Demon Demon Burning Bright, Whisperings book four (11 page)

Dust and small pieces of trash covered the
trapdoor. I kicked the trash away, knelt and positioned my
flashlight on the floor so the beam shone on a heavy padlock.

Royal taught me to pick locks. Why would a
law-abiding homicide detective need that skill?
Tsk tsk
.

The padlock, thick with grime, determinedly
fought my lock-picking skills, but just as I decided to go home for
bolt cutters, the thing finally cooperated.

The wood protested and dust fell in fibrous
clumps as I heaved up the trapdoor. I lowered it to the floor so it
would not crash down. Squatting, I braced myself. The cellars are
windowless, no place where light can seep in. Perhaps some of them
have electric lighting, but I didn’t know which. I shuddered as I
imagined walking in unrelieved darkness.

I first experienced true darkness during my
one visit to Castor’s Cave. After walking between stalagmites and
stalactites, ascending and descending metal stairs, admiring the
giant caverns carved by miners using hand tools and oil lamps in
the 1830s, I and my fellow adventurers stopped in the last,
gigantic natural cave. The guide gathered us in, reached back to a
breaker switch on the wall. . . .

And turned the lights off.

I literally couldn’t see my hand before my
face. I lost all sense of direction. I saw nothing, absolutely
nothing but darkness black as pitch; its weight suffocated me. A
voice swore and yelled at the guide to
turn the goddamn light
back on! Now!
It was my voice. I was too angry to be
embarrassed when the light came on.

When I got outside, I marched to the
information kiosk and complained. The brochures give you no warning
of what to expect, nor the posters on the kiosk, and none from the
guide before we entered the last cave. What if that black
nothingness brought on a panic attack? Oh, wait, it did. Mine.

No, I don’t like places dark as these
cellars.

My light showed me dusty wooden steps. No
one had been down here in a long time. The thoughts you usually
have when you’re about to step into a deep, dark cellar crossed my
mind. Were there rats? Would the ceiling fall in on me? Would
someone sneak in the cupboard and close the trapdoor, or jam the
cupboard door so it would not open again?

I went down anyway.

The old wood rail felt too fragile beneath
my hand, but the stair was solid. The air tasted of brick dust. I
shone my light on the floor before me as far as the beam reached,
then swung it back and forth over the old, crumbling brick wall on
my right.

My flashlight was pitifully inadequate, but
not to worry. I unclipped my handheld rechargeable spotlight from
my belt and locked it into floodlight mode.

The ceiling was eight inches above my head
and the old-brick passage felt too confining. I faced east. I’d
pass beneath the adjoining buildings and come to Gorge’s store if I
kept going. The cellars ran in a straight line under the block and
this passage against the outer wall did not deviate, leaving no
margin of error.

Dust puffed under my shoes. I shone my
spotlight through a doorway on my left and saw a corridor made of
tilting wooden walls scattered with doors either side. The walls in
the next cellar were brick which fell short of the ceiling by five
feet or more, and more doors, one open, but I didn’t go down there
to investigate. The next cellar was one room the width and length
of the building above with a wood staircase leading up to a small
platform and door. The door to the next cellar, Gorge’s, was
locked. This could mean Gorge stored stuff down here, or was
justifiably protective.

I’d wear down my lock picks at this
rate.

After several minutes fiddling with the
lock, I stood beneath Gorge’s Antiques Emporium.

I walked through the doorway on my left into
another passage running parallel, beyond that a wall punctured by
three doors. Rotating ninety degrees, intending to first try the
door farthest on my left, an exceedingly hard object struck my
shoulder. I dropped the spotlight; it clunked and rattled and went
out. Swallowing a yelp, I scurried backward and hit the wall, hard.
My Ruger filled my hand as if by magic. Back to the wall, I
listened for movement, holding in panicked breathing loud enough to
pinpoint my position.

Nothing.

I couldn’t stay here, but moving took
willpower. I needed light. The spotlight had landed on the button
and turned itself off. Pulling my flashlight from a right side
pocket with my left hand was awkward, but I didn’t want to switch
my gun to my left hand. The second I had it, I clicked the switch
and swept the thin beam to my left.

I sagged.
Way to go Tiff
. I’d walked
into an old, slender, spiral iron staircase tight against the west
wall, the way up to Gorge’s shop.

I retrieved the spotlight, which fortunately
still worked, put the flashlight in my pocket, the Ruger in its
holster, but kept the gun’s safety off.

I tested each step as I went up the spiral
staircase, aiming the spotlight at them and the ceiling. Loosened
by the vibration, tiny specks of rust stuck to my glove and dropped
on my hair. At the top, light held tight, I tried pushing the
trapdoor with one hand, which did nothing, not a tremor. So I laid
the spotlight on the step and tried two hands. The door shifted a
fraction, and I mean a fraction.

Okay. This is not gonna work.

The step at the top was more the width of a
small landing, making descent from above easier. With some grunting
and cussing, I concertinaed till I lay on my back with my knees
tucked against my chest. I had to twist and hang half off the step
with my head dangling to get the soles of my feet on the trapdoor.
Taking in a deep breath, I
pushed
.

The door heaved up an inch.

Damn
. It wasn’t locked, but I bet
Gorge put a piece of furniture on top.

I shoved up again, and again, and each time
the door went up a fraction but weighed so much I had to let it
slam down again.

The edge of the step dug into my spine
painfully. My hand hurt from gripping the railing. I took a moment
to rest and wipe sweat from my face before it ran in my eyes.

Something was going to give, dammit, either
the door or my legs.

I twisted so I could grasp the railings with
both hands. Then I put all my energy into power-kicking the
trapdoor.

The trapdoor went up and over. It hit with a
crash and I nearly slid off the steps.

I rested a moment before getting upright and
climbed through the square opening.

Streetlight sent fractured beams through the
plate glass windows and into the store’s twilight depths,
reflecting off glass display cabinets and old silver, picking out
colored metallic threads in upholstery, making them bright as a
demon’s hair. Gorge had a lot of clocks on display, from tall,
distinguished grandfathers to delicate, inches-high gilt and marble
creations. I stood in the middle of the shop, breathing heavily, as
they
tock
ed up and down the scale.

The trapdoor was propped on a Georgian oak
and gilt armchair fallen on its side.

The place was a maze, one of those stores
you’re afraid to walk through lest you knock over and break a
valuable objet d’art. My fingers brushed a chaise lounge. I sat
here, Gorge’s clocks ticking maddeningly, as I waited for Royal to
come downstairs from Gorge’s apartment where they spoke to
Lawrence.

I remembered . . . on that day, I decided to
trust two demons.

I left the spotlight on the floor and used
the flashlight. With elbows tight to my sides, I eased between
furniture and cases to the other end of the room and a heavy velvet
curtain on the back wall. Holding it aside revealed the door to
Gorge’s apartment.

Which, of course, was locked.

Picking a lock requires two hands. I knelt
on the bare board floor, head on an angle, flashlight tucked under
my chin, trying to keep the light on the lock as I worked. It
opened with a loud
clunk
which made me momentarily
freeze.

An enclosed staircase behind the door led up
to a small landing and the entrance to the apartment. I crept up
there, though I didn’t expect to encounter anyone. But I had to go
through the lock picking thing again when I reached the top.

Finally in the apartment, I shone my
flashlight around. The living room looked the same as last time I
was here. Antique furnishings, naturally, positioned so daylight
from the big bay window would illuminate their finer aspects. The
etched glass shade on the ceiling light was Victorian, as were two
table lamps adorned with tassels and glass crystals. Two square,
slightly worn Oriental rugs placed side by side covered the floor
but for a six-inch margin of polished oak board.

A tall oak display cabinet with four glass
shelves held objects through the ages, from seventeenth-century
snuff boxes and Regency inkwells to nineteenth-century cigarette
and cosmetic cases.

I went directly to the book cabinet.

Yep, you got it, another lock. But this baby
popped open without a murmur.

Brothers Grimm. Brothers Grimm. Ah, there
you are. You’d better be worth it.

I eased the book from its slot and opened
randomly to see a page of Gelpha text complete with indents and
paragraph divisions. Flipping through, the book seemed to be
separated into chapters.

Two more books next it were also written in
Gelpha.

The covers were black faux leather, with
English titles stenciled in gold letters, but the Gelpha symbols or
letters, whatever they were, were hand-inked. Inside, strong black
thread in tiny, meticulously spaced stitches sewed the cover
together.

Tales of the Brothers Grimm
,
The
Hobbit
, and
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
. Fairy
tales. Bedtime stories.

I sucked on my lower lip. Gorge felt more
comfortable reading to Lawrence from a Gelpha book than its English
language counterpart, and I could come up with several good reasons
for disguising the books. Maybe this was a dead end.

Mouth twisted, I shook my head. I have a
knack for finding clues in apparently unrelated details and
information, and I
knew
this book was significant.

The handwritten paper Lawrence gave me - his
handwriting? Could the book help me decipher it?

I moved the books so the gap on the shelf
was not obvious, and left the apartment with
Brothers
Grimm
.

I locked the apartment door and the door at
the bottom of the stairs, and considered the fallen chair. I heaved
the heavy piece up and shifted it so the back legs were next the
trapdoor. Would Perry notice? I bet he would. But perhaps he’d
think a customer moved it. If he suspected a break-in through the
cellar and called the cops, nothing was missing from the shop and I
hadn’t left fingerprints.

I zipped the book inside my jacket,
collected the spotlight and locked the cellar door before I left.
The repositioned chair would be a mystery the manager never
solved.

Unless he found Gorge, and Gorge rushed
here. Knowing Gorge, he’d check every inch of the shop and his
apartment. The missing book would send him on high alert, but he
had no reason to suspect
I
took it.

There again, if Perry found Gorge, it was
one less thing I had to worry about.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a book, Mel,” I told her dryly.

Jack’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “You’re
not serious.” He flung his hands up. “Why, it is. You’re right!
That squarish thing with a cover and writing on it
is
a
book! The depth of your perception astounds me at times. Why, if
you - ”

“Okay, Jackson, enough.” I tapped the item
in question with two fingers. “I’m thinking.”

“Touchy again, are we?” Mel said from over
by the window.

“When is she not?” Jack drifted to my
shoulder. “Touchy
and
thinking. How does she fit thought and
emotion together in such a small space? I didn’t think the typical
female brain worked that way.”

“Hey, Mister, watch it!” Mel joined Jack.
“Another book we won’t get to read, I suppose.”

Distracted, I flipped the book open. “Be my
guest.”

They perused the page while I finger-doodled
on the inside cover. They would have to admit they couldn’t read it
any minute now.

“Hm. Interesting,” Jack finally said.

I twisted on the kitchen chair. “You
understand it?” Oh my God! What a break.

I squinted at Jack. “But how?”

Up went his chin. “Did I say I could read
it? I meant those squiggles look . . . interesting.”

“One of these days,” I intoned as I slumped
back.

But the book had not defeated me. Yet. I
flipped my cell open and dialed.

Lance Praeger is ex-Cia. When active, his
specialty was cryptography. The Gelpha characters were a written
language, not code, but Lance was my best bet.

He picked up after the third ring. “Tiff. To
what do I owe the dubious pleasure?”

Always nice to know you’re on someone’s
Caller ID. “Hi, Lance. How you doing?”

“Busy.”

Okay, short and sweet, then. “I’m on a
missing person’s case, a teen girl. Her Mom found a sheet of paper
in her room, but didn’t recognize the language it’s written in.
Then she found a printed book with identical writing. She thinks
her daughter used the book to create a code, you know, like kids do
in their diaries.”

“So their parents can’t read them.”

“Yeah, that. Can I fax you the paper and a
few pages from the book?”

His sigh had weight. “As I said, I’m busy.
Take it to the PD. They have people can figure out a kid’s code. In
fact, you have to turn it over to the cops if it’s evidence in a
missing person’s case.”