Chapter 9 #2
She placed her finger in it. The stone felt warmer, with an imperceptible vibration. She pressed gently. A distinct click. The stone rotated clockwise, revealing a disguised handle.
With a low grinding sound, a section of wall pivoted inward, revealing a dark passage. Cool air flowed out, carrying the scent of sea and damp stone.
Brooks illuminated the opening with his flashlight. The tunnel descended toward the ocean. Water glistened on the walls—tide already rising.
As they prepared to enter, pressure built at the base of her skull—precursor to a vision. “I need a moment.” Vivienne pressed her palm against cool stone. “My senses are responding.”
Brooks turned back, concern replacing detachment. “What’s happening?”
“Sometimes in places where traumatic events occurred, I receive visions.”
She closed her eyes as the first images formed.
The vision engulfed her.
The tunnel, lit by handheld lanterns. A girl running, breath coming in terrified gasps, clutching a camera. Lily Morgan, dark hair streaming as she fled deeper into the passage.
Pursuing footsteps echoed on stone. A male voice: “Lily, please stop. You don’t understand what you’ve discovered.”
A younger Winston Aldrich.
Then pain as something struck from behind. The camera clattered. A body dragged toward water as tide rose.
Vivienne gasped as the vision released her. She leaned against the wall, Brooks’s hand on her arm.
“Lily Morgan was here.”
Brooks studied her face. “You saw this?”
“Yes. The past leaves impressions. Some people can read them.”
He didn’t dismiss her claim. “Did you see who killed her?”
“Gerald and Winston Aldrich. They caught her photographing their operation, just as Melissa did.”
“They’ve been protecting themselves for generations,” Brooks muttered.
“Yes.” She glanced toward the tunnel. “We should proceed.”
They entered together, Brooks leading with his flashlight, Vivienne following with her compass. Tunnel walls pressed close, slick with moisture. Their footsteps echoed, mixing with distant waves. After two hundred yards, they reached a three-way junction with minimal LED lighting.
Vivienne consulted her compass. “The hidden cove route is right.”
As they proceeded, the passage curved rightward, following the coastline’s contour. Water trickled along the walls. Thunder rumbled through stone.
Brooks paused, raising his hand. Vivienne froze. A mechanical sound—rhythmic, regular. The idling motor of a boat.
“Someone’s at the cove exit.”
Vivienne reached for the vial of cove water. “My great-grandmother Josephine could see visions in water.”
She smeared a thin film onto the back of her hand and focused. The liquid shifted, patterns forming.
An image appeared. A boat moored at the narrow dock. Two men loading crates. The Aldrich family crest visible on the bow.
“They’re moving crates. Two men, one boat.”
Brooks absorbed this, treating her reports no differently than surveillance data. “Can you tell what’s in the crates?”
The water dried, image fading. “No. But they’re handling them with extreme care.”
Brooks checked his watch. “Follow the boat and potentially locate Melissa, or return to meet Sullivan?”
The compass needle swung between symbols. “There’s another option. A passage between here and the secondary location. A branch we missed.”
They retraced their steps. Vivienne moved along the right wall, running her fingers over rough stone. The compass responded, its needle quivering more intensely near a particular section.
This secondary tunnel stretched narrower, requiring single file. Different construction—raw bedrock with occasional wooden supports that creaked as they passed.
They moved cautiously. After several minutes, they detected a faint sound ahead. A generator, humming through stone.
The passage widened. Dim light leaked around a ventilation grate. Vivienne knelt beside it. Brooks joined her, their shoulders touching as they peered through.
Below stretched a chamber carved into bedrock. LED work lights illuminated storage and holding area. Crates stacked against one wall—specialized containers lined with lead shielding, bearing hazard symbols obscured by the Aldrich logo.
The largest crate stood partially open, revealing ancient artifacts—small statues, tablets with unfamiliar script, metal objects.
Vivienne recognized several pieces from her grandmother’s journals—items from the Mediterranean and North Africa that had disappeared from museums. Archaeological treasures smuggled through private channels.
In the corner, a woman sat bound to a chair. Melissa Clarkson. Alive.
A single guard occupied the chamber, preoccupied with his phone.
“She’s here. We need to coordinate with Sullivan’s team.”
Vivienne nodded, but her attention fixed on another detail. Water. A thin trickle seeping through a fissure in the far wall. She remembered the tidal charts—spring tide, rising rapidly, amplified by the approaching storm.
“Brooks. Look at the water.”
He followed her gaze, understanding dawning. “How fast will it rise?”
“In a storm? These lower chambers could flood within hours.” She checked her compass again, its needle spinning. “The Aldriches know. That’s why they’re evacuating contraband.”
“They’re leaving her to drown. Making it look like she got trapped during the storm.” Brooks pulled out his phone, checking for signal. Nothing. Too deep underground.
“I need to return to the surface to call Sullivan. Can you monitor here?”
“Yes. But Brooks—” She caught his arm. “If something happens before you return, I have ways to protect myself. The Hawthorne women didn’t survive this long without learning to defend ourselves.”
He studied her face, seeing steel beneath the ethereal exterior. “I believe you. But please be careful.”
“You too.”
Brooks squeezed her hand once, then turned and made his way back through the narrow passage. His footsteps faded.
Through the grate, she observed Melissa carefully. The historian appeared alert despite captivity, constantly scanning the room. Twice now she glanced at the water seepage with focused concern. Unlike her guard, Melissa recognized the signs of impending flood.
Thunder rumbled closer. The trickle through rock fissures increased. The storm approached.
The compass warmed against her palm, its needle swinging rapidly between symbols in a pattern she’d never witnessed. The brass grew warm—quickened by internal activity. The symbols shifted, ancient patterns realigning to communicate urgency.
She opened her hand just as a powerful vision slammed into her consciousness.
This was no gentle impression but full sensory immersion. Heightened awareness swept through her body—skin prickling, pulse accelerating then slowing, the taste of salt sharp on her tongue.
The lighthouse tower, illuminated by lightning.
The storm breaking over Westerly Cove with unexpected intensity.
The hidden cove tunnels flooding rapidly as tide surged to unprecedented heights.
And most disturbingly, Brooks and Chief Sullivan arguing in the lighthouse basement, their search delayed by conflict, unaware of rising waters that threatened the underground chambers.
Melissa Clarkson standing in rising water, trying desperately to free herself as the chamber filled. Her face reflected the same terror Vivienne had seen in her vision of Lily Morgan—history preparing to complete its cruel repetition.
The vision released her with certainty of imminent danger. The storm approached faster than expected, and with it, a spring tide that would flood the lower tunnels—including where Melissa sat bound.
Unless Vivienne intervened.
She stared through the grate at Melissa, seeing in her the echo of Lily and of her own mother.
Three women whose lives had been threatened or taken because they discovered the truth.
The weight of her family line pressed upon her shoulders, their collective knowledge flowing through her consciousness.
Mathilde’s determination. Josephine’s cunning. Emmeline’s wisdom. Cordelia’s courage. All of them within her now as water continued to rise, past and present converging in a moment that demanded action.
Vivienne lifted the small pouch of herbs from her bag, her decision made. Thunder crashed directly overhead.
Water seeped through the fissure in the chamber wall, a thin trickle that would become a torrent within the hour. The guard had left ten minutes ago, taking a call on his radio. The voices had been urgent, panicked—something about moving the operation ahead of schedule.
She checked her grandmother’s compass. The needle spun erratically, responding to the iron ore in the surrounding bedrock and something else. Disturbance. The accumulated fear of everyone who’d been held in this chamber over the decades pressed against her awareness.
Melissa sat bound to the chair below, her head drooping with exhaustion. Days of captivity had left her weak, but her eyes showed the same determination that had driven her research. She was a survivor. She just needed a chance.
The water continued its steady advance across the chamber floor. History repeating itself with perfect symmetry. The same family. The same method. The same rising waters that had claimed Lily Morgan now threatened Melissa Clarkson.
Unless Vivienne intervened.
She studied the chamber below, cataloging exits and obstacles.
The grate was secured with rusted bolts, but they looked old enough that she might be able to force them.
The drop was perhaps eight feet—manageable if she was careful.
The real challenge would be getting Melissa out before the guard returned or before Brooks arrived with Sullivan’s team and found them both trapped.
The pouch of herbs was already in her hand. The mixture would produce thick smoke when burned, enough to disorient and confuse without causing lasting harm.