who pretended not to notice. “All right,” she said. “I follow you. Just be sure to cut tripwire at top of stairs.”
Ms. Hawk, who was halfway up the staircase, stopped. “You see a tripwire?”
“You don’t?”
We both shined our lights upward. A thin wire stretched across the top of the staircase maybe two inches above floor level. It was perfectly straight, held rigid with ominous tension. I was suddenly less eager to explore the second floor.
Avoiding every other step, Ms. Hawk crept cautiously up to the top. Her flashlight beam followed the wire to a two-by-four wedged against the wall. The wire was wrapped around the two-by-four. The other end disappeared into a hole drilled through the door jamb. Ms. Hawk checked the floor beyond the trap, satisfied herself it was safe, and lithely stepped over the wire. She gave the all-clear, and I made my way after her, being careful to step only on the good steps, too. An entryway opened up beyond the stairwell. It was crammed with—well, you know by now. Brown light leaked in around a boarded-up window. Above the door was a heavy shelf piled high with books that made the Oxford English Dictionary look like a small-town phonebook. One end of the shelf was held up by a support nailed deep into the wall joists. The other end was held up by the two-by-four. Anyone who hit the wire would yank the two-by-four out from under the shelf and bring down four or five hundred pounds of serious knowledge.
Slava came up the steps with surprising grace. She has a lush figure that reminds me of Marilyn Monroe or Mae West, and Slava carries herself with the same assurance. Must be nice.
“Crude, but serviceable,” she said, eyeing the trap. “This Uncle Lawrence—he would have had fun in old KGB.”
I sniffed the dusty air. Definite sweet-yet-nasty smell of rot. “You guys catch that delightful scent?”
“We almost certainly have bad news for Belinda,” Ms. Hawk mused, still studying the trap.
“Though right now I’m more concerned about possible bad news for us.”
“Should we leave this trap or disarm it?” I said.
“I don’t want to leave it here in case one of us forgets about it,” Ms. Hawk replied.
“No big deal,” Slava said, bending down and grasping the wire. “Stand back.”
“Slava!” I shouted. “No!”
But it was too late. Slava yanked the tripwire and scampered backward. The two-by-four popped out from under the shelf, and the entire thing came down with a thunderous crash. A hurricane of dust exploded into the air. Coughing and spitting, I retreated from the landing and backed down the hallway. My eyes streamed with tears, and dust coated the inside of my mouth, my nose, my ears. I’d also be washing the stuff out of some other more personal places.
When at last I could see, I made out Slava and Ms. Hawk standing next to me. Ms. Hawk gave me a chilly stare. I looked away, feeling my cheeks flush. Slava was my friend, and her screwups were my fault. I turned to face her. Her wine-red dress had gone completely gray. So had her hair and face. She looked like a witch out of a fairy tale.
“Slava,” I croaked, then spat dust and tried again. “Slava, that wasn’t very smart. That tripwire could have been linked to more than one thing. You might have set off a cascade of traps and killed all three of us.”
Slava shrugged. “But I didn’t. We should keep looking. Follow our noses to old men.”
Ms. Hawk produced a water bottle from her belt and took a swig. I did the same, sighing with relief as the lukewarm liquid washed the dust from my throat. I dashed a bit into my face to clear the dust from my eyes and nose. When I was finished, Slava held out her hand, eyebrows raised. Peevishly, I considered refusing her unspoken request, then shrugged and raised the bottle.
“You have to promise not to touch anything else,” I said.
“But how can I help if I can’t touch?” she said.
I waggled the bottle. “Nice, refreshing water. But only if you promise.”
A burst of Ukrainian swearwords followed my attempt at blackmail, but then Slava said, “Very well. I promise.”
I handed over the bottle. While Slava drank, Ms. Hawk and I checked the hallway. Old furniture, mostly broken lamps and tattered shades, lined the walls. Every so often a gap opened, indicating the presence of a door. The corridor ended in some sort of open space. I swung my light around.
“This place is more organized than it looks,” I said. “Gardening tools and miscellaneous outdoor stuff in the back basement, newspapers toward the front, kitchen things on the stairs. Junk mail in the kitchen, regular mail in the dining room. Shoes on the steps. Lamps and accessories in the hall here. It’s not perfect—cement in the dining room, for example—but there’s definitely a pattern.”
“Interesting,” Ms. Hawk said. “I don’t see any more wires, but step carefully.”
We eased down the hall in silence, and the rotten meat smell grew noticeably stronger. I checked the first door. Unlocked. I stiff-armed it open and jumped back. Darkness beyond. I shined my flashlight inside. Monstrous shapes loomed in the shadows. My beam picked out a piano in slightly better condition than the one in the basement, a pedal harp with most of the strings missing, a small forest of bent and twisted trombones, two more pianos, and a stack of violin cases among the
many, many boxes.
“It’s a conservatory,” I said. “Weird. How many pianos do you need, anyway?”
Slava peered over my shoulder at the violin cases. “Is too much to hope for a hidden Stradivarius, yes?”
“How on earth did they get all that up the stairs?” I wondered aloud.
“There must be another staircase,” Ms. Hawk said. “A wider one. Let’s keep moving.”
As I shut the door, I heard more creaking above me. This was more rhythmic, like footsteps. My heart jerked, and I shined my flashlight upward, as if I’d be able to see through the ceiling. Slava and Ms. Hawk had heard it, too.
“Someone else still in house,” Slava whispered. “Or else is really big cockroach.”
“Whoever it is had to have heard that book trap fall,” I whispered back. “They must know we’re here. If it’s one of the uncles, wouldn’t he say something?”
“Not if he’s scared of us,” Ms. Hawk murmured. “And someone scratched up the basement door lock. That person may still be here.”
We wove our way through the junk piles in the hallway. I wondered who could be in the house, and if the person might be dangerous. Maybe there’d be a fight. A familiar mixture of fear and anticipation thrilled through me. I’m good at fighting. Earned my advanced red belt in karate last year, and I’m inches away from earning a black. I like fights—once I’m in one. Beforehand, I worry about pain and injury, but once the fists start flying, I’m there. Punch, block, dodge, kick, throw. It’s like a dance I make up as I go.
The creaking upstairs continued. It was apparently moving down the hallway above us, getting farther away. Ms. Hawk had said the person was probably afraid of us, and that made me feel braver. The three of us moved as quickly as we dared down the corridor, past several more doors and still more junk. An open box of eight-track tapes caught my eye, and I wondered if they were still playable.
The hall ended in a grand staircase that curved down into shadow. A narrower set of stairs led upward, around an elbow of a landing, and then to the third floor. A half wall topped by a banister partitioned off the upper stairs. Only a narrow trail of space allowed passage up or down either staircase. The grand stairs were almost completely blocked with bundles of more magazines. Life, TV Guide, People, Time, Newsweek. Some looked pristine, others were crumpled or water stained. The staircase to the third floor was buried beneath mounds and mounds of pans. Sauce pans. Frying pans. Soup pans. Griddles. Dutch ovens. All of them dusty, rusty, or both. Some were cracked. Lids perched precariously on lips and rims like lily pads on a steel pond.