Chapter Fourteen
As I expected, the Dominion’s maintenance crew has gone home for the night. There’s no one in the basement when I arrive. I hear nothing but the constant hum of machines.
“Hello?” I call. “Is anyone here?”
Nothing. Encouraged by the quiet, I head to the secret locked door, which I have only opened once. I want to see what is so mysterious about this room, and I want to examine the crates within. I need to know what’s up with Montey Series Industries.
The door is, predictably, locked. I know from my work that most of the older locks in the hotel are Yale and Schlage in-knob and dead-bolt locks, and I don’t have a key.
But just like Matthew Buchanan, I have done some research, only mine’s a little different.
I pull my fancy lock-picking tools from my pocket and internally cross my fingers.
Based on the half dozen or so YouTube videos I watched, all I need is pliers and a couple of paper clips.
I followed the directions back at my place, bending them just like the pros have done, all the time marvelling at how easy it is.
Too late, I realize I probably should have researched a video of “Lock Picking for Dummies,” because I’m failing miserably.
I straighten to give my back a rest, then I bend down and restart.
This time I feel a click, but it’s still locked.
I try again, then hesitate when a cool draft washes over me.
I shudder at the brief sensation, remembering my ghostly experience at the Winter Garden.
Sure, I could be imagining it, but the thing is, there is no source here for a breeze like that.
There are no open doors or windows. Paul’s suggestion of ghosts sticks in my head, and I shiver again.
I have no time for this. I get back to work on the lock, and it’s easier now that I know what to feel for. At last, the latch releases, and I close my mouth against a “Yes!” as I successfully turn the knob.
I already knew there was no light switch in here, so I’d charged my phone completely before I got here.
Now I flood the room with its white beam.
The space is even narrower than I remember, and wooden crates are stacked tightly within.
Every one of them is stamped MSI. Their placement is so strange.
Why pile them all in here when they will only have to be squeezed through that door again? What if…
I aim the flashlight toward the end of the room, curious.
Another door. Leading to where? Paul’s mention of smugglers comes to mind, and I wonder.
Could it actually lead to a tunnel? If only Matthew was here.
He’d be all over this. Another thought prompts me to shine my light overhead, and I’m right: the ceiling is lined by pipes.
If that second door does lead to a secret tunnel, then any men within would be speaking in hushed voices.
And those could have travelled up those pipes. Not ghosts at all. Men’s voices.
Onto the next step. Before I begin my exploration, I close the door behind me—after ensuring it won’t lock automatically.
The one other tool I brought didn’t fit into my purse.
Before I left my apartment to go to dinner with Matthew, I wrapped a crowbar in my coat.
I know: sounds ridiculous, but there is method to my madness.
When I walked through the hotel’s front entrance, the same girl at the desk waved cheerfully, and I smiled back, relieved there was no metal detector.
Then I made my way to the subbasement, tools in hand.
I’ve used a crowbar before, so it’s relatively simple for me to work the blade under the first crate’s lid, then carefully wedge it open.
I can’t splinter any of the boards, because I don’t want anyone to know I was here.
I work the crowbar around all four edges, then I lift the lid and shine the light within.
Dozens of small white boxes are piled on top of each other.
I open one, and I admit that I am a little disappointed to discover nothing but plain black screws.
I open another and another, finding different-size screws, but nothing else.
This makes no sense. No one can explain to me who or what MSI is, the company doesn’t exist on Google, and I’m not allowed in this room. Why all the secrecy?
What if these little white boxes are providing cover for something else? I can’t stop here. I start digging through them, clearing out a few stacks, and when I reach a thin sheet of wood layered across the crate, my pulse picks up. I’ve found whatever I am not supposed to find.
It’s impossible to lift the board with all the boxes of screws piled on top, so I empty them out one at a time. I’ll put them back in the same order, if I can.
Unpacking the screws takes forever. There’s almost no room to put them beside the crates; there’s barely enough space for my feet to fit.
I build towering piles of the white boxes, which topple over more than once.
At last, I reach the wooden board beneath.
Using my crowbar, I carefully pry it open.
I’m not sure what I expected, but I recognize what is packed in here as soon as my light reveals it. I’ve seen enough TV shows and movies to recognize the white powder, bundled into dozens of clear little plastic packages. If it’s not cocaine, it’s something equally dangerous. Heroin? Fentanyl?
Now what?
I should call the police right now. How fast could they get here? Or should I take one of these packages of powder and bring it to them as proof?
Suddenly, a light comes on in the main room. It spills through the cracks around the door. Someone is down here.
And I am trapped.
Whoever it is starts whistling, and I hear a cart rolling across the floor as he goes about his business.
I recall the crates stacked against the wall and wonder if he is going to start with those, whatever he is doing.
Do I have time to get out of here? Can I peek through that door, then sprint when his back is turned?
That’s a ludicrous question. I can’t even move in this room without someone hearing me. There’s no way I can pile the screws back in the crate, considering the noise they’d make. Even if I don’t replace all the little boxes and do manage to escape, they’ll know someone has been here.
What have I done? Who do I think I am?
Beyond the door, the man is moving things around, grunting with strain, whistling the rest of the time. I try to picture the space where he is. I think there were about six boxes stacked out there. How many has he moved? How long before he comes to this room?
I can’t just stand here, waiting for something to happen.
Performing a feat of balance that amazes me, I step over the piles of little white boxes, in the direction of the far door.
If it is a tunnel, maybe I can escape through there.
The closer I tiptoe to the end of the room, the more optimistic I feel, and I start wondering where the secret tunnel might lead.
But the door is securely locked. My paper clips won’t work here.
All of a sudden, the room outside this one is quiet. I cannot move.
Then I hear the man again, and I can tell from the sound of the wheels that his cart is empty.
He’s ready to reload, and he’s coming this way.
Shaking with fear, I crouch and turn off my flashlight, my pulse pounding.
But squatting won’t be enough, I admit to myself.
Doesn’t matter if I stand or squat, I’m in clear view of anyone entering the room.
The man’s whistling, which sounded almost cheerful before, now comes to me as a threat, closer with every step.
I’m in big trouble. I hold my breath when the doorknob rattles.
“Excuse me!”
I gasp, hearing a man’s voice raised in the big room.
It comes again. “Hello? Ah, there you are. Excuse me, sir, but I think I am lost. I was looking for the lobby, and…”
I could cry. It’s Matthew.
“Uh, just go that way,” the other man says, sounding annoyed. Or is it stress? None of us are supposed to be here, not even him. “Then right, and when you reach—”
“I’m so sorry. I am terrible with directions. It’s a little embarrassing, if I’m being honest. Would you mind? Could you walk me to the lobby? I have ten bucks for you if you do.”
“Listen, man. It’s simple. You just go—”
“Twenty?”
I can practically feel the man’s frustration, but I don’t care. Go… Go… Go!
“Yeah, sure.”
The footsteps recede. Matthew is saying something, excusing himself, doing that clumsy Professor Jones thing that I am slightly crazy about.
As soon as his voice is gone, I replace the little boxes in record-breaking speed, then I grab my paper clips and crowbar, and I bug out.
I know this place, and I know the staff exit, even in the dark.
That’s the one I use now. I burst into the cool night, bending over and gasping for air as soon as I’m clear of danger. Then I dissolve into tears.
“I reconsidered,” I hear Matthew say behind me. “I decided to come see what you were talking about. Everyone needs a little adventure in their lives, right?”