Submerged (19 page)

“Snowing?” Henry asked. “Snow falling from
the sky?”

“Yes. It looked like a postcard from Montana.
Very believable except for one thing—it wasn’t cold.

“Oh, this just gets better and better,”
Cynthia said.

“You brought supplies?” Henry asked.

“Enough for a week or more were brought down
by my men.” Nash seemed self-satisfied.

“Where are they? The supplies I mean, not the
men.”

Nash nodded toward the distance. “It’s a
little hard to see in the dark, but everything is in that building
over there.”

Building?
Henry
thought.
I haven’t seen a building.
He
turned and scanned the open desert. He saw the shady silhouette of
a house.

“Talk about a difficult property to sell,”
Zeisler said. “What realtor would want to list a Victorian mansion
in the middle of a mountain?”

“It does look Victorian,” Henry agreed. “At
least from this distance. Sanders, was that here when you were last
here?”

“Yes, except it was a barn then.”

Henry looked at Nash.

“And before that it was a farmhouse,” Sanders
said.

Henry was at a loss. His mind ran in logical
order. He was happiest when B followed A and C followed B. Now he
wasn’t even sure he was playing with the same alphabet. A large
part of him wanted to turn around and walk back into the corridor
and begin the arduous climb up the awkward stairs. But another part
of him wanted to know more, to see more, and to discover what his
mind said was impossible. It was that part of his mind that he
listened to most often. He had been hired to analyze the base, and
he would do just that.

He took a step and felt the “sand” beneath
his feet give under his weight. It might not be sand as he
understood it, but it sure felt like it beneath his boots.

“Heading out, Mr. Sachs?” Sanders said from
behind him.

“It’s why we’re here. I want to see that
house.”

Henry Sachs had followed Sanders and Nash
down the rabbit hole, through the descending tunnel, and through a
stone wall that wasn’t there. He was tired of following. Marching
through sand that adhered to his boots, Henry led the others to a
house that couldn’t be, on a desert that was impossible, in a
landscape that couldn’t exist. Perhaps he was dreaming all of this.
Maybe he was home, in bed with his wife as she cuddled next to him,
and young Perry asleep in his own room.

Maybe an alarm would ring, and he would
awaken to see the same four walls of his bedroom where he would
laugh and tell Anna all about the strange nightmare.

The trek to the Victorian was easier than
trotting the uneven stairs, but it was still work. Henry’s legs
protested each step, and he drew in a bushelful of air with every
inhalation. He glanced over his shoulder once. Nash was close
behind. Sanders and the others were ten yards back and moving
slower than Henry. Bringing up the rear like a sheepdog working a
flock was McDermott.

“In a hurry, Sachs?” Nash asked. Henry could
detect no heavy breathing from the man. He was in good shape,
better than Henry.

“I’m impatient,” Henry said. “Something is
not right, and I’m going to find out what it is.” He marched past
another Joshua tree, glanced at it, and continued on. Three steps
later, he made an abrupt stop.

“Leg cramp?” Nash asked with a smile.

Henry shook his head. “Brain cramp.” He
returned to the Joshua. Nash followed and stood to the side as
Henry circled the odd tree.

“Bizarre-looking things, aren’t they?” Nash
said. “Those leaves look deadly.”

He was right. Henry had traveled much of the
United States, including the high deserts of California and
Arizona. He had seen Joshua trees. They were grotesquely beautiful,
with leaves like spear points that could puncture skin. The Joshua
tree before Henry reached three arms upward, as if in prayer.
“
Yucca brevifolia
. It’s part of the lily
family. They only grow in the Mojave Desert and at altitude—two
thousand to six thousand feet. Tradition says that migrating
Mormons named them Joshua trees because they looked like the
prophet Joshua in prayer.”

“There was nothing in your resume indicating
that you’re a plant expert.”

“I’m not. I have a ten-year-old son who likes
to do science reports for school. Guess who gets to read them
first?”

The others caught up with them. “What’s up?”
Zeisler asked.

“Sachs was giving me a lecture on the Joshua
tree,” Nash said. “Although he’s crediting his ten-year-old boy as
the real expert.”

“I prefer lectures to hiking,” Grant said.
“Regale us.”

Henry repeated what he had told Nash, then
added, “These trees can reach forty feet in height, but . . .”

“What?” Zeisler said.

“I’m trying to recall my son’s science
report.” Henry studied the tree again. “Moths.”

Grant appeared puzzled. “Excuse me.
Moths?”

“That’s right,” Cynthia said. “I should have
thought of that. I had to take botany in college.”

“Well, I didn’t,” Zeisler said. “I avoided
the life sciences as much as possible.”

“Explain it, Henry,” Cynthia said.

“The Joshua tree is unique in many ways, but
one thing that makes it truly unusual is the way it is pollinated.
The female Pronuba moth is the sole creature that can pollinate
these trees. The tree needs the moth, the moth needs the tree.”
Henry looked at the others. “I wonder how many moths live down
here?”

There was no answer. Henry reached forward
and touched the tree. To his surprise, he found it covered in
powder. Again he rubbed his fingers together. It felt like the sand
that had broken apart in his hand earlier. “I wonder . . .”

“You wonder what?” Sanders asked.

Henry shook his head. “Not yet. We should
keep speculation to a minimum until we have more evidence.”

“I have a question,” Zeisler said. “Which way
is east?”

“McDermott?” Sanders said.

The soldier reached in his combat vest and
removed a compass. He flipped open its protective lid and studied
the dial, then pointed to his right.

“You certain?” Zeisler asked. Henry could see
he was puzzled.

“What’s on your mind?” Henry asked.

“Well, while you were marching to beat the
band, I’ve been watching the moon. As you know, the moon rises in
the East and sets in the West, but not this moon. It’s scribing a
north to south arc.”

“More impossibilities.” Henry dusted off his
hands and started for the house.

Perry stepped from the last rung and directed
his flashlight around him. He was standing in a concrete cell ten
feet wide and thirty long. He moved to the far end to allow room
for the others. They came down, one by one, Jack making the descent
last. The big man had more trouble than the others, his heavy
backpack making the climb down all the more difficult.

“I hope there’s an elevator back up.” Jack
groaned. “If not, Gleason is carrying my pack.”

“I doubt we will be taking anything back,”
Perry said. “Let’s get some more flashlights working in here.”

Gleason and Jack complied.

“Sorry,” Janet said. “I left mine in the
car.”

“Mine’s at my campsite,” Carl added.

“Three will have to do.” Perry shone his
light around. “All right, Dr. Zeisler. What next?”

“I don’t know.”

Perry turned the light on him. “What do you
mean, you don’t know? This was your call.”

“I’ve never been down this entrance. Your
father told me about it a year later.”

“Swell,” Gleason said. “For all we know, this
is a dead end.”

Perry searched the room with his light,
letting it trace every square foot of wall and floor, but saw
nothing but solid concrete. “What am I missing?”

“Maybe your pal here dreamed all this,” Carl
said.

“Don’t you have a speed trap to work or
something?” Zeisler snapped. “You weren’t part of this mission to
begin with.”

“That’s enough,” Perry ordered. “Focus on the
job at hand. Dr. Zeisler was right about the overflow ducts and the
ladder. There’s no reason to doubt him now.” Perry paused. “This
looks familiar.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Janet said. “How can
a concrete box with no doors look familiar?”

“The sketch,” Perry mumbled.

“What sketch?” Carl asked. Perry told him of
the photos and the vague sketch he had found at his father’s
home.

“It must be important if he locked it away in
a safe,” Carl said. “Do you have it?”

“Yes.” Perry extracted the folded paper from
his back pocket and held it against the concrete wall. Gleason
shone his light on it.

Carl pressed closer. “No offense to your
father, but it’s not a very good drawing.”

“My father is an excellent draftsman,” Perry
said. “That’s what bothers me about this. It’s just a few crudely
drawn lines.”

“In that case, he must have drawn it that way
on purpose,” Janet suggested. “A way of keeping it secret.”

Perry studied the drawing. It was a
rectangle—no, a trapezoid—narrower on one end than the other. The
room they were in was the same shape. Perry’s brain chewed the
information. Inside the trapezoid was another box. Perry examined
the floor again but saw nothing. Once again he examined the walls.
Again nothing. Then it hit him. He looked up.

“Got it.”

“What?” Gleason asked.

“It’s similar to a reflected ceiling plan.”
Perry’s architecture training surfaced. “When an architect creates
working drawings for a building he starts with the floor plan. A
floor plan is a downward view, as if someone has taken the roof off
the building and is gazing down at the walls and fixtures. But in
buildings that have complex ceilings, like a lobby in a hotel or a
business office with many recessed lights, the architect draws a
reflected ceiling plan. The point of view switches from looking
down to looking up.”

Six faces turned up as did three
flashlights.

“It looks solid,” Zeisler said.

“But it’s not.” Perry directed his light to a
thin crack that traced a perfect square. “I bet there’s an opening
behind that crack.”

“Isn’t that solid cement?”

“I doubt it. I’m guessing a hatch is there,
and it’s been covered over with plaster. Plaster and concrete
expand and contract at different rates, hence the crack.” Perry
reached up. The ceiling was two feet beyond his reach. “I need a
couple of strong backs.”

“I got it.” Jack slipped his pack off and
worked his way by the others. He interlaced his fingers, providing
a stirrup for Perry. Gleason stepped close. Perry put his right
foot in Jack’s hand and raised himself up. Gleason grabbed Perry by
the front of the shirt to steady him.

Perry steadied himself with one hand on the
ceiling and touched the area inside the square outlined by the thin
fissure, and then he touched the area outside the box. “There’s a
temperature difference. Janet, you carry a knife on that utility
belt?”

“Of course.” She removed a large folding
knife and handed it to Perry, who opened it.

“Watch your eyes.” He dug the blade into the
surface, and the soft plaster chipped. “It’s plaster all
right.”

“More work, less talk,” Jack said. “You’re no
lightweight.”

“Let me know when you need a break,” Perry
replied. He began cutting and chipping at the plaster, and dust and
chunks began to fall on himself, Jack, and Gleason. A few minutes
later, the area had been cleared, revealing a gray metal door,
three feet square. It had a recessed ring latch. Perry pulled the
ring down on its hinge, turned it, and opened the hatch. Cool air
flowed out. Perry stepped to the ground. Jack stood straight and
stretched his back.

“I hate to ask this, buddy,” Perry said to
Jack, “but I need another boost.”

“No problem. I’ve been carrying you for
years.”

“That you have, Jack. That you have.”

With a flashlight clipped to his vest, Perry
let Jack boost him high enough to see through the opening. Before
him was a short, square tunnel. Perry pulled himself in. The tunnel
was tall enough and wide enough for him to crawl through without
touching the sides or top. He inched his way along. Fifteen feet
from the opening was a shaft, straight down. Perry shone his light
down it but couldn’t see the bottom. Attached to the side was
another ladder.

“You’re not going to like this,” he called
back to the others.

Chapter19

1974

It was a two-story
Victorian,
complete with wraparound veranda and railing,
octagonal turrets, spindle work, horizontal siding on the first and
second floors, and fish-scale siding on the gable ends. It was a
handsome home, painted in grays and greens, although the color
seemed washed out. Henry approached with caution, no longer
trusting his senses. The windows were wrong, not in design but in
some other way. They were black. No light escaped from inside, and
light from the flashlight failed to penetrate.

“You say this was a barn last time you were
here?” Henry asked Sanders.

“Yes. It stood right where this house stands.
And before that, it was a farmhouse.”

“Did you go inside?”

“Of course. It would be rude not to visit.”
Sanders walked by Henry, up the four steps that led from sand to
the veranda, and placed his hand on the doorknob.

“Odd,” Henry said.

Sanders turned. “That may be the
understatement of the century.”

“I’m talking about the stairs you just
climbed. The steps in the tunnel were out of proportion, but these
look perfect.”

“One is a tunnel, the other porch steps,”
Sanders said. “Different function, different design.”