Chapter 10
TEN
brooks
Brooks climbed the stone steps two at a time, cataloging evidence.
The discovery below confirmed the Aldrich family ran smuggling operations.
Melissa Clarkson was alive. He checked his watch.
Nearly three thirty. Chief Sullivan would arrive with the forensic team soon, but each minute reduced their chances of a clean rescue.
The wooden door swung open. Outside, dark clouds hung low, moving in patterns that signaled a storm.
The air smelled metallic. Wind whipped across the lighthouse grounds in gusts, bending the coastal vegetation to the ground.
Waves crashed against the base of the cliffs, sending spray twenty feet high.
Vivienne’s weather prediction had proven accurate. Her local knowledge of coastal patterns beat the meteorological forecasts.
A police cruiser pulled into the parking area, followed by an unmarked van with the county forensics logo. Chief Sullivan got out, concern on his face as he scanned the darkening sky.
“Storm warning just came through. This isn’t tracking like anything they’ve seen before. The patterns are unusual.” Sullivan’s composure had cracked. “They’re tracking an unexpected low pressure system moving up the coast, but the satellite imagery shows formations they can’t explain.”
“Chief, we need to talk privately. We have an active situation.”
Sullivan read the urgency in Brooks’s posture. He gestured toward the cruiser. They took shelter inside as rain began to strike the windshield.
“What did you find?”
“Melissa Clarkson is alive. She’s being held in an underground chamber connected to the passage system beneath the lighthouse.”
Sullivan’s eyes widened. “You found her? Without a warrant?”
“The lighthouse is city property under historical society management. As law enforcement responding to a missing person case, we had reasonable cause to investigate. The Aldriches have been using the network to move contraband. Based on the infrastructure, they’ve operated this way for decades.”
“The Aldriches . . .” Sullivan’s tone went flat, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “You understand what you’re suggesting? Winston Aldrich isn’t just the mayor. His family founded this community. There can’t be any doubt.”
Brooks studied the chief’s reaction and heard the fear in his voice. Sullivan had spent his career in Westerly Cove, rising through ranks where Aldrich influence touched everything from budget approvals to promotions.
Earlier that morning, before exploring the lighthouse with Vivienne, Brooks had driven to Jack Thornton’s home. The old harbor master had information about the tunnel system that might prove useful.
The inside of Jack’s house resembled a maritime museum. Navigation charts covered every wall, dating back to the 1920s. Ship wheels, barometers, and brass instruments filled the shelves. The old harbor master had greeted Brooks with knowing eyes, as if he’d been expecting the visit.
“Passages flood at king tide. Always have. The Aldriches know the schedule better than anyone.” His weathered finger had traced handwritten annotations along the margins of a tidal chart. “See these dates? Every major smuggling run for fifty years. They time everything around the tides.”
Brooks had studied the notations—dates, times, and what looked like cargo manifests in Jack’s careful script.
“Three ways out if you know where to look. Main entrance at the lighthouse, the Hawthorne access near the cliff, and an emergency exit that comes up through the old storm drain system behind the harbor master’s office.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Edmund Hawthorne was the keeper when those passages got sealed. My father worked with him.” Jack had pulled an antique compass from a drawer, its brass surface worn smooth. “But nothing stays sealed in Westerly Cove. Saltwater finds a way through everything.”
He’d pressed the compass into Brooks’s hands. “Still points true. You’ll need it down there when the electric lights fail.”
“Anything else I should know?”
Jack’s expression had grown troubled. “She’s at risk,” was all he said.
The warning had settled in Brooks’s gut. That conversation had happened hours ago. Now, sitting in Sullivan’s cruiser with rain drumming on the roof and Vivienne alone in flooding tunnels, he understood exactly why Jack had been so direct.
“Chief, I understand the political complications. But we have evidence of ongoing criminal activity and a kidnapping victim in immediate peril. Your concerns about the Aldrich family’s influence are secondary to that.”
Sullivan’s jaw worked. Finally, he nodded. “You’re right. What do you need?”
“Vivienne Hawthorne stayed in the tunnels to monitor the situation and keep eyes on Melissa’s location.”
“Alone? Down there?” Sullivan’s disapproval was clear. “That was reckless.”
Brooks wanted to ask his chief if he had ever dealt with Vivienne because in the small amount of time he’d known her, he could confidently say, telling her no wasn’t an option.
“She has extensive knowledge of the system through her family history. The Hawthornes built the original passages. And she’s proven herself accurate throughout this investigation. Without her information, we wouldn’t have found the entrance or known about Melissa’s location.”
Sullivan studied him. “You trust her.”
It wasn’t quite a question, but Brooks answered.
“Her information has led us to every significant break in this case. Yes, I trust her judgment. But I also trust Jack. The storm is moving in fast, and those lower chambers will flood. We need to extract both her and Clarkson before the tide comes in.”
“How long do we have?”
Brooks checked his watch against the tide tables Jack had provided. “An hour. Maybe less with the storm surge.”
Sullivan radioed for additional units while Brooks outlined what they’d discovered—the network below, the contraband chamber, Melissa’s location in a locked cell, and the observation point where Vivienne had positioned herself to watch the prisoner.
The chief nodded slowly. “Then let’s go get them both.”
They assembled a team of five—Brooks, Sullivan, officers Daniels and Greene, and a paramedic from the county rescue squad. Rain fell in sheets that reduced visibility to a few yards. Lightning cracked across the sky, each flash illuminating the lighthouse in white relief.
“Standard search and rescue protocols. We’re dealing with unstable conditions and potentially hostile subjects. Daniels, you’re bringing up the rear. Greene, you’re our communications link. Nobody goes off alone. Nobody plays hero. Understood?”
The team nodded, checking their equipment. Brooks secured his flashlight and the compass Jack had given him, along with rope and a waterproof radio.
They descended into the lighthouse basement. Moisture seeped through cracks in the foundation, pooling in low spots. The temperature had dropped, and their breath misted in the damp air.
Brooks led them to the concealed entrance in the basement, pushing aside the storage rack to reveal the stone door. It stood partially open, just as he and Vivienne had left it after their initial exploration.
“This entrance got sealed twenty-five years ago.” Sullivan examined the mechanism. “Someone’s been maintaining it.”
“The Aldriches. They’ve had unrestricted access to this lighthouse for decades.”
They entered in single file, Sullivan behind Brooks, followed by the rest of the team. Moisture trickled along the walls, and the sound of the storm echoed through the stone corridors.
At the first junction, Brooks consulted the compass and his memory of the route he and Vivienne had taken. “This way.”
They moved cautiously. Brooks noted signs of recent activity—fresh scuff marks on the floor, disturbed dust, a discarded cigarette butt that couldn’t be more than a day old.
The passage branched again. Brooks chose the right fork, following the path toward where he’d left Vivienne positioned near the observation grate.
His concern for her safety grew. She’d been alone down here for over an hour now, watching a situation that could turn violent if the guard discovered her presence.
A sound ahead made the entire team freeze. Voices, echoing through the stone. Brooks signaled for silence, and they crept forward.
They reached the widened section where the observation grate stood. Brooks knelt beside it, angling his flashlight to the now gaping hole in the ground. The chamber below was empty. No guard. No Melissa Clarkson. No sign of Vivienne. Just a chair directly beneath the missing grate.
“They’re gone,” Brooks’s voice was eerily calm.
Sullivan crouched beside him. “Where would they take her?”
“I don’t know that anyone did. I think Vivienne saved her or at least tried.” Brooks stepped aside so Sullivan could assess.
“Why does she need to play hero?”
Brooks had the same question. Why couldn’t she stay there until he came back?
The sound of rushing currents echoed from deeper in the network. Brooks felt the chill rising through the stone beneath his knees.
Time was not their friend.
“We need to find the main chamber. If the guard evacuated, he’d likely use the primary exit toward the hidden cove.”
They backtracked to a junction Brooks remembered, taking the branch that should intercept the main system. The passage narrowed, forcing them to crawl through a section where the ceiling dipped low. By the time they emerged into a slightly wider area, moisture soaked through their clothes.
Faint voices reached them over the gurgle of rising currents—echoing from somewhere ahead. Brooks signaled Sullivan to move slowly. As they neared another junction, the voices became clearer.
“The level is rising too fast. We need to move her now.”
“The boat can’t approach the cove in this weather. And the main exit to the lighthouse is sealed.”
“Then we use the southern passage. It rises toward higher ground.”