Double Blind (29 page)

She immediately headed toward the rear of the building and easily found the excavation site beneath the elderberry shrub, exactly as the McCorkell twins had described. She shoveled and sifted the dirt with her hands, extracting another two dozen bones and three more skulls, one similar to that found by the boys, the other two much smaller. She stuffed them into the plastic bag and knotted it closed. She walked down to the creek and washed her hands, drying them on some nearby grasses. Leaving the bag of bones near the water for later retrieval, she climbed back up the bank.

*

Burt stood next to the fireplace in his den, while Hollis lounged in one of the deep leather chairs, facing him.

“It can wait until tomorrow,” Hollis said.

 “No. Let’s do it now.”

“What’s got you all fired up?”

“The bones. Those Goddamn kids,” Burt drained his cognac. “And now a half a dozen others know about them.”

“But, the bones don’t prove anything.” Hollis looked up at him, the flickering fire reflecting from his face. “And they can’t be connected to us.”

“Oh really? Edgar Locke and Will Proctor aren’t fools. Sooner or later they’ll put two and two together, if they haven’t already. And if someone gets those journals? What then?”

“And how could that happen? They’re locked up in the lab.”

“Those kids got in here and found those bones and if anyone gets those journals, we’ll play hell explaining them. They’ll be safer up here in the house.”

Hollis sighed. “I suppose that’s true.” He finished his cognac. “Let’s get it over with.”

*

Sam stood near the lab and looked up toward Burt’s house a half mile away, now visible through the tops of the aspens. Quiet, few lights, and no activity. So far, so good. She circled the lab, finding only one door, centered along the end of the building that faced west, toward town. Even in the dim moonlight, she could see the damaged lock, dangling from the latch.

Her senses amped up several notches. She pulled her Berretta, leaned against the wall beside the door, and listened. Nothing.

She removed the broken lock and pushed the door open. The interior was even darker, with only faint remnants of the moonlight passing through the narrow windows. She hung the lock on the door’s latch ring and removed the flashlight from her pack. The beam cut through the darkness as she stepped inside and eased the door closed.

She scanned the room, her gaze following the cone of light. Two rows of metallic worktables, each topped with arrays of scientific equipment, dominated the middle of the room and extended from where she stood to near the far end. In the far right corner, an open door led to a small separate room. Sinks and cabinets lined the adjacent wall. She directed the beam to her right, highlighting floor to ceiling stacks of wire cages.

She stepped further into the room. Now, she could see that a thin veneer of dust covered everything.

As the beam swept across the floor, she saw several clear shoe prints in the dust. She squatted, flattening the angle of the light. The patterns jumped up and now she could tell there were two distinct sets. One, small tennis shoes. The MacCorkell twins, those little scamps. The other, larger, much larger. Similar to the ones she had seen days earlier, at Varney’s, in blood.

OK, Samantha. Get what you need and get the hell out of here.

Standing, she returned her gun to the pack and took out the camera. Holding the small flashlight in her mouth, she waited for the flash to charge, and then snapped several pictures of the interior, including the cages in most of the shots.

Now, the journals
.

Edgar had said they would be in the bottom right drawer of the desk that sat along the right wall. She saw it wedged between the bank of cages and the wall of the small room and hurried in that direction. But, as she rounded the row of tables and the wooden desk came into view, she saw that the drawer had been pulled open. Empty, its lock appeared mangled, the surrounding wood splintered.

Someone had taken the journals. Burt? No, someone else, who also didn’t have a key.

Lights flashed across the windows and then the sound of a car engine and the crunching of tires broke the silence.

Sam snapped off the flashlight and waited for her eyes to adjust. Partially anyway. She looked around, searching for someplace to hide. She stepped into the small room and allowed herself a quick burst from the flashlight. Before the light winked off, she saw a cot, bookshelves, a dresser with a TV on top, a toilet, and a corner glassed-in shower. No place to hide.

Car doors slammed. She turned back to the lab area.

She knew the worktables offered no refuge. No cabinets beneath, each possessed only a single open shelve, stacked with beakers and other glassware.

She turned to the sinks and yanked open the cabinet doors. Empty except for a stack of Bon Ami cleaner canisters. She pushed them aside and crawled in, folding her legs beneath her. Cramped, but functional.

Voices filtered through to her.

“What the hell is this?”

Burt.

“Somebody smashed the lock.”

Hollis. Great. Just fucking great.

Her gun dug into her back. She tried to reach for it, but the tight space prevented her. Sweat trickled down her forehead. Light from the overhead Fluorescents flickered through a small gap between the cabinet doors.

“Goddamn it,” Burt said.

Footsteps approached, stopping near her hiding place.

“Look at this,” Burt said. “Somebody’s been in here. The journals are gone.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

She heard the door to the sleeping quarters smack against the wall.

“Nobody in here,” Burt said.

“It’s him.” Hollis said. “I told you he was still around.”

“Well, he’s not going to be for long. That’s for Goddamn sure.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

“Where’s that spare lock?” Burt asked.

“Upper drawer. Left side.”

Sam heard the sound of a drawer sliding open and then slamming shut. Footsteps retreated. The lights died, the front door closed, and the lock snapped closed. Car doors slammed, the engine started, and the crunching of tires on gravel faded.

She kicked the cabinet door open and rolled out on to the floor. She grabbed gun, aimed the flashlight ahead of her, and crossed to the door. Grasping the handle, she yanked it. Nothing.

The metal door fit flush with the metal frame. No gap, no play. With the lock on the outside, shooting it open wasn’t an option.

She moved to the windows. Five feet off the floor, three feet wide, but only a dozen inches high, she saw no way out through them, even if she could break the wire-mesh glass.

She searched the desk and the sleeping room for a crowbar, a hammer, anything that would pry the door from its hinges, but found nothing. She would even accept dynamite about now.

Think, Samantha.

She ran her fingers along the cinder blocks. How long would it take to dig out the concrete mortar and remove enough of them to crawl through? Definitely longer than sunrise.

Bang. The impact against the door shook the room.

What the hell was that?

She killed the flashlight and dropped to one knee behind the row of worktables, leveling her gun at the door.

Bang. The room shook again.

Bang. The door flew open, slamming into the cinderblock wall with a deafening clang. Her heart jumped into her throat and she curled her finger around the trigger. Holding her breath, she waited. Nothing. No one came through, no sound, no sense of movement in the darkness beyond the open door.

Only the odor.

Thick, pungent, feral. Recognition was immediate. And the last time she had smelled it, someone or something had ripped a door open and charged right over her. She expected to see the same massive person barrel through the doorway at any moment.

Sam remained motionless, breathing short and shallow. A minute, two, still nothing. Sweat trickled into her eye and she blinked it away.

She flicked on her flashlight and cautiously approached the doorway. The odor grew stronger as did her heartbeat. Looking around the doorjamb, directing the light one way and then the other, she saw nothing. The odor began to fade as the soft breeze collected it.

She stepped out into the night and again looked around. Nothing.

*

Sam stood on the porch, bent over gasping for breath. She had retrieved the plastic bag from near the creek bank and run hard. Not to Alyss’, but to Edgar Locke’s. Edgar opened the front door, a look of shock on his face.

“Sam?”

She offered a weak wave and continued pulling air. “Just…a…sec,” she said between breaths. Sweat dripped from her forehead and splattered on her shoes. She pulled off the ski cap.

“Come in.”

She wobbled through the door. Her legs ached and trembled with fatigue. After regaining her breath and wiping the moisture from her face and arms with the towel that Martha offered, she told Edgar of what she found and of her rescue by whoever smashed open the locked door. She then called Alyss and asked if she could come pick her up.

Edgar looked through the Polaroids Sam had taken and then rummaged through the bag, examining each bone carefully. He held up one of the smaller skulls. “I know what this is,” he said. “It’s a mouse. I did research at MIT on them for decades.” He went on to point out areas of thickening along the base, exactly as he had found in the skull at Proctor’s Clinic. He sighed heavily.

“What is it?” Sam asked.

“I’m afraid your friend Niki was telling the truth.”

“The lab has been up and running?”

Edgar nodded. “The cages and these bones say so. With just one unusual rabbit skull, it could be a disease, like a tumor. Or a freak of nature. But now, we have similar changes in two different species. This is no natural accident. This is man-made. These came from the lab.”

“You’re certain?”

“There can be no other explanation.”

“It didn’t look like it had been in mothballs for a year and a half,” Sam said. “Maybe a couple of months. I didn’t see a bunch of cobwebs or anything like that. Only a little dust on the equipment.”

Edgar’s shoulders slumped further, but he said nothing.

“If someone did crank it back up,” Sam said. “Who? Why?”

“I don’t know. But, the stolen journals are very bothersome. Someone besides Burt doesn’t want anyone to know what’s been going on there.”

Sam nodded. “That makes sense.”

“Another possibility could be that someone learned about whatever Burt has been up to and stole the journals to expose him. Who? I don’t know.”

“Maybe the someone who left Billy’s boot prints all over the lab and around Lloyd Varney’s body. And helped me escape tonight.”

“That would be a good bet.” Edgar looked at her. “It would be a gross understatement to say that Billy dislikes Burt. How sure are you that Billy isn’t guilty?”

“I’m sure. Well, as sure as I can be. I know it wasn’t Billy that ran over me that night at Lloyd’s store and it definitely wasn’t Billy that helped me out tonight. He’s chained to a hospital bed. I honestly believe Burt and Wade are trying to frame Billy.”

“Why?” Martha asked.

“Billy thinks it for his land. I think there’s more to it than that and tonight’s developments sure put a whole different spin on it.”

“Could Billy know what Burt has been up to at the lab?” Edgar asked. “Maybe he’s blackmailing Burt or something?”

Sam shook her head. “That’s not my read on Billy. But, you can bet I’m going to ask him anyway.”

Edgar sighed. “It’s a perplexing mystery.”

“What now?” Sam asked.

“I’d suggest we keep this between us for now.”

“Don’t worry,” Sam said. “I don’t want a B and E rap.”

Edgar gave her his half smile. “As I said, I’ll make a couple of calls tomorrow and see what I can find out.”

Alyss’ car came up the drive. Sam stood and walked to the door but stopped and turned to Edgar. “Billy Bear said he believes Burt has plans to expand the lab. You aware of anything like that?”

“He mentioned it a couple of times. I doubt the town would go for it though. Some people didn’t even want that small lab built.”

“Oh?”

“Afraid of anything foreign or high-tech. That is until I convinced the city council that nothing we planned for the lab would be dangerous or contaminate anything.” He looked down at the floor. “I hope I was telling them the truth.”

Edgar Locke sat in a ladder-back chair in the breakfast nook. His second cup of coffee rested precariously near the edge of the round oak dining table, leaving just enough room to spread open the day’s Denver
Post
. One of the many concessions to his stroke induced withered left arm, he had to delay reading the paper until breakfast was completed and the table cleared. Hunched forward, reading glasses in place, he turned the pages with his only functional hand.

The doorbell rang and he heard Martha answer it. After a brief, muffled conversation, Martha came into the kitchen followed by Burt and Hollis. Edgar couldn’t hide his surprise. Burt had visited him on only two occasions since his stroke. Once a social visit while he was still in the hospital and again a month after he returned home to tell him the lab was to be closed down. His anxiety rose. This visit could only be about Sam’s break-in at the lab.

Regaining his composure, he said, “What a pleasant surprise. Please, come in.”

Martha offered Burt and Hollis coffee and then poured each of them a cup. “I’ll get back to my book,” she said. “If you need anything, let me know.” She left the kitchen.

Burt sat down across the table from Edgar, Hollis stood, leaning against the counter. Edgar knew that when it came to business Burt was not one for small talk and suspected today was no exception. Burt took a sip of coffee, pushed it aside, and propped one elbow on the table. “We visited Will Proctor this morning.”

Edgar looked at him, but offered no response, deciding it was better to find out what Burt knew and what he wanted before saying anything.