Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 02 - River Mourn (21 page)

The name on the black
mailbox painted in neat gold letters said
Mabli
.
Rosswell again parked in a farmer’s field a short way north of the house to
avoid suspicion. People rarely notice a truck parked in a field.

After analyzing the map, Rosswell and Ollie decided
that Jill Mabli’s abode, a Georgian style house on the north side of River
Heights Villa, offered a more direct route to the cave where they’d found Mary
Donna Helperen’s body. If they’d gone into Karyn Byler’s house on the south
side, it would’ve required a trip through Nathaniel’s lair to reach the cave on
the north side.

Now, from the safety of the woods, Rosswell,
binoculars to his face, and Ollie, hand shielding his eyes, studied the huge
house that was Jill’s home. Sundown approached, slowly melting long shadows
into night. Rosswell could smell the Mississippi River, its fishy odor
pervading the bottomlands between the cliffs and the water.

How many slaves had fled across that water to gain
freedom? Rosswell would never know, although he was thankful that he didn’t
have to choose between crossing the river in a leaky boat at night in freezing
weather and liberty. Wasn’t that why the government had sent him to war? To protect
our liberty? Yes. Rosswell hoped.

He handed his gun to Ollie. “Double-check to make sure
that thing’s loaded and ready to go.” Ollie checked the .38 while Rosswell
inspected the front of the house. “I wonder if Jill’s got any yapping dogs or
squawking parrots or burglar alarms or whatever.”

“One way to find out.”

“Wait here.” Rosswell strolled as casually as he could
with a broken toe to the main door. A man walking in an easy manner rarely
draws attention to himself, although the likelihood that anyone would see him
from the highway ranked close to zero. Traffic was sparse. And who notices
someone going in a house on the side of the road when you’re zipping along a
highway in a car? Not many people, that’s who. In addition, there were no other
residences in sight on either side of the road. Rosswell figured he was snug as
a bed bug in a bunk.

A worn brass doorknocker in the shape of a woman’s
hand, complete with veins and long fingernails, hung from the massive front
door. The hand held a globe about the size of a golf ball that rapped on a
metal plate imbedded in the door. Rosswell stared at the thing, wiping his
hands on his pants. He licked his lips. Then he grasped the hand and rapped
repeatedly as hard as he could. If it wasn’t his imagination, Rosswell heard
the sound of his knocks reverberating inside the house, like the old movies
where the traveler stops for the night at a place where he pounds on the door
of a house full of demons.

Rosswell hated surprises. If anyone was home at Jill’s
house, he wanted to know it right away. Especially if they were demons.

There was no noise from inside. If there was a dog in
the house, the mutt either didn’t care, or was asleep or deaf. Rosswell opted
for no mutt in the house. And no squawking parrot, either. He stepped off the
small front porch and stood under one of the windows. He jiggled the windows one
by one until he found one that wasn’t locked and raised it from the outside a
couple of inches. Nothing. No reaction from inside. No alarms. Regaining the
porch, he turned the knob of the front door. Unlocked. The door eased open. Nothing.
Not even a squeak. He slammed the door. Nothing. Again, no burglar alarm, no
noisy animals. Jill was a trusting soul, especially after Ollie paid her some
of Rosswell’s money.

Rosswell signaled Ollie who ran to his side. Rosswell once
more opened the door. When they were well into the house, they clicked on the
flashlights even though full dark was still a few minutes away. The place
smelled of Pine-Sol. The wood floors reflected the light from the flashlights.
All the furniture was old although nothing was tattered. Rosswell surmised that
Jill had bought chairs, tables, benches, cabinets, whatever, from country
auctions or second-hand shops. Nothing in the place could be classified as a
valuable antique. No dust anywhere. Nothing out of place.

Rosswell motioned Ollie to join him. “Congratulations.”
Rosswell offered his hand. “We should be proud of ourselves. How many felonies
have we committed this week?”

Ollie wasn’t able to squeak due to the gurgling in his
throat. If he shared Rosswell’s pang of conscience, the gurgling arose from
fear and anxiety. Then Ollie swallowed loudly. “I hear that the accommodations
at the Sainte Genevieve County cooler aren’t up to snuff.”

They stood in the main hallway, assessing the layout.

Ollie said, “This house is built a lot like The Four
Bee.”

“There weren’t a lot of architects in Sainte Gen before
the Civil War. Most houses built then have a similar floor plan.”

“Did the assessor tell you that?”

Rosswell shrugged. “Informed guess.”

“Then let’s try the parlor.”

Inside Jill’s parlor loomed a bookcase similar to Mrs.
Bolzoni’s. Ollie opened it, finding a passageway. Except this one didn’t
feature a brick wall down the way a few feet that stopped progress as they’d
discovered at The Four Bee. The beams of the flashlights disappeared into the
gloom of a tunnel that appeared to go on forever.

“Great,” Rosswell said. “My claustrophobia tells me to
run out into an open field but all I see ahead is black ink growing blacker.”

Ollie held his flashlight above his head, aiming it
down the length of the passageway. “A flood of light dispels the dryness of the
darkest night.”

“Nice.” Rosswell smiled. “Who said that?”

“I did. Didn’t you hear me?”

Rosswell gifted Ollie with the courthouse stare, the
one he gave miscreants right before he sent them to the penitentiary, although
he doubted the research assistant could see the stare in the dark.

Rosswell smelled something.

“Ollie, follow me.” Rosswell reversed his track and
walked about fifteen feet toward the parlor, then stopped. The smell
disappeared. He walked backward, Ollie following.

“Let me guess. Musical chairs?”

“I smell something. It’s an odor of water. Dampness.
As in a cave.” He shined his light on the floor. “It’s slanting up. We’re headed
into the bluff below Nathaniel’s house. It’s underground from here on.”

“Gotcha. Underground. As are all tunnels. We’re
getting close.”

“Silent running.”

Ollie nodded.

That was when the wall blocking their path appeared in
the flashlight beams. Rosswell felt the barrier. “An obstruction after all,” he
whispered to Ollie. “It’s wood. Can’t tell what kind but it must be really old.”

Ollie said in a low voice, “We need a saw. And not a
power saw.”

“Hammer and chisel, too. Something we can use to break
through.”

Rosswell continued examining the wall until he discovered
a hole. “Turn off your flashlight. We don’t want anyone on the other side
seeing our high beams.”

With both lights extinguished, Rosswell’s old friend
claustrophobia decided to visit. Bands of fear squeezed his chest, cutting off
his air. He ordered himself to breathe slowly and not panic. It was only
darkness. Nothing would hurt him. Except maybe Ollie, but he seemed calm at the
moment. They must’ve gone further underground now since the temperature had
gone down and the air tasted stale. Claustrophobia had an answer for that one.
Rosswell began sweating and realized he couldn’t breathe. Worse, he would get a
chill because he was soaking wet. Trying to look on the bright side of things
in the middle of the pitch-dark hellhole, he comforted himself with the thought
that he had only one broken toe.

After a few moments of adjusting to the total
darkness, Rosswell placed his eye against the hole. “I think the passageway
keeps going. Maybe we’re at the property line. That’s why there’s a wall here.”

“How can you see anything in the dark?”

“There’s…something. A glow or something. Something.”

“Rosswell, you okay?”

“Sure. Wonderful. I always sweat when it’s sixty
degrees.”

“We need the handsaw and hammer from your truck.”

“You’ll be faster. I need to stay here until I center.”

“Center? You think you’re the center of the universe?”

“It’s a replacement for the cliché,
chill out
.
Besides, my toe is
killing me.”

And if he couldn’t center, Rosswell thought Ollie might
return and find him a corpse.

Ollie
retreated
from the dark,
heading out
of the tunnel for the light. Rosswell peered again through the hole in the
wooden barrier. If there was anything on the other side of the wall, it was
bathed in darkness. He cupped his hand behind an ear, although with his superb
hearing, he doubted it was necessary. No sound whatsoever. Rosswell chanced clicking
on his flashlight again. Where the wall blocking their path met the sides of
the passageway, the wood had grown soft over the decades. There were no metal
braces where the walls joined, only wooden pegs. The cave’s dampness might have
softened the juncture after more than a hundred years.

Rosswell pushed gently, avoiding a loud crash and bang
that would bring Nathaniel or Turk or some other evil minion running to see
what the clatter was. A soft cracking sound from the wood told him something
had given way. He pushed harder and the wall across the passageway creaked when
it separated from the main wall.

The wall wasn’t built as a barrier. It was a marker.
No need to make it safe from trespassers way back then. Rosswell opined that all
the early settlers who owned houses with secret passageways belonged to the
same social club,
Houses
With Hideaways.

Rosswell paused again to listen but could hear nothing
from the direction of Jill’s parlor and he could hear nothing on the other side
of the crumbling blockade. Should he wait for Ollie? His research assistant
wouldn’t be gone long. Despite all his irritating behaviors, Rosswell counted
Ollie’s efficiency and loyalty as top rung characteristics.

Rosswell needed to see what was on the other side of
the wall. His impatience got the better of him. What would it hurt if he went
in a little way past the wall without Ollie? He instantly thought about getting
bitten by a rabid bat. Or getting captured by Nathaniel or Turk. Or falling
down a fifty-foot deep hole and breaking his back, not being killed instantly, but
screaming for half an hour before he died.

He pushed the obstruction forward a couple of feet without
any major collapse, allowing him to squeeze through. Once he emerged on the
other side, he stopped and again listened. Now there was a soft wind blowing. It
smelled fresh. He was getting closer to the cave.

Rosswell tried to see without the flashlight. Darkness
piled on darkness. Blacker than black. He could stand there the rest of the
night thinking up similes. Or metaphors.

It’s quiet as a…well…tomb. It doesn’t smell like a tomb.
That’s a good thing.

Turning on his flashlight for a few seconds, Rosswell determined
that the passageway on the other side of the barrier—he now thought of it as
Nathaniel’s side—continued straight. He cut off the light and pushed himself
forward, ignoring his mind and body, which were both pleading with him to
return to the sunshine.

A few feet more, his right foot stepped into a hole.
At least it felt like a hole. His center of gravity shifted and he threw his
hands forward, trying to stop his fall, putting his weight on his left foot,
which caused him to yelp when his broken toe protested. The pain shot up his
left leg, giving his heart a jolt. His face smacking the dusty floor of the
passageway with a wet-sounding thud caused a sneezing fit. A metal thump came
from somewhere. Blood flowed from his nose into his mouth. The bright lights
dancing in front of his eyes caused him to wonder if something had ripped the
roof off the tunnel, revealing the sky, complete with stars promenading.

Rosswell’s right foot felt restricted, as if something
had clamped its toothless jaws around his ankle. He searched for his
flashlight. He patted himself down twice without success. Trying not to move
too fast or too far since he didn’t know if there were any other traps around,
he patted on the floor around him, hoping to feel the flashlight beneath his
hands. The thing couldn’t be found. It could be two feet from him, but he had
no way of seeing it.

Centering time
arrived. It hadn’t worked before but it really needed to
work this time
to avoid panic. Rosswell drew in deep breaths. His eyes were wide open. He
considered it a major miracle that he hadn’t lost his eyeglasses, yet the
darkness was as profound as if he’d been dropped to the bottom of a deep well.
He was functionally blind.

A ghostly body part floated before his face. The
outline of his hand. As they’d taught him in the military, it was literally all
in his head. What he actually saw was a
sensor ghost
, an image generated
by his brain as it received signals from his body. He hadn’t really seen his
hand. His brain willed him to see it.

Rosswell centered himself again before he could raise
the courage to feel for his right foot. It wasn’t a bear trap or else its teeth
would be biting him. He ran his hands down his leg until he reached his right
ankle.

A cold metallic object surrounded his foot, its wide
lip encircling his ankle, its rounded body ending in a flat circular bottom.
Tugging at it proved futile. His foot was stuck. Ollie might have to fetch a blowtorch
and cut it off.

He felt of it again. The realization of what it was
confounded him.
His right foot was stuck in
an old spittoon.

Decades ago, the last shift of workmen who’d finished
up the wall had forgotten to remove the brass object. Fortunately, over the
last century or so, it had dried out. He told himself he could still smell the
nasty crap. But it was dry crap. For that, he was thankful.

Where was Ollie? He should’ve returned long ago. Maybe
Rosswell should turn around and go look. Or he could forget the research
assistant and clump up Nathaniel’s side of the tunnel as quietly as possible.
Perhaps if anyone heard him, they’d assume he was a ghost. He should be so
lucky.

After standing and stretching out his arms, he groped
toward what he hoped was the way to the cave under Nathaniel’s house. After
what he figured was five minutes of walking, he discovered a small dot of
light. The dot didn’t move, even though he blinked several times. An artifact
dreamed up by tired eyeballs? He closed his eyes for a few seconds and when he
opened them, the dot still shined. Yes. It was real.

A hole where he could peer into Nathaniel’s house?
Rosswell dragged his right foot, trying to keep the spittoon from making a
racket. The stupid contraption had a lead-weighted bottom. Then he inched his
left foot forward, trying to keep from moaning about the pain in the broken
toe. Several times he fell against a wall of the passageway to rest. His heart had
picked up a Sousa march and was goose-stepping down the main street of town.

A thirst arose fierce enough to scald his throat. The
Sahara had no claim to fame compared to his throat. Murder seemed a nifty idea
if he’d gain a glass of water. And one of Ollie’s cinnamon rolls. That would
make killing worthwhile.

Rosswell felt for his pistol. Not there. He’d left it
in the truck. He hoped Ollie found it and brought it along with…whatever…what
was he supposed to bring?

Ollie went to get a bottle of booze. We’ll have picnic
in here. In the dark. Fried chicken and booze. What a great picnic.

After an eon of struggle—the floor still angled upward—Rosswell
reached the dot of light.

Calmness. That’s what he needed to quiet the ragged
breathing. After he’d centered himself and lowered the volume of his wheezing,
he leaned up to the illuminated hole and peered in. The room he saw was lit to
the approximate strength of the noonday sun. His view, although restricted, was
clear.

Tina lay on a bed. Someone was delivering her baby.
His baby.