Behind the Walls (24 page)

Saw the rotted staircase. Scattered broken boards on the floor below. He moved the light, trying to see where Harper had landed, how far she’d fallen. How badly she’d been hurt. If maybe she was dead. He squinted, straining to see.

‘Harper?’ he yelled.

No answer. No body. Where was she? Had she somehow gotten away? God, if she talked to the press, his ass was grass. Rick listened, heard nothing. Couldn’t be sure. Again, the darkness prevailed, engulfing his call and inking out his feeble ray of light.

Her flashlight wasn’t strong, and its beam was narrow. But it reassured Harper that she wasn’t blind; when she turned it on, her panic subsided. She could actually see a few yards ahead. Visibility wasn’t great, but she was able to orient herself enough to know that she was in a tunnel. The floor was of panels and planks coated with thick patches of what seemed to be sawdust and littered with broken boards and debris. At her feet were shards – probably one of them had cut her finger. In the dim thread of light, she saw what looked like a shattered relic – something with a mosaic pattern? And she remembered the missing vessel. Mosaic pattern, with a jaguar head.

Harper stooped, began collecting various chips and pieces, trying to reassemble them, but stopped herself. What was she doing? Was she crazy? She needed to find her way out of there. The relic – if it even was a relic – could wait.

Gently, Harper moved the pieces to the side of the path and stood again, moving the skinny beam of light, scanning her surroundings. Beside her, against the wall, was a decayed stairway, a rotted platform at its top. There must be a hidden entrance up there; she must have passed right through it. Which meant that, even though it had seemed like more, she’d fallen just one story. And that she must now be on the second level of the house.

A narrow, hollowed-out passageway extended ahead of and behind her. Nothing moved in either direction. No visible snakes. Maybe spiders? Oh Lord, she hoped not. She flashed the light along the floor, then upward. She saw no spiders. But she stood gasping, swallowing air, staring at bats. Dozens of them. Hanging upside down from every exposed rafter like leaves from an oak tree.

OK, she told herself. They’re just bats. Harmless. Good for the environment. They ate bugs, probably spiders, too. Besides, they were sleeping. And blind. If she left them alone, they wouldn’t even notice her.

Harper moved the light, trying not to disturb them. Deciding not to look at them, to pretend they weren’t there. Realizing that the bats were good news: if they’d been able to get inside the passageway, there must be an opening. Which meant a way out. She needed to stop gawking at the fauna, move her butt and find it.

She walked on, hearing a harsh sudden bang. Then another. Pieces of plaster loosened from the overhead wall, fell to the ground behind her. For a heartbeat, she thought of calling out; maybe someone had come to rescue her. But no – more likely, the person up there was Rick, incensed that she’d eluded him. He was coming after her, rabid enough to demolish the wall. Harper moved forward, picking up her pace, aiming the light on the floor ahead as her eyes grew accustomed to dimness, discerning more detail.

A dozen yards ahead, the passageway split into two. She stopped, considering: right or left? Which way should she go? She closed her eyes, trying to sense the exit, picturing the layout of the house. Probably, she was between walls of the bedrooms on the second floor. Which meant she had no idea which direction would be better. She pointed her finger, whispered, Eeny meeny miny mo. From the darkness behind her, she heard Rick calling her name. His voice sounded close, tore at her like a claw.

Harper veered right, hurrying. Several steps later, she thought, damn. Maybe I should have gone left.

Rick pressed his shoulders against the wall and stuck his head through the hole, the penlight in his mouth. The light was weak, but he could see the floor. She simply wasn’t down there.

But how could that be? How could she have survived that fall? He turned his head, moving the light, thinking that maybe she’d crawled a few feet away before collapsing. But she wasn’t there.

Fuck. What was he supposed to do now? Obviously, he couldn’t admit that he’d let her get away. Obviously, he had to find her.

But how? She was somewhere inside the fucking
walls.
He stuck his head back in the hole, this time examining the space. Beyond the decrepit stairway, there appeared to be a passageway, a tunnel. And the walls beyond the stairs were fairly smooth. OK.

Rick smiled, relieved. He’d go down there after her. Even with his damned leg, it wasn’t that far. All he had to do was attach a rope up here and rappel off the wall. Except that, damn. He didn’t have a rope.

Think, he told himself. But his thinking was blurry, messed up. He couldn’t keep his mind on one topic for very long. Probably, he needed water, orange juice. Something to offset his blood loss. Whiskey. Rye. Bourbon. Anything. He looked around the hallway, hoping to find a Coke, saw crates. What the hell was in all these crates?

And then it occurred to him: he could use them to climb down into the hole. He could drop them down, one at a time, until they piled up into a mound, like a mini-mountain. He could ease on to them and climb down to the tunnel floor. Genius. Absolute genius.

First, he had to make the hole wide enough and high enough. It took many more slams of the hammer, but he pulled away large wads of the wall. Then he went for a crate. It was lighter than he’d expected, light enough to heft it up to the opening, shove it through, hear it fall. He got his penlight, flashed it down. The crate had come apart, revealing piles of shredded foam. Damn. Well, it was a start – he’d probably need to toss in a couple dozen to make a high enough mound to climb onto. He’d better hurry. Harper had a head start, and his leg was slowing him down.

Rick limped to the crates, picked up another, brought it to the hole, shoved it through, let it go. Listened for the crash. Went for the third, repeated the process. Felt dizzy, but kept going. Army Strong, he told himself, and he moved back and forth, lifting and dropping boxes, losing count of the number. Driven by the knowledge that he couldn’t let Harper get away. At some point, he peered through the hole and saw a mess of wood and packing stuff all over the floor. Not high enough. Nowhere near high enough. So he kept on tossing boxes until, finally, he realized he had no choice: he had to rest. Just for a minute.

Rick leaned against the wall beside the remaining crates, leaned on one to ease down to the floor. His leg was still oozing through the tourniquet. The pain had moved beyond the wound, occupied his head, his back. He’d be OK, though, in a minute. He needed just a minute to rest, and he’d be OK.

Harper faced a wall. A blank, flat plaster wall. She flashed the light up and down, refusing to accept that, after wandering through twists and turns, thirsty and sore, she had come to this: a dead end.

But it couldn’t be a dead end. Why would someone go to all the trouble of building a secret passageway only to have it lead nowhere? They wouldn’t, would they? And yet, here it was. A tunnel leading to nothing.

But wait. A blank wall was the way she’d gotten in there. Maybe this was the same thing, a fake obstruction. A secret door. She felt it gently, pressed on the corners, the middle. Nothing gave way. She pushed harder, leaned her back against it and shoved with her whole body, rammed it with her shoulder. Nothing happened. The wall was just a wall.

Harper leaned against it, sinking to the floor, flashing her light back along the path she’d just taken. Wondering how long she’d been walking. How long her flashlight batteries would last.

Oh God. What if they died? She’d be blind again, engulfed by thick black air. Buried in it. She turned off the light. Sat in the dark. Closed her eyes, frustrated, spilling tears. Her left leg throbbed; her head pulsed pain. She’d lost track of time. Lost her sense of direction. What if she’d been wandering in circles? Or tangled in false passages leading to dead ends? She might never find her way out.

She thought of Hank. Of never seeing him again. Of dying here, unseen, inside walls. Harper’s body tensed. She ran her arm across her blood-smeared face, refusing to let herself cry. She needed to get a grip. After all, she was resourceful. Trained to overcome the harshest conditions and survive the most hostile environments. She could certainly survive in a decaying old mansion.

Besides, she probably wouldn’t have to find her way out. Any minute, someone would come and find her. When he’d seen that she hadn’t come home, Hank would have gotten help. Would have sent for the police. Detective Rivers was probably right that moment talking to Angus and Jake, who would know all about the tunnels and how to get around in them. Any minute, one of them would climb in and get her out.

Unless Rick found her first.

She listened for him. Earlier, she’d heard violent smashing. But not for a while. Now, sitting still in the pitch darkness, she heard nothing. Or wait. Something? Were those footsteps? Grunts? Dragging? Was someone there? Was it Rick?

She stopped breathing, strained to pick up the faintest hint of sound. And then, suddenly, a burst of music. Not just music. Meatloaf. That song, ‘Paradise by the Dashboard Light’. The girl was singing that she had to know if he’d love her forever, that he had to tell her right now.

Harper got to her feet, trying to locate its source. Was it coming from behind her? Back in the tunnels? Through the wall ahead? Why couldn’t she be sure? She turned in circles, listening, unable to determine a direction. Each way she turned seemed wrong.

‘Let me sleep on it,’ Meatloaf sang.

Maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe that was why she couldn’t locate it. Maybe the music was in her head. After all, she hadn’t seen anything but a dim swatch of light, hadn’t heard much except her almost silent footsteps in God knew how long  . . . Minutes? Hours? She had no idea. And sensory deprivation could cause hallucinations; she’d learned that back in psych class. So maybe she was hallucinating now. Creating Meatloaf in her mind because her mind needed to hear something.

Then again, maybe she wasn’t.

Which would mean that someone was actually within hearing distance. If she could hear them, then they could hear her. She yelled, ‘Hel—’ and stopped halfway through the word. What if it was Rick blasting the music, luring her to him with a friendly sound so he could ambush her?

Well, fine, she decided. If it was Rick, she’d deal with him.

‘Hello?’ she bellowed. Her voice swam into empty air, drowned by the music. ‘Can anyone hear me?’

The girl answered, repeating that she had to know right now.

The music sounded real. But Harper had endured countless flashbacks that had seemed real; she was well aware that the mind could play incredible tricks. Even so, she couldn’t stay there, at a dead end. Had to move, to keep searching for a way out. She turned the flashlight back on and started down the tunnel, away from the wall. She stopped, though, when she saw a bent nail on the ground, and she knelt slowly, wincing in pain to pick it up. It wasn’t as sharp as her pocketknife would have been, but the nail was pointed enough to carve an ‘X’ on the wall.

From now on, at least she’d know if she was backtracking. From now on, she’d leave a trail.

Rick pushed himself to his feet. If he fell asleep, he was a goner. He might die right there. No, he had to find Harper, complete his job. His sweat chilled him, and he shivered. His leg was on fire. Vaguely, he noticed his phone on the floor. It must have fallen from his pocket; he’d get it in a minute. But first, he went back to his task, shoving boxes through the secret door until, finally, the pile was close enough to stand on. He secured his gun in his tool belt, took the hammer for good measure, grabbed his penlight, and lowered himself into the hole.

The stack was unstable, composed of broken and off balanced crates, and it gave way under his weight, sending him sliding to the ground. A howl escaped his throat; a jolt tore through his leg. He landed on his ass, legs akimbo, and lay panting until his body stopped reverberating. Thinking, even as he shook with pain, about his phone. That it was still out there on the floor. That he’d forgotten to pick it up. Fuck.

Gradually, his nerves stopped screaming, and he rolled to his side. Light from the open door was dim; he turned on his penlight, looked around. Saw a tunnel extending ahead and behind him. Saw some broken pottery a few steps away. Harper had been there, had gathered the pieces.

Leaning on a broken crate, Rick climbed to his feet. His leg wound was bleeding again, so he played with the tourniquet, tightening it, grimacing. His hands wet and slipping, he rested for a moment, allowing the pain. Snapped a yard-long board off a broken crate to use as a walking stick. Then, gripping his stick in one hand, his gun in the other, his penlight in his mouth, he set out after Harper.

Almost instantly, music began to blare; he couldn’t tell from where. Really? Music? Fucking Meatloaf? Shit. He stopped for a second, absorbing this new development. What the hell did it mean? Was someone else in the house? Were they having a damned party? Wonderful, all he needed were more complications. Witnesses. As if this job hadn’t gone to hell already. Now, he’d have collateral damage, too? He’d have to take care of extraneous people? This day just got suckier and suckier. Fuck fuck fuck.

Rick limped ahead, moving in the direction of the broken pottery. Furious about the music. How was he supposed to listen for Harper when someone was blasting fucking Meatloaf?

On the other hand, when he found her, the music would cover screams and gunshots.

Every few steps, he had to stop to steady himself, fight the dizziness. Overcome the gnashing pain. But relentlessly, he kept on. Until, goddammit, the tunnel split.

Of course it did. Everything else was fucked up, why wouldn’t the tunnel be, too? Rick felt like shooting the walls, blowing the whole damned place up. He needed to get it together; he was better, smarter than to lose it. He needed to psyche out his prey, that was all. OK. Which way would she have gone, right or left? He closed his eyes, pictured Harper standing there, choosing. She would go right; he was sure of that. She was right-handed. And she’d been wounded on her left side. To her, left was vulnerable, so reflex would make her go right.