Behind the Walls (23 page)

After a moment, she yelled again. ‘Hey, Rick!’ Her voice was stronger now. ‘Rick! Can you hear me?’

No answer. Maybe he was dead? Had been shot in the struggle? Damn. Why couldn’t she see? Panic surged in her belly. Maybe the blindness was temporary. From the blow to her head when she hit the ground. Maybe it would pass. Meantime, she couldn’t just lie there; she needed to get up, told her legs to bend, her head to lift. But her parts didn’t care what she said, refused to obey. Harper lay back, staring into the dark, felt it creeping into her head, wandering through her veins, seeping over her thoughts, and finally carrying her away.

Sitting there, his leg on fire, Rick realized the mess he was in. Even if he found Harper, he probably wouldn’t be able to get through to her and get her to sign on. But now, if he dispatched her, it wasn’t going to look like a suicide with his damned blood all over the hallway. And he wasn’t strong enough to clean it up. Let alone to set the scene. He was in shit. Deep in shit.

Grimacing, he reached for his phone. The Colonel would send someone to pick him up, help him out. Karl, the guy who’d helped him tail Everett – he must still be in town. Should have come along on this job, too. They’d underestimated its difficulty.

His hands were bloody, left marks all over his Blackberry as he made the call.

But before anyone could pick up, he pressed ‘end’. Closed his eyes, put his head back, cursed. What the hell was he thinking? Was he really going to call the Colonel and tell him that he’d fucked up yet again, even let the target get away? Oh, and by the way, that he’d shot himself?

From the beginning, the Colonel had made it clear; there was no room for failure. Too much was at stake. People were with him or they weren’t. No middle ground. His Senate seat was a critical phase of a history-making plan. No one – certainly not Rick – would be considered valuable enough to jeopardize it with scandal or worse. If Rick admitted to screwing up, the Colonel would no doubt send Karl, but not to rescue him.

Rick struggled to his feet, grunting, deciding to do what it would take to survive. His wound wasn’t all that bad; he’d seen plenty worse. He had to keep focused, on task. Had to find Harper and get his job done. If they found her outside, maybe hanging from a tree, they might not come inside for a while. Might not see the blood right away. He’d have a chance to come back and bleach the place later.

Limping, he stuck the gun back into his belt, pocketed his phone. Where the hell had she gone? He checked behind the crates again, searched every room on the floor, gazed down the stairs. But before going down them, he had an idea. Rick went back to the wall where he’d last seen Harper and began tapping, listening for hollow sounds.

When Harper opened her eyes again, she saw nothing. Her sight had not returned. Oh God. She stopped breathing, felt her chest tighten. Do not panic, she commanded herself. Do not panic? Really? She couldn’t see. Wasn’t sure where she was or how badly she was hurt. Or how long she’d been there. Or if anyone would ever find her. She listened, called out.

‘Hello?’

Hollow, empty silence.

‘Anybody?’ Darkness swallowed her voice.

OK. Enough. Time to get up and find a way out of there. Except that she couldn’t quite get up. Could barely lift her head. She was dizzy, shivering. Her thoughts broke apart incoherent, fragmented before she could grasp them. She closed her eyes again, smelled old wood, dirt. Mildew. Mold. And thought of Leslie, how she’d helped her to remember things through hypnosis. Relax, she heard Leslie’s voice in her head. Let the tension out of your feet, your legs, your thighs. Breathe slowly, from your diaphragm. Gradually, Harper replayed what had happened. She saw herself upstairs, working with the collection. Upset that so many pieces were missing. She’d been about to pack up and go when – out of nowhere – Rick had shown up with a gun in his pocket.

She remembered his claim that he just wanted to ‘talk’. But his weapon had spoken for itself. She remembered headbutting him, but everything after that was a blur of blows and kicks until she’d slammed a hallway wall, and – what? Gone right through it? Had she fallen through a wall?

Harper replayed the fight, not sure her memory was right. After injuries, people often had memory gaps or distortions. But she was certain. She’d hit the wall and
passed right through it
.

How was that possible? Besides, if she’d broken through a wall, wouldn’t she have just landed in the next room? Or in a closet? How had she fallen down a whole story or two – into nothing?

Something tickled her memory but wouldn’t show itself. Her mind was swollen and foggy, and she closed her eyes, trying to control her shallow breathing and quell her jagged pulse. And, all at once, a memory surfaced, and Harper knew exactly where she was.

The tales about secret passageways in the Langston house weren’t just lore; they were true. The wall she’d hit must have been a false panel that led into a passageway, and it had given way, sending her into a hidden corridor. She thought of the stories about the passageways. The one about an actress who’d never been found. Harper shivered.

Never mind. That was just a story. She pushed herself up on to her elbows. Damn. Her head and back pulsed with pain. Something warm and wet – had to be blood – oozed down her face; she touched her head, found the source. A gash on her temple. Vaguely, she remembered getting hit there. Asshole Rick had slugged her with his gun. Harper put her hands on the ground, pushed, managed to sit up. Checking her body, part by part, she found no breaks, no bullet wounds or other cuts. Slowly, she bent her legs and climbed to her feet. She stood unsteadily, unbalanced in the dark. Suddenly dizzy, she crouched again, steadying herself. Her thoughts were tedious and muddled, the darkness disorienting.

Relax
; she replayed Leslie’s voice.
Breathe.

Harper inhaled. Concentrated on breathing. Thought about Burke and Murray. The Colonel offering her a bribe. Rick coming at her with a gun. After a moment, she straightened her back, winced in pain. And cursed as she stood again.

Blind or not, she was going to find her way out of there. And when she did, she’d settle things with Rick Owens. And Colonel Baxter, too.

Damn. The whole wall sounded hollow. As if there were a room or empty space behind it. Harper must have known, must have escaped through a hidden door. Rick looked up and down, felt the panels, trying to open the thing. He pressed against it. Pushed on the top, the bottom, the middle, trying to find a latch or a hinge. He backed away, examining the wall from a different vantage point, trying to see if the molding looked uneven. He moved up close, pressing his cheek against the plaster, trying to find tiny inconsistencies in the texture.

Nothing.

Shit. He had to find her. He stood still, staring at the wall. Picturing what was on the other side. Of course – probably, it was a secret room, and she was in there hiding. Maybe huddling in fear? Breathing heavily? He leaned against the wall again, holding his breath, listening. Hearing nothing. Fuck.

But she was in there. She had to be. People didn’t just disappear, and there was no place else she could be. Rick leaned against the wall and called, ‘Harper. I know you’re in there. It’s no use.’

Listened again. Heard no movement. Damn. The woman was smart, well trained. She could probably stay there for hours. Maybe a couple of days. The only way to get her out would be to go in and get her. Fine, no problem. Surely, he could break through a flimsy old wall.

Again, Rick tapped the plaster, this time listening not for what was behind it, but for what was in it. Deciding it was neither too sturdy nor too thick, he stepped back, leaned away and pounded the thing with his fist. And recoiled, howling, having overestimated his strength. Whimpering, he saw flashing lights, felt pain shooting through his hand and arm, along his bones. He cradled his hand, cursing the thin swatches of plaster that had splintered and fallen to the floor.

OK. He needed something heavier. A tool. There were tools in the room where he’d found Harper. His leg throbbed, resenting the walk, but he limped back there. Found a hammer on the shelf – exactly what he needed. Encouraged, Rick felt more optimistic. Actually had a glimmer of hope as he made his way back to the wall.

Harper knelt, feeling her way around. There was a boarded wall a few feet away on either side of her; the floor felt like wood, only grainy. Was it dust? She patted her way ahead, but – damn. Something sliced her fingertip. What the hell? A knife? She pulled her hand away, sucked blood from the cut. Cautiously, she put her hand back, felt the thing. Something smooth with a jagged edge, like a broken dish. A shard of – oh God. A shard of pottery? A broken relic?

For the first time since she’d seen Rick, Harper thought of the relics. She’d left them unpacked on the worktable, out in the open. Exposed. And when she’d fought with Rick, some had been knocked over, might have been broken. Oh God. Had a piece of one gotten caught in her clothing? Fallen with her? Gently, she felt the piece, avoiding its sharp edge, trying to identify its shape and texture. But the fragment wasn’t definite enough. She couldn’t be sure. Damn – was it part of the bird? Or one of those exquisite warriors?

Harper set the piece down, gaped into darkness, seeing nothing. She turned the opposite way, say the same nothing. Nothing. Do not panic, she ordered herself. Think. Make a plan. But wait, was something slithering around her ankle? Oh God. She kicked air, slapping her ankle, shaking off whatever it was. If it was anything other than her imagination. But, damn, it felt like a snake. She kicked again and stomped the ground, smashing whatever it was. If it was. Were there snakes in there? Spiders? Rats? Who knew what creatures were creeping around in the darkness? Harper told herself to take charge. Make a plan. But how? What could she do? She was trapped behind a wall – inside a hidden, secret, possibly unknown passageway. Not only that. It was completely pitch dark. She had no idea which way to turn, how to get out. And if she found her way out, Rick and the Colonel’s other lackeys would be waiting for her.

Harper’s muscles tensed. Her stomach lurched. She smelled blood and burning rubber, heard gunfire. Men shouting. Flies buzzing around her eyes  . . . Damn. She bit her tongue sharply, grounding herself in the moment. She couldn’t afford a flashback; the situation was already bad enough. She needed to focus and find her way out. Because, except for Rick Owens who no doubt wanted to assist her in a fake suicide, nobody – not a single soul – knew where she was. She was on her own.

Fine. If she couldn’t see, she’d feel her way out. Hands on each wall, she took baby steps in a randomly selected direction, exploring the ground ahead with her toes, slowly testing the solidity of the ground before shifting her weight. After a few steps, her shoe bumped something; she stooped to feel what it was. Found something straight and long. Not her lever. Something shorter, smoother. With a knob at the end.

Her flashlight! She actually squealed with joy as she grabbed it. She’d forgotten about it; it must have fallen from her pocket. But here it was. Oh God. A miracle. Her flashlight.

The walls seemed liquid, as if they were swaying. Rick knew better. He’d been hurt before, knew the signs. Damn Harper had knocked him flat and he’d hit his head. Plus he’d lost blood. It wasn’t the walls that were swaying; it was him. Not to worry, though. He’d been hurt worse. Even now, he could hear the explosions ringing in his ears. Could see Humvees burning, smell charred flesh. No, this was nothing. No ambushes. No IEDs. No snipers waiting to pop him. Even half conscious, this was still a piece of cake.

The hammer seemed awfully heavy. He was losing strength. Even so, he swung at the wall, hit the spot where he’d cracked the plaster. Sent more chunks flying. Swung again. Again and again until, finally, a small blotch of darkness appeared. He’d broken through to the other side.

Encouraged, he kept the hammer going, slamming the wall, breaking off pieces of plaster and lath, widening the gap. When the hole was baseball sized, he leaned forward to peer through it. And lost his balance and nearly fell when the entire panel gave way, swinging open. Rick pulled back, stumbling. The panel snapped shut.

Apparently, he’d accidentally pressed the spot that opened the door. He blinked, trying to identify it. Pressed the panel. Nothing happened. Pressed it again, a little to the left. Then to the right. Then higher, lower. Frustrated, he punched the wall. The door swung open. Before it could snap shut, Rick put his shoulder there, holding it open. He looked inside, expecting to see Harper somewhere in the room. But Harper wasn’t there. Neither was the room. Rick gazed into the space behind the wall and saw a well of black, nothing else.

He looked down, saw a rotted staircase, collapsed on to itself. Couldn’t see how deep the hole was. ‘Harper?’ he yelled. His voice disappeared into darkness. He coughed. ‘Harper – are you OK?’

Of course she didn’t answer. Was too stubborn. Would die before she surrendered an inch. Well, fine. He’d do it her way. But he couldn’t stand there, wedged in the doorway. And, if he moved away, the wall would close again. He had to get down there, but what if he couldn’t get the fucking wall to open again?

For a few seconds, he stood, considering his options. Looking for something to stick into the doorway to stop it from shutting. Seeing the crates. Contemplating ways to shove one into place without letting the door close. He leaned his torso toward the stack of crates, pressed his fingers around the closest one. Tugged. It inched forward. His leg screamed with the exertion, the shifting of weight. But he kept it up, leaning, pulling until the crate toppled off the stack, close enough for him to slide it against his leg. He held the door open with his back, moved the crate against the molding, careful not to drop it into the gaping darkness. And he stepped away.

The wall snapped against the crate, knocking it back into the hallway.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. This was taking way too much time. Frustrated, Rick grabbed the hammer and smacked the wall again and again, widening the hole. He smeared sweat out of his eyes with bloodstained hands, but kept at it until the gash was big enough for him to lean inside. He fished his penlight out of his belt and cast a thin, powerful beam through the gash in the wall, aiming straight down.