He dropped the pick ax on the ground and glared at Hollister, who had regained consciousness. It made him nervous to have the old guy watching, even though he knew the man couldn't talk. Facing the wall again, he raised his boot and kicked the deepest section he'd dug out. Feeling the surface give a little, he kicked it again. After several tries, his foot plunged through the dirt; he’d broken into the tunnel. Maybe these boots were useful after all.
He retrieved the backpack from the car, stuck his arms through the straps and let it settle against his shoulders. He checked the ropes around Hollister's ankles and wrists to make sure they were secure. He widened the opening in the wall with the ax, then, lantern in hand, stepped inside.
The glow of the lantern was enough to light the interior. He could make out the wooden braces and crossbeams around him. But the light, which maintained a steady eight feet of illumination in front of him as he walked, couldn’t define the length of the tunnel. He continued forward another fifty feet before stopping and setting the lantern down. He removed his backpack and dropped it on the ground, sitting next to it. Pulling out the papers that he'd confiscated from the weird café owner, he laid out the sketch of the tunnel layout, scooting the lantern closer to get a good look. He glanced back in the direction he'd come from and adjusted the sketch accordingly. By his calculations, he was still on the outskirts of town. He would start meandering beneath Main Street's shops another two hundred feet later.
He gulped some water from his bottle. Breaking into the tunnel had drained his energy; he was thirsty, hungry and tired. The sooner he found the gems, the sooner he could get out. He’d make sure that reporter didn't suspect anything, and then he’d pack up and split. He stood, slung his backpack over his shoulder, stuck the sketch in his front shirt pocket and proceeded on, lantern in hand.
The ground was even, aside from two rails that ran down the middle. Those were easy enough to avoid. He stepped around the metal tracks and continued another hundred yards, until a faint glow appeared ahead. For the first time, the thought occurred to him that he might not be alone. Was that possible? He'd scoured every inch of the town without finding any entrances. Only as he drew closer did the overhead light begin to make sense. It was coming from a hole in the tunnel's ceiling.
He held the lantern out as he moved ahead. The ground was covered with timber and mud. The light came from above the debris. A storage area? A basement? It didn't matter, as long as no one was there to notice him. He picked up a rock and threw it up into the room, listening for a reaction. Nothing. Assured he was alone, he stepped over the pile of rubble and kept going. Another hundred yards. And then another, until he suddenly froze. There, in the edge of the lantern's glow, was the New York reporter, collapsed on the ground.
A grin spread across his face. This was going to be easier than he thought.
Myers edged toward the reporter’s motionless figure. He reached for his backpack, thinking it might be smart to pull out the knife he'd packed. But he changed his mind quickly. If a confrontation occurred, a stab wound would be too suspicious. Besides, with each step closer, it became clearer she was unconscious. If she came to, her slender frame would be no match for his brawny build, especially in the state she was in. The light from his lantern was bright enough to illuminate the gash in her forehead and residual thick, red trail of blood. She'd never have the strength to fight him.
He stepped over her. What a pain she'd been! Every time he'd come close to finding a lead on the sapphires, she'd popped up, hanging around the gem gallery or blabbing her mouth away with that wacko from California. And the way she was obviously enamored with the Wild West thing? That itself was enough to make him sick. She was a New York girl! It was downright disrespectful for her to behave like a schoolgirl at Disneyland in the dusty, rundown town of Timberton, out in the middle of nowhere. Where was her sense of East Coast pride?
On the other hand, her snoopy nature had been an asset. It hadn't been difficult to find excuses to follow her around. Meals at Moonglow had been an easy cover. Everyone needed to eat. All it had taken was a newspaper, a cup of coffee and one of the café’s Strawberry-Grand Marnier tarts to give him an excuse to eavesdrop on her and that cowboy of hers. Now that he thought about it, he missed those desserts. Maybe burning down the café had been overkill, though doing so had made it easy for him to search the cellar. Waste of the old wooden shack, he supposed, considering he hadn't found anything. Historical building and all that crap.
Now the broad had served her purpose. However she'd managed to do it, she'd gotten into the tunnel and saved him a heck of a lot of searching. The side passageway she'd discovered was the perfect place for hidden gems.
After a few more steps, his lantern’s glow confirmed that thought as it revealed a series of packages stacked against each wall.
He set the lantern down and studied the shape of the packages, which were numbered and wrapped in twine. They were flat, wide and rectangular, not at all what he expected. Anxious, he pulled out his knife, sliced through the twine and ripped one open, only to feel fury rising at the sight of a painting. He moved forward from one package to the next, tearing them open as he went until he gave up. Ridiculous! All this for a stack of stupid paintings? No, there had to be more. Stack by stack, he flipped through the packages. It was like being in a damn art gallery, but without wine, cheese and crackers to ease the torture of boredom. He ignored two more stacks, clearly more of the same. Frustrated, he sent one of the packages flying against the wall. It crashed with force, sending an echo back through the tunnel. He paused until silence returned, replaced the knife in his backpack and prepared to retrace his steps. He still had that idiot from the town park to deal with before he could leave.
Only as he was turning back, cursing at the time he had wasted, did he see the bundle of cloth, tucked beneath one of the stacks of packages. His heart lifted up into his throat. Of course! The paintings were just worthless diversions, meant to hide the stash with the real value. Sid had been right all along! Now he just had to get back to his cabin outside of town, portion off a good quantity for himself, and then get the heck out of Timberton. He'd be back in New York in no time, handing over what Sid thought to be the entire stash. And it would be a good three-fourths of it, or at least two-thirds. After all, there was no point in being greedy. Well, maybe half, now that he was thinking about it.
He shook the sack. It was heavy and packed solid. Excellent! That villa on the French Riviera was getting closer every minute. Tempted to break the package open and admire the haul, common sense told him the faster he got out, the better. Every second he stalled could make the difference between getting away or landing in the sheriff's office – and not in uniform, either.
He tucked the cloth bundle under his arm and was checking to make sure his hold on it was secure when he heard a soft shuffle. Had he hit something with his foot? He remained still. Was it possible, after all this, that someone had followed him? He stepped silently past the remaining packages and looked into the circle of light from the lantern. He was both relieved and disturbed to see the source of the sound was the reporter’s foot scraping against the dirt. She was beginning to regain consciousness. Just what he didn't need. It wouldn't have been a problem had her eyes not opened as he stepped around her. But once they made eye contact, he knew she could have recognized him. He couldn't take that chance.
Quickly, he reached out and grasped the large rock beside her head. It was a perfect set-up, taking her out with a weapon that was already covered in her blood. Nothing could look more like an accident. He clutched the sack against his left side tightly and raised the stone overhead with his right arm. A few more seconds and the nosy snoop would no longer be a problem.
* * * *
The harsh blow struck so immediately and so unexpectedly that Myers never saw it coming. Had he not been focused on aiming for the exact location of Paige's forehead gash, he might have seen Jake's shadow just around the corner of the bend in the passagew
ay. As it was, the only split-second warning he had was a stiff boot kick to his arm that knocked the rock he held off to the side. After that, there was only searing pain across the back of his skull. He was out cold before he hit the ground.
Jake gave Myers a vicious kick, to make sure he was unconscious. He then turned to Paige, whose eyes were half-mast as she tried to move her head and determine her whereabouts.
“Don't move,” Jake ordered. He ripped off his soft red and gray shirt and pressed it against the wound on Paige's forehead. She winced as he applied pressure. “Just hang on – help will be here in a few minutes.”
“Jake? What are you doing here? What happened?” she mumbled. Eyes closed again, she lifted one hand in an attempt to touch Jake's chest. Lacking strength, she let it drop.
Jake caressed her arm, found her hand and wrapped his fingers around hers. Her skin was covered with scratches and caked with mud. “I don't know the details, but it seems you fell through the cellar floor of the hotel. We'll figure it out when we get you above ground. Right now you need to rest. The fire department will be here in a few minutes to get you out safely.” He didn’t add that they’d instructed him to stay put until they arrived. He was glad he hadn't followed those instructions.
Paige's eyes fluttered open again, looking beyond Jake. “Who is that?” she slurred, lifting her index finger to point to the man on the ground a few feet away. She tried to squint, which resulted in a gasp of pain as her forehead furrowed.
“No one. I'll explain later.” Again Jake told her to relax and adjusted the wadded shirt against her open gash.
“Is it bad?” she whispered.
He took a quick peek at the wound. “You're going to need a few stitches,” he said. No more than fifteen or twenty, he added silently.
Jake sat on the ground, making sure Paige didn't try to move, and kept a light patter of conversation going. A hard blow to the head was a ready-made recipe for a concussion. He didn't know much about first aid, but he knew it would be best for her to stay awake. He'd seen plenty of rough falls at rodeos. It wasn’t smart to sleep them off before being checked by a doctor. Fortunately, he knew that help wasn’t far behind him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Voices drifted through the tunnel, a signal the fire department had arrived. Clattering metal echoed within the enclosed space as an extension ladder was lowered from the hotel cellar and braced against a dry, secure support column. Keeping one eye on Paige and the other on the still-unconscious man across from them, Jake waited until the first of the firefighters appeared.
“Couldn't wait for us to get here and lower you down?” Clayton shouted. A bright flashlight beam preceded him. Two additional firefighters followed with a stretcher. Jake didn't bother to answer. The scene itself validated his decision not to wait.
“You're going to need more than one stretcher,” Jake said. Without letting go of Paige, he nodded toward the motionless figure on the ground.
“Good work,” Clayton called out. He turned to shout orders behind him for a second stretcher before turning back to Jake. “I think it is, anyway. Or...wait. Isn't that Sheriff Myers?”
Jake felt a headache coming on. It was enough of a puzzle to put the pieces together without having to explain them at the same time. “Yes, it's Myers. But you can bet he's not a sheriff. I caught him ready to widen that hole in Paige's forehead.”
“You don't say,” Clayton said. Confusion clouded his face, but vanished as he got down to business. He looked around, assessed the scene and turned toward the rescue workers.
“Let's get this guy out first,” he said, indicating Myers with the beam of his flashlight. Exchanging a knowing look with Jake, he added, “You don't have to go too easy on him. Just get him up there alive. Restrain him until backup from Utica gets down here to sort this mess out.”
The firefighters set the stretcher down parallel to Myers, lifted him onto it and headed down the tunnel. Two paramedics arrived with a second stretcher.
“Check her vitals and make sure it's safe to lift her,” Clayton said.
The paramedics checked Paige’s blood pressure and pulse, and checked for broken bones before moving her. They kept her stretcher level as they raised it and moved slowly toward the hotel cellar.
“Clayton,” a firefighter shouted from a distance. “We don’t have to go through the hotel’s cellar. There's an exit down here.”
“You sure about that? There's never been an opening out that way.”
“Well, there is now,” the voice shouted back. “The wall under the bridge has been dug out with a pick ax. The sheriff's car is parked out there, and that Hollister fella is tied up to that metal grate, poor guy.”
Clayton shook his head. Buildings burning down, secret mining tunnels, collapsing cellar floors, the town's homeless man tied up and a visiting reporter unconscious. What was this sleepy town coming to?
Clayton turned to Jake. “Let's get you checked out, too. You're in better shape than the other two, but you could use a few bandages.”
Jake brushed himself off and shook his head. “I’m fine. Just a few scrapes and scratches.”
“Well, that's what you get when you go tunnel-diving instead of waiting for a ladder,” Clayton said.
Jake took the reprimand in stride. The fire chief was right. Using a ladder would have saved him the twelve-foot drop, but he was glad he hadn't waited. He didn't want to contemplate what might have happened if he'd been even a minute later. And he wasn't waiting now, either. He trotted to catch up with Paige's stretcher.
The scene outside the tunnel was chaotic. Myers, now identified as Benny Manetti, was handcuffed to the door of the patrol car he'd confiscated days before. A paramedic attended to Manetti's growing bump on the head, pressing an ice pack against it with surprising enthusiasm. The medic’s grin grew wider each time Manetti winced.
As Paige's stretcher emerged from the tunnel, Manetti cursed her out for interfering with his agenda.
“Think you got what you wanted?” he sneered. “It's not like they're gonna let you keep the sapphires, you know. All you had to do was stay out of the way.”
“What sapphires?” Paige mumbled. “You mean the paintings?” She tried to lift her head, but was restrained by a paramedic.
“What paintings?” Manetti barked. “Those stupid canvases back there? You weren't looking for sapphires?” His words were cut off by another slap of the ice pack, this one missing his head entirely and landing on his mouth.
“I’m taking this young lady for stitches,” the paramedic said.
“I’m coming, too,” Jake said.
Hollister, now freed from the metal grate, sat on a barrel off to the side. Mist wrapped cold compresses around his wrists to soothe the burn marks from the ropes that had bound him. His eyes didn’t move from the newly dug opening to the tunnel.
A patrol car pulled up, two deputies from Utica emerging. The first deputy opened the back door of his vehicle and helped a third man out. He looked haggard but unharmed.
“Meet the real Sheriff Myers,” he said to the crowd. “Found him locked up in a cabin halfway between here and Utica. He's mighty hungry, but otherwise OK.”
The second deputy headed for Manetti. He tossed the ice pack on the ground, read him his rights and shoved him in the back of the car.
“We’ve got free accommodations waiting for you, metal bars and all,” he said to Manetti. “Courtesy of the Utica Jail.” He turned to Sheriff Myers. “And we’ll get you a good meal – or two or three.”
“Go on back to the station,” the first deputy said. “I’ll pull the packages from the tunnel, write up a report and bring back the car Manetti swiped when I’m done.”
“I’ll help,” Clive said. “You can use the gallery.”
“Much appreciated,” the deputy said. “Right this way.” He motioned Clive toward the tunnel.
After a round of handshakes, the group dispersed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Mi
st set a bamboo tray on the center table in the parlor. A pot of green tea sat to one side, surrounded by ceramic mugs, a jar of honey and a bowl of raw sugar. A platter of fresh cinnamon-apple cookies covered the rest of the tray. She filled mugs with tea and offered them to the crowd gathered around the room. Betty took one, as did some of the other townsfolk. Clive, however, excused himself to run back to the gallery. He returned soon after with a bottle of whiskey and half a dozen shot glasses. Whiskey takers soon outnumbered tea drinkers, and Betty retrieved a set of a dozen shot glasses from the hotel dining supply. Even Mist eventually set down her tea and serenely picked up a shot glass.
Paige sat on the couch, a blanket over her lap. Tempting though the whiskey was, she knew better than to indulge. The painkiller she’d been given when the town doctor stitched up her forehead had not yet worn off and was making her woozy enough. Still, her thoughts were clearer than they had been in the early hours of the morning when she'd been pulled out of the tunnel. Once the doc had ruled out a concussion and patched her up, she'd eaten a light meal, soaked in a hot tub and gotten a solid ten hours’ sleep. She wasn’t yet her usual self, but her curiosity had returned.
Residents of Timberton mingled around the room in animated discussion. Jake sat across the room with Clive, but kept a close watch on Paige. Not more than thirty seconds passed between the affectionate glances he sent her way. Betty and Mist kept busy replenishing cookies and refilling drinks.
Hollister sat not far from the table that held the tea. Though he had tried to return to his usual daytime spot in the town park, Mist had convinced him to come inside the hotel. After the sheriff from Utica had untied him, he seemed more docile than usual and let Mist lead him.
Paige MacKenzie Mysteries Box Set Page 37