SAFELY BURIED Chapter 28: The Steps

As I passed the nurses’ station, a tall, husky LPN with long blonde hair whirled away from a filing cabinet and said, “May I help you?” She looked like a big, tough roller-derby skater, but she had a winsome smile that seemed on the verge of becoming a laugh. Her name tag read Barb.

I introduced myself and asked if it was okay if I talked to Esther for a few minutes.

“If it’s all right with her, it’s all right with me,” she said with the nearly laughing smile. She came around the desk and peered down the hall. “There she is, straight ahead.” She led the way, and I followed in her wake.

“Hey, Esther, you’ve got a visitor today.”

“No,” Esther said without turning around.

“Oh yes you do, dear. He’s right here.”

With an expression both puzzled and indignant, Esther turned and looked up.

I said, “Good morning, Esther. Remember me? I’m Phil. I talked to you last week.”

“Of course I remember you. Why wouldn’t I?”

Her eyes betrayed her. She had no idea who I was.

“You sure are feisty today, Esther,” Barb said. “If a man wanted to see me, I’d put on my happy face.”

“Who cares?” Esther said.

“Oh, what a crab you are,” Barb said. “Come on. Let’s go to your room so you and Phil can talk.”

“No.”

Barely moving her lips, Barb muttered to me, “Everything’s no no no today. She still wants to control her own life. She’s a fighter.”

“Good for her,” I muttered back.

Barb got Esther onto her feet, and Esther tried to shake off her hand. “You’ll have to use your walker, if you won’t let me help you, dear.”

The threat worked—Esther let the nurse hold her arm. I was sad to see her capitulate.

“Is it okay if we sit outside on the rocking chairs?” I said. “It’s a beautiful morning.”

“You’re not going to kidnap her, are you?”

“I hadn’t planned on it.”

“Would you like to sit outside, Esther?” Barb said.

There was no answer, so it counted as a yes.

“Maybe I should toilet her first,” Barb said, “Do you want to go to the bathroom, Esther?”

“No.”

Barb was going to walk her all the way out to the portico, but I took over. “I won’t let her fall,” I promised.

“If she does, I’m in big trouble,” Barb said, “so please don’t.”

She punched in the four-digit code, which I noticed was written on the wall near the keypad. I put Esther’s arm through mine and squeezed it against my side as we promenaded through the lobby. She did not try to fight me off. Perhaps she enjoyed being on a man’s arm.

We sat in the shade on the left side of the portico. On the other side, an old baldheaded man sat bent over in a wheelchair. He gave us a sideways up-from-under look and said, “Good morning. Nice day, isn’t it?” His voice was surprisingly strong.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s a little bit cooler today.”

“Yes it is. Maybe the heat wave is over.”

Since he had his wits about him and was outside by himself, I deduced that he lived in the assisted-living section. I thought about joining him, but I didn’t want to have to make a lot of small talk. I wanted to grill Esther.

She rocked slowly, barely moving on the large wooden rocker.

“Do you come out here very often, Esther?” I said.

“No. It’s too cold.”

“You’re not cold now, are you?”

She didn’t answer.

“Would you rather sit in the lobby?”

She looked straight into my eyes. “I want to go home. Will you take me home?”

“I can’t do that. The nurse would think I kidnapped you.”

“I don’t care what she thinks. I want to go home.”

I reached over and touched her hand. “This is a nice place for you to live, Esther. They take good care of you here.”

“No they don’t,” she snapped, quickly frustrated. “I don’t have to stay here if I don’t want to. They can’t keep me here.”

Not a good start, I said to myself. I guess we should have stayed inside. I sat back and rocked.

A man pushing a wheelbarrow appeared at the far end of the assisted-living wing and came toward us on the driveway. When he had covered about half the distance, a striking reddish-brown bird with black and white rings around its neck walked out of a flower garden covered with ornamental stones and began screeching loudly. It ran away from the wheelbarrow and then began dragging its wings on the ground.

“Look, Esther,” I said, “see that bird? It’s a killdeer. She’s pretending she’s hurt. She must have a nest on those stones.”

“I don’t like birds,” Esther said.

“You don’t? Why not?”

No answer.

The man in the wheelchair said, “That bird does that all day long.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yep. It makes a lot of noise, but it sure is pretty.”

“Oh shut up,” Esther said.

I laughed and said, “Why are you so crabby today, Esther?”

“Frank, where have you been?” she said. “Why don’t you come to see me anymore?”

“I’m not Frank,” I said. I’m Phil, from the Gleaner. I was here last week. You told me about Lug, the horse. I said I’d come back to see you again, remember?”

She seemed perplexed. “Of course I remember.”

“Well here I am.”

She straightened up, and her nostrils pinched together in a long breath. Then she scrunched up her lips and stared at me as if demanding something.

I said, “Last week you started to tell me about the house where you used to live in Blind Horse Hollow. You said when you were little your family lived in the cellar sometimes because it was cool there during the summer.”

I waited for her answer, and finally she said, “That’s right.” She sounded a tad less hostile.

“I was in the cellar,” I told her. “It wasn’t as big as I thought it would be. It was about the size of the kitchen, that’s all. Was that the whole cellar, Esther, or was it just the furnace room? Was there another room somewhere, another cellar?”

She raised a hand and spread her fingers and thumb.

“What do you mean?” I said. “Five? Do you mean five rooms?”

She grimaced as if frustrated with me.

“How can I get to those rooms, Esther?”

“You go down the steps.”

I said, “There was only one room in the cellar when I was there. How do I get to the other rooms? Is there another set of steps somewhere?”

“Don’t you remember? You always wanted to play down there when you were a little boy. I wouldn’t let you. I was afraid you’d catch a cold it was so drafty.”

It was getting too crazy. Her brain was shot. Then I recalled the faint breeze I had felt the last time I was in the Garth house. It came up the stairs as I started down from the second floor. I felt it only for a moment, as if a door had opened and shut. It made me think. . . .

“Esther,” I said, “is there a cave under the house?”

She sucked in her lips and stared at me.

My scalp tingled. That was it—a cave. It had to be.

“I’ve got to go now, Esther,” I said. “I must go to work. How about if I take you back to your room?”

“Good, it’s too cold out here,” she said.

I helped her through the front door and spied a different woman behind Allison’s desk. I asked her if she would mind helping Esther get back to her room. I felt ungrateful for passing Esther off like that, but I was dying to get out of there. I said goodbye to Esther and told her I would come again. As the girl led her away, I heard Esther say, “Who was that man?” It made me feel better about dumping her.

I felt antzy all over as I drove across town. I couldn’t wait to get out to the Garth house, but first I made a stop at the Gleaner. I took the handgun that Edward had given me out of my desk and put it in a plastic bag. Then I raided the printing crew’s tool bench in the back shop, where I borrowed a small pry bar and a long, thin file, just so I had a couple of tools in case I needed them. As an afterthought, I sent Edward an email: “possible development in Garth case, will be back asap”

When I set out for the hollow, I thought I was on the verge of cracking the case, but halfway there reality set in. What if I didn’t find a cave? Or what if I found it and there was nothing there? My mood swung with the moment, up one minute, down the next, manic-depressive, bipolar, a victim of myself. Don’t crash just yet, I told myself. Play it out. Take it one step at a time. Find the freaken cave. Have a little faith. Trust your gut. Maybe I needed a pep pill or something.

I wasn’t sure if I should drive right up to the Garth house and knock on the door or if I should ditch my car somewhere—at Jodie’s maybe—and then follow the creek to the Garth place and scope it out from the cornstalks. No, too many possible complications. Go in straight up in case somebody’s there.

As I slowed down to turn into the Garths’ driveway, I saw Glenn Neidig sitting on the bottom steps of his porch. I hadn’t talked to him in more than a week, so I stifled my impatience and pulled in to his lane. He was leaning forward, elbows on knees, beard between legs, clipping fingernails onto the ground. The dogs began howling and leaping against their pens as I climbed out of the car and walked across the scrubby grass.

“How do,” the old man said as he clipped one last nail.

“How are you, Glenn?”

“Can’t complain much, I reckon—not that it would help if I did. What can I do for ya?”

“I was just wondering what’s been going on around here lately?”

“Not much. I’d say we’re jest about back to normal.”

The dogs were still howling, and Glenn pushed himself off the steps and shuffled to the side of the house, where he let out a roar: “Yarrrrr, knock it off.” The din subsided, and he came back and climbed the steps. “Have a seat,” he said over his shoulder. “Set a spell.”

I followed him up. “Have you been over to the house across the road?” I said.

“Not lately. It gives me the willies thinkin’ ’bout what happened there.”

“Are the rubber-neckers still going in and out?”

“Not too many of ’em. I reckon most of ’em seen all there is to see by now.”

“How about the guy who owns the place—Walter Boofey—have you seen him?”

Glenn twisted one side of his mouth into a snarl and said, “You know somethin’, young fella, you mighta found me settin’ on the stoop out here, but that don’t mean I spend all my time watchin’ what goes on across the road. I like to mind my own business.”

“Unlike me,” I said, laughing. “I know, Glenn, but you’ve got the best spot to see what goes on over there.”

“Sometimes you’re better off if you don’t see too much.”

“Not if you work for a newspaper.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“What about Boofey?” I said. “Has he been around?”

“Yep, I seen him a coupla times. Leastways I think it was him. Drives a big black pickup truck.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“A couple or three days ago.”

“Has he been staying over there?”

“Hard to say.”

“Was there anyone with him?”

“Not that I seen.”

“Do you know if he’s there now?”

“Nope, I sure don’t.”

I pushed my luck: “Have you seen his truck leave since the last time it went in?”

“Lord a’mighty, what did I just tell ya? I don’t sit here all day watchin’ who comes an’ goes.”

“Sorry,” I said. “What about the police—have they been around lately?”

“They came and got their roadblock finally, not that it did much good keepin’ people out. It didn’t keep you out either, did it? I did see you go in one day. Seems like it drawed more people in than it kept out.” He took the clipper out of his pocket again and went back to work on his yellow nails. “This used to be a nice, quiet place to live,” he went on. “Now cars are comin’ and goin’ all the time and people are gettin’ killed. It’s turnin’ into a gol-durned city.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t,” I said. “Good talking to you, Glenn.”

“Anytime.”

The hounds ignited again as I walked to my car. I backed out to the county road and turned into the lane to the Garths’ house. In the rearview mirror I caught a glimpse of Glenn eyeballing me. He might not spend all his time watching what went on across the road, but he certainly was watching me. If I got arrested for breaking in, he’d make a good witness against me. But he wouldn’t need to testify. I wouldn’t deny it. My excuse, or rather my justification would be that I was 99.9% sure there was a cave connected to the house and that it might reveal why the Garths were killed and who killed them. Finding the cave was worth the risk of going in again.

The house looked deserted. It always did. It was a spook house. Boofey’s truck was nowhere in sight. I left my burglar’s tools on the seat for the moment and got out of the car. On the porch I was happy to see that the glass in the door had still not been replaced. All I had to do was loosen the plywood again. Piece of cake. But first I pounded on the door in case someone was inside. No answer. On the off chance that someone might be out back, I took a fast walk around the house. Then I added a quick visit to the barn. On the way back I made a point of traipsing through the septic field. It was dry—slightly spongy, but basically dry. My guess was no one had been there for several days.

I got my pry bar out of the car and went back to the porch. From there I had a 180-degree view of the fields, pasture, and hills. I scanned every degree without seeing anyone. I banged on the door a second time and waited. Then I wiggled the flat end of the bar under the wood and worked it loose. I unlocked the door and went in, but this time I hammered the plywood back in place with the side of my fist before I shut the door. If Boofey showed up while I was in his house, he wouldn’t know I was there and I’d hear him coming. I’d be ready for him.

What about the car, Larrison? Wake up.

I ran back to the car and drove it around the side of the house. I found an overgrown tractor trail between Grapevine’s cornfield and the tangled vines and locust trees along the creek bed. It wasn’t the greatest hiding place, but the car would not be seen from the front of the house. I left the pry bar and the file on the seat, but I took the .45 with me.

I made a beeline back to the house. I realized I was sweating—from nervousness as much as from running around. I locked the front door behind me and headed for the laundry room next to the kitchen. Every time the floor squeaked I thought someone would hear it. The door to the cellar was closed. I put my ear against it and listened. No sound came from below. I opened the door as quietly as I could and twisted the light switch. The one fluorescent bulb highlighted the clay wall that had scraped my face. The sensation of tumbling down the steps came back.

I knelt down at the top of the steps and bent over to see if anyone was underneath them. No one was there. Once again, as I started down, I expected a pair of hands to grab my ankle and yank it through the stairs. It’s a miracle I didn’t break a leg last time, I thought. The worry stayed with me all the way down the steps until both feet were solidly planted on the dirt floor.

Standing in the dimly lighted cellar, I wished I had a flashlight. Why hadn’t I thought of bringing one? What a dope I was, rushing around like a nut, remembering the gun but not a flashlight. What did I plan to do if I found the cave, explore it in the dark? It would be as black as hell in there. Larrison, you’re an idiot.

My eyes adjusted to the stringy light, and I started looking for some kind of entrance to a cave. The cellar seemed even smaller than I had remembered. The beady red lights on the solar equipment glowed warmly but added no useful illumination. I examined the wall behind the components, including the dug-out section halfway up. There was no cave there, and no way for a person to get inside if there had been.

I inspected the wall next to the steps. More than half the wall was taken up by the ramshackle stairway. The space below the steps, where my tripper had stood, was clear. Behind it was a leaning stack of bulging cardboard boxes that were crushing one another. The corners of the bottom boxes had split open, oozing ancient copies of Look and The Saturday Evening Post. Other boxes contained dusty dishes, worn boots, blue bottles. . . . If there was a cave behind the leaning tower of junk, which there wasn’t, and if the stack of boxes was meant to conceal the entrance, they were too heavy and treacherous to move to get in and out of the cave.

I looked for a trapdoor under the kitchen table that was covered with canning supplies. The floor was solid clay, hard as concrete, no trapdoor.

The rest of the space was occupied by the huge antique furnace, the two long oil tanks that served it, and the much newer gas furnace. A flashlight would have helped me see behind the tanks, but they were so close to the wall and the floor that it was obvious they did not conceal a tunnel.

The two furnaces, one at each end of the tanks, stood a foot or two away from the walls, and so it was easy enough to see there was no cave behind them.

I was ready to throw in the towel down here. Maybe there was another cellar after all. I’d have to find the secret stairway. I’d have to search the whole house, pounding on walls, looking for trapdoors.

Or maybe there was no cave. How could I believe what Esther Dubbs had said? I probably put the idea of a cave in her head and then believed what I wanted to believe she was saying. An idiot listening to a crazy woman. It was time to quit playing detective and forget this nonsense. Maybe the Garths’ murders would never be solved. If the cops couldn’t solve them, what made me think I could?

It was another moment of despair, and I was at the bottom of the turning wheel when the voice in my head said shape up, doofus. If there’s nothing here, why did some other doofus trip you down the steps? It’s here. It’s right in front of you. Open your eyes.

I stared at the old furnace. It looked like a monster, squatting, waiting. It was big enough to heat the Gleaner building. Why did a house this size need such a big furnace? I noticed that it had no air ducts and that its topmost section was gone. A vinyl shower curtain was tied over the opening. I suspected that the furnace had once fed heat directly into the first floor through a large iron grate, but such a register would have been in the middle of the house, not the back. What’s more, the old, rough-sawn floor joists passed directly above the furnace. There was no sign that a register had ever been there.

I went over for a closer look. I squeezed behind the fat cylindrical chamber and got a black smear on my shirt and pants. I gave the monster a whack. The metal fabric shook, and a wisp of cool air touched my fingers. The air escaped through a slit where two sheets of curved metal overlapped. I held my palm over the slit and felt the faint rush of air.

I grabbed the side of the furnace and tried to move it, pressing, sliding, shaking, pulling, lifting. . . .

The metal panel rose an inch or so and came free. I gave it a push, and it slid sideways, wrapping around the outside of the furnace to reveal several wooden steps dug into the earth. I could barely see them, but I counted five steps that disappeared into a low tunnel. A steady blast of cool air blew out of the cave, fanning my hot face.