16. Chapter 16
Spot scrambles out of my arms as soon as I catch him, leaving scratches on the exposed skin.
“Ow!” I flick on the light, then the hatch slams shut and I’m alone. Except for Spot, but he doesn’t really count.
I turn around and peer down the short hall and make a vow to stay where I am. I slide my back slowly down the wall until I’m sitting on the concrete floor, then wrap my arms around my legs and settle my chin on my knees. It’s cold down here and smells weird. Metallic for sure, oily, coppery, stale. A smoky odor permeates throughout. I can’t hear anything going on outside. The moment that hatch was closed, the sirens and shouting were cut off.
I shiver. Anyone who wants to scare their kids straight, this is the place.
I think of calling Pops. He’d know what to do. But he already hates Reaper and I want the two to find a way to get along.
Also, what could Pops do? He’d take on Hangman with all the fury of a dad who loves his daughter and he wouldn’t come out the winning end. He’s strong, loving, protective, but he’s one man.
Besides, I can’t tell him about the kilo of coke, which is next to me on the floor, which is next to my purse, which is next to Spot, who is sniffing the air like I was, but more obvious.
Then he jumps up and takes off like his tail’s on fire.
“Spot,” I whisper urgently, then clear my throat realizing I can scream and no one will hear me. I raise my voice. “Spot! Come back here!”
His answering bark echoes off the walls, but he doesn’t materialize.
I sit for a few more minutes then curiosity gets the better of me. I know I shouldn’t. I doubt Hell’s Jury keeps an underground bunker because they’re preparing for the apocalypse. I know I’m going to have nightmares. Okay, maybe not nightmares, but definitely lingering memories.
I creep slowly and quietly into a big room so if there are ghosts, serial killers, or zombies, they won’t see or hear me. The room isn’t really all that big, but given that it’s an underground chamber, it’s not all that small either.
Chamber. Aha. Now the name makes sense.
There’s a short rectangular worktable pressed up against one wall, a shelving unit next to it holding various tools so neatly lined up that I think Reaper must have arranged them. There’s also a peg board, like in my pop’s garage, with smaller tools like pliers and handsaws hanging on hooks. Five chairs are tucked under the tables. In the center of the floor is a drain.
A flame thrower sits in a corner with a propane tank parked next to it. Beside it is a chainsaw, but it must run on gas because it’s leaning against a gas can.
They don’t call me Sherlock for nothing.
I swallow as my eyes fixate on a small metal door fit into the middle of the wall furthest from the hall. It’s square and shiny, something like the door in a mortuary. Not that I’ve ever been in a mortuary, but definitely it looks like the TV ones.
I walk over to it and touch the handle. Should I open it? Do I really want to know what’s inside? Will this be the tipping point that drives me from sane to stark raving mad?
I hesitate as I think about it, ask God his thoughts. He says nothing so I take this as his silent assent. “What the hell,” I say out loud, hoping God gets the irony.
I yank open the door. There’s nothing inside. It’s as clean as a whistle. I don’t know what I thought I’d find. Well, that’s a lie. I do know what I thought I’d find. It’s almost disappointing that there are no bones or even ashes. Reaper’s right. I am a lunatic.
There’s another hall to the left and I turn towards it as Spot woofs like he’s seen a ghost. The bark is followed by dog nails on cement.
“Spot! Come here!” I yell, knowing full well I’m going to walk down that hall whether he obeys or not. At the end, I find two small rooms like prison cells with bars and locks and a bucket in each.
Spot’s inside one, his snout sticking out between the bars of the doors. The door is firmly closed. “How’d you get inside there?” I ask as I yank on the door. It’s locked. Chills travel up my spine as I imagine how haunted this place must be. Did something lock him in?
Of course not, Pop’s voice scoffs in my head.
I feel like I’m shut up in a crypt. Spot seems to think so too as he tries to dig a hole in the concrete under the door as he whines.
“I’ll see if I can find a key,” I tell him as I head back down the hall.
His frantic barking follows behind me.
When I get to the main room, I spy a hose that I didn’t notice before and a small fridge. Also, some drawers in the worktable. I yank one open and close it just as quickly. I don’t know what half the stuff inside is, but none of looks friendly.
I shiver, then settle. Then think of Reaper and shiver again. Compose yourself, Ximina. Fantasy time can come later. Spot wants out of the cell. The door to the cell is locked. Ergo, if I’m going to get Spot out, I’m going to have to find the key to the door. To do so, I’m going to have to be brave and search the drawers.
I reach for one, then draw my hand back. How much do I really like Spot anyway? I mean, truth be told, he belongs to… belonged to Miguel. Maybe Spot helped kill him. Maybe I’m harboring a fugitive. Maybe I’m an idiot.
Or maybe I’m dehydrated.
I stare at the fridge. It could be full of drinks or it could be full of body parts. Maybe one of Reaper’s guys is a cannibal and this is how the gang feeds him.
I decide that’s farfetched. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
God rolls his eyes.
Did I die? I ask him. Am I in hell?
He doesn’t answer. Maybe he can’t hear me in this soundproofed chamber of horrors. But then why would he roll his eyes? Maybe he reads lips.
I rub my face, then look at the fridge again. I can’t seem to look away. “Open the door, Ximina,” I murmur.
Spot whines at the sound of my voice.
“Hold on one bloody minute!” I shout. I’m more wound up than I realized. I’m not usually a shouter. Yeller, yes, but there is a difference.
Spot whines again and I have this perverse thought that if there’s a bone in the fridge, maybe I can get Spot to settle down.
Before I chicken out, I squeeze my eyes shut and yank open the fridge.
The cool air that hits me helps settle the rapid beat of my heart. And the lack of smell gets me opening one eye. Then both. It’s full of cans.
I drop onto my knees so I can dig through them. I could use a coke right now. Or a bottle of water. Or anything but the beer that fills the fridge.
“Damn,” I bark. Spot responds with a whiney one of his own.
“On it,” I call to him as I look at the contents of the fridge.
I don’t drink beer. I hardly drink any alcohol, not counting communion. I’m not that good of a girl. I do engage in pre-marital sex, tell whoppers when they’re needed. I covet my neighbors’ stuff. Well not all my neighbors, but the guy in the apartment across the hall has some seriously fine furniture.
I pull out a can of beer and roll it between my hands, savoring the chill that snakes up my arms. What other commandments do I break? I rehearse them in my head, then realize beer isn’t on the list.
And I need one. The keys to the cell have to be somewhere down here and the logical place is in one of the drawers. And if I’m going to have to search the drawers filled with little unnamed devices that make my skin crawl, I’m gonna need some serious liquid courage.
My Italian grandma made the worst spinach in the world and the only way to eat it was to stuff it into my mouth all at once and swallow. That way I only had to suffer the taste once. I apply the same logic as I pop the top of the can and guzzle as much beer as I can tolerate.
I swallow, grimace, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and wait for the drunkenness to follow. Nothing except a slight turn of my stomach and a weird feeling on the top of my head, like my hair is floating upwards taking part of my skull with it. I wait until it passes, drink some more, then let out a little burp. I take another long guzzle, then another until the can is empty.
I open another and after I’m half-finished that one, I realize the taste is growing on me. Maybe I have an addictive personality. Maybe I somehow know this innately, which is why I don’t have other vices.
You gamble, Bella, my mom says.
Sure. A little online poker, but the stakes are small.
You use God’s name in vain, God says.
Yeah but is that really a vice?
What about lust, mom says.
Also, not a vice, I don’t think. Besides as lust goes, there’s just one man I want. I grin as I think of Reaper, then the smile turns upside down. Where is Reaper? Why hasn’t he come back to get me?
He’s a criminal, Pops reminds me. The police probably arrested him for killing Miguel.
Pops is probably right.
I stop the voices in my head, then tell myself the voices aren’t real, then decide today is not the day for self-psychotherapy. I drink the other half of can and reach for another.
Just one more, I promise myself. Then I’ll be ready for anything.
And that’s how drunks are born.
I don’t fully drink the third one not because of the aforementioned fear of addiction, but simply because if I take one more swallow, I’ll vomit. I inelegantly climb to my feet, the room spinning a little too fast. “Oh, shit.”
I better find the key before I toss my cookies or sober up. If I sober up, Spot will forever be locked in a cage and the guilt will be so bad, I’ll never sleep peacefully again.
I’ve rummaged through almost all the drawers, pretending I can’t see anything, when I glance up at the cork board. Besides the pliers and handsaws I noted earlier, there’s also a hand plane, a drill, and oddly enough, a level, but more importantly, there’s a key ring of Pyramid Lake with keys hanging off it.
I shake my head at myself.
I grab the keys and stagger down the hall, slide a key into the lock, then the second. The third one is the charm. As soon as I open the door, Spot barks his thanks and takes off down the hall. I close and lock the door, then the door of the other cell. If he gets stuck inside again, I’ll know this place is haunted for sure.