Deadly Decision (24 page)

I stared at her.

“It was sand! I saw some fall right before you dropped the light.”

Her laugh was contagious.

“All right, laugh,” I said, pretending to be angry, “but when you get bit by a snake and end up with rabies, don't come crying to me.”

“Snakes don't have rabies,” Ted said.

“There might be one that does,” I responded.

“It was just so funny!” Trina repeated.

At least I had lightened the mood, and laughter is good for the soul.

“We need a plan,” Sandra said, wiping tears from her eyes. “We can't all fit in that tiny room at the same time without trampling each other. How about Ted and I go back down and—”

“
I
will go back down.” I don't mind being the occasional brunt of a joke, but I refuse to be a chicken. “You two ladies stay up here. Ted and I will bring the trunks to you.”

Ted retrieved the broken lamp. With one out of commission, we still had two, more than enough for the job. I grabbed a lamp off the floor, connected it to the extension cord, and, with forced bravado, headed back down the stairs. Ted followed with the remaining light.

With four hundred watts of illumination, I could see the pattern on the surface of the trunks, even though the coat of sand.

However, behind each stack of trunks, shadows persisted. The tread of our shoes made patterns in the sand on the stone floor. Too late, I realized we had lost an opportunity to check for Mitch's footprints. Now any evidence he may have left had been trampled and contaminated.

“Should we move the empty trunks to the side, like we did in the attic?” Ted asked. “There isn't much room down here, but we could stack them against this wall.”

“No sense carrying empty containers upstairs just yet,” I added. “We have enough weight to haul around.”

The room was airless, and the dust we disturbed mixed with sweat and soon coated us in a pasty mud.

It took both of us to carry each trunk up the uneven stairs. I heaved a sigh of relief each time my feet hit the kitchen floor, feeling safe once out of the cave.

When Trina suggested an iced tea break, we moved to the front porch. With each of us coated in various amounts of grime, cobwebs, and dirt, we looked like a sorry bunch. I caught the edge of a curtain move across the street, and wondered what the neighbor was thinking. I reached over and pulled an exceptionally long web off Sandra's hair.

“Who do you suppose put all of this down there?” Trina asked, sipping her tea.

“Stranger still,” Sandra replied, “is why did they leave it there?”

“Bill, what about that satchel from the cave?” Ted asked.

With Pastor Steve's arrest, I had forgotten it. “It's in my room, under the bed.”

“There might be a clue in it,” Trina added. “Maybe the skeleton put the trunks down there, and he died and no one else knew about the cave. What if the stuff belonged to Isabelle and her family, but they didn't know where it was hidden?”

Sandra brushed at a spot of dirt on her slacks. “All those things do belong to Isabelle in a way, because only family has ever lived here. Unless the trunks were hidden for someone else, all those things belonged to the family at some point.”

We sipped tea, each occupied with our own thoughts.

Once our break was over, Ted and I headed back down the stone stairs while the women unpack the latest trunk—full of flower rimmed plates.

After five more trips, and out of breath, I leaned against the cabinet and wiped the grit from my eyes. Ted's t-shirt had long ago lost its color. What the dirt hadn't changed, sweat had. His blonde hair was streaked with gray grit. I had never seen my son-in-law so dirty. It did my spirit good. To his credit, he kept up with me.

“You guys look like you need some water.” Sandra handed a glass to each of us, and we gulped gratefully.

“Sandra, come and see this!” Trina called.

Still clutching my half empty glass of water, I headed to the dining room. In addition to the floral china plates, the table now held old silver pieces, and various bottles and boxes.

Trina stood holding a glass bowl. “Look at this,” she sighed. “It's so light it feels like air.”

She lowered the bowl into Sandra's outstretched hands.

“It's a wonder it didn't get broken,” Sandra murmured. Light from the window reflected off the bowl, and a rainbow of color arched across the floor and up the wall. A sensation of loss touched me when Sandra placed the bowl on the table, and the rainbow dissolved.

“There's more in the trunk,” Trina said, “but I'm too tired right now to be safe handling them. How about a break?”

Our last break had only been an hour ago. Trina shouldn't need a break yet. I glanced at her and noted her sagging mouth and slumped shoulders. “We've had enough fun,” I stated. “Let's stop for the day.”

Besides my concern for Trina, I had another reason for wanted to quit. The itch that grows in the back of my brain when something is wrong needed scratched. Mitch had not shown up for three days, even though Ted had him scheduled to work. Was he afraid to come back?

 

 

 

 

27

 

After supper, Ted and I walked the six blocks to where Mitch lived. “Don't you think it's strange that he hasn't shown up since he bashed me in the head?”

“He must have a reason.”

“He has a reason all right. He's afraid.”

We walked in silence for the next block, past storefronts and empty offices, employees home for the evening. A yellow cat trotted across the street, turning his eyes in disdain toward the car that braked for him but never increased his pace.
Stupid cat.

Having watched the cat safely across the street I turned back to Ted. “What do you know about this roommate of his?”

“Not much. His name's Jack. He works at the garage with Mitch, and offered Mitch a place to stay when we moved into the house.”

“What's he like?”

“I‘ve never met him. Mitch said Jack was in the Army and was discharged after being injured in Iraq. He doesn't talk about him much.”

“He doesn't talk about anything much.”

We turned down New Street. It was little more than an old alley, narrow and airless, lined mostly with the backs of warehouses. Nothing
new
about it.

Half hidden by years of overgrown brush, the house was one of many that the Dixie Company had once rented to its line workers. The house was now owned by an absentee landlord, and it looked like a puff of wind would blow it down—if the wind could get to it. Hints of gray paint clung stubbornly to the weathered siding. Crumbling cement steps led to a front porch.

“Not exactly healthy looking.” I pulled a rusty nail from the rotted front railing.

Ted knocked on the door. He knocked again. The door opened just enough for us to see dark hair and a thick eyebrow that was pulled down toward his eye. He appeared to be about thirty. “What?”

“I'm Ted Hancock—”

“I know who you are.”

I didn't like the looks of the man, or his attitude. “Are you Jack?” I asked.

“Yah.”

“We're looking for Mitch,” I stated.

“He's at work.”

“At the garage?” Ted questioned. “They told me Mitch hasn't been there for three days. He was supposed to work for me today, and he didn't show up.”

“I don't know where he is. I figured he was at work. He lit out of here a few days ago, and I haven't seen him since.”

“He left?” I asked. “And he's still gone?”

He was lying.

“Yah, he's still gone.” Jack glared; I could feel his challenge. Bullies were the same everywhere.

“Do you know when he might be back?” Ted asked.

“Look, I don't know where he went, and I don't know when he'll be back, if ever.”

He started to close the door and I grabbed the edge. “Why do you think he might not come back? Did he take his things?”

“Mister, I'm no babysitter.”

I let go just in time to keep my hand from being crushed.

Ted followed me to the street. “Mitch hasn't gone anywhere,” I hissed.

“How do you know?”

I nodded toward the back of the house.

There, mostly hidden by trees and vines, was Mitch's truck.

 



 

Even though my body ached for rest, sleep refused to come. My room no longer comforted me. Even with the lights on, shadows reached bony arms toward me. The air felt heavy and oppressive considering a late night breeze fluttered the fabric of the curtains. Looking toward the door, I expected to see someone—or something—creeping toward me.

As dawn broke, I finally slept, only to dream—the nightmare...

I stood on the edge of a cliff. Across the wide chasm was another person, on horseback. Heart pounding in my chest, I
had
to reach him. Desperate for anything—a fallen tree, a vine, rope forgotten by another traveler, I spied a horse grazing not far from me. Hadn't I looked there before?

My mouth filled with cotton. Could a horse leap the gap? I didn't know, but had to try, had to trust. He stood still as I grasped his thick mane and pulled myself onto his broad back.

As though knowing what I expected of him, he raced toward the cliff.

The man on the other side of the gap held out his arms, his expression pleading, begging me to come. My breath came in short pants as I clung to the flying horse.

I focused my eyes on the man across the gap. The horse pounded closer, gaining speed.

As we approached the edge, my eyes dropped to the jagged rock on the opposite side of the chasm. Did I really trust this horse with my life? My body slipped sideways off the beast. He leaped into open space and dissolved in a red flame before my eyes.

The man lowered his head, turned his horse and began to ride away.

Standing as close to the edge as I dared, I looked for the horse. There was no sign of him. I yelled into the yawing space, begging the retreating man to stay. Wind whipped my cry, tearing it from my mouth. My words never reached the retreating man.

Gusts of wind swirled around me. In spite of the danger, I hesitated to leave the side of the chasm. What if the man came back? The wind increased, now tearing at my clothing, abrading my skin with shooting bits of sand. My internal self shouted for me to find shelter before the wind tore me to bits, but I remained by the cliff's edge.

And then I spotted the horse, grazing right where I had seen him before. He stood in the sun, the grass steady and quiet. I tried to move toward him, but I had waited too long, the wind was too strong. It picked me up and pushed me over the edge of the cliff. Falling. Waiting to die.

Embedded in the wind was the faint sound of metal against metal.

I woke in darkness, sweaty and twisted in my sheets. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I put my head in my hands, the dream broken.

But the grinding continued; the mechanical grinding that had repeatedly interrupted my sleep. Without the barrier of dreams, I recognized the sound as Mitch's truck. My head jerked up; I was fully alert. The noise was already fading. Had he been inside the house?

I ran to Ted and Trina's room and put my ear against the door. Hearing only steady breathing, I entered the room far enough to see two forms in the bed. Should I go down to the kitchen? I knew what I would find: dirt on the floor by the cupboard.

Mitch had a nerve coming back to the house, especially since he must know we found the cave. The weekly newspaper hadn't had time to print the story, but gossip must have reached him. I would nail the cupboard closed in the morning. We could pull the nails out later and bring up the remaining trunks.

As I returned to my bed, bone chilling coldness filled the room. Icy fingers penetrated my skin and muscle and clutched my heart.

 

 

 

 

28

 

What robbed Trina of sleep? From the look of her heavy eyes, her night's rest must have equaled mine.

She had placed her arm across the kitchen table, and her head lay on top of it. She still wore her night clothes: a T-shirt and pair of shorts. Trina always dressed as soon as she got out of bed. Overwhelming sadness settled in my heart.
How much time does she have left? Why won't she talk to me?
“Bad night, honey?”

“Ummm.”

As much as the truth would hurt, this game had to end. We had to stop living in this land of make believe.

“Trina.” Sitting beside her, I placed my hand on her arm and struggled for the right words. “I know you're keeping something from me, but you need to tell me. You'll feel better if you do.”

She lifted her face and peered into my face. Here soft doe-like eyes were more familiar to me than my own, but I still peered into them, memorizing every spec of gold, each variation in color. I remembered the emptiness of Nancy's eyes as she moved from earth to heaven. Her shell remained, but the life in her eyes was gone. I knew she was dead. My throat tightened, and I choked back tears at the thought of my daughter's lovely eyes losing their sparkle.

“Dad, I'm not keeping secrets from you on purpose. It's just that—”

The back door rattled and Sandra entered. Trina's opportunity to share her secret with me ended.

Sandra was early; I hadn't even had my first cup of coffee yet. She carried a basket that wafted out a spicy smell like fresh oatmeal cookies.

Trina's face brightened. “You remembered!”

“My famous pecan muffins, hot from the oven. Are you up to one?” She gave Trina a searching look.

She knows!
Jealousy turned to relief. Trina would need another woman. Ted and I had a role to play, but a mother was different, and Sandra filled that role. My appreciation for Sandra grew. Her love for my daughter was evident.