Love Me If You Must

24

The door creaked open into the stairwell, then thumped and stopped against the wall.

I looked down. The steps dissolved into blackness.

The stove clock clicked and rotated. 4:00 a.m.

Night was mostly over.

Another five hours and it would be bright as day down there.

I turned toward the kitchen sink. I could almost see pipes bulging, ready to burst from the ice inside them.

Another five hours might be too late.

I turned on the basement light.

I took a deep breath to steady myself, then stepped down.

My foot took forever to touch the wooden riser. I stepped again. An eternity passed.

I listened as the stove clock made another rotation.

No other sounds.

I swallowed, gathering up the minuscule crumbs of courage scattered through my veins.

Then I bounded down the steps. My bad leg hit the cement first, sending an extra oomph of pain shooting through my body from the memory of the last time I’d been down here. I squinted in the direction of the cistern.

The semicircle of rocks looked pretty much the same as the last time I’d gotten a peek at it.

Except tonight, the collage of colored stone seemed somewhat attractive. The light from the bare bulb hit one of the pinkish-toned rocks and brought out a shimmer like diamonds, and for a moment I could almost see the stone wall integrated into a classy entertainment center of some sort, complete with a mounted plasma TV.

Hmm. Plan C.

With Plan C in action, I could have my rec room and not mess with demolishing the cistern or walling it in.

Not that I was worried there was a body behind those lovely stones, of course. Simply because Plan C made my life easier than if I decided to take on Martin Dietz and his board of Nazis. I could turn the original historic detail of the home into a major selling point.

There. Dietz wasn’t such a bad guy after all.

I bent to look at the furnace, no longer afraid to be alone in the basement on a cold, dark night. A couple wires, some dials, a few knobs. It all looked Greek to me. I tapped and twisted, hoping for a fiery resurrection.

I knelt down and looked in the tiny glass window close to the floor.

Yep. The pilot was still lit.

I held my fingers close to the flickering flame, soaking up its precious warmth as I considered my next course of action.

If I had any friends, I could call one of them and finish the night out at their place.

I thought of the not-so-long list of people I’d met in Rawlings. The first name that came to mind was the too-hot-to-keep-my-hands-off computer geek, David. Calling David for help in the middle of the night was absolutely out of the question.

Then there was the everything-by-the-book Officer Brad.

I shook my head at the appalling thought. I’d have to be mostly dead before I accepted help from a man in blue.

Dorothy Fitch across the street presented a decent possibility. But then I’d be under the same roof as Jack the Ripper. No, thank you.

Tammy at the Beauty Boutique came to mind. I’d figured out she wasn’t hounding after David. That made Tammy, with her welcoming smile, the most logical choice of those to call. Sure, it was four in the morning. But she was a gracious, giving person. She wouldn’t mind a middle-of-the-night jingle from a desperate customer.

I sighed, feeling all alone in the empty basement. I couldn’t call Tammy. She’d just lost Coffee Girl, which meant she was probably emotionally exhausted and didn’t need the extra stress right now.

There had to be someone else.

I thought of Verna, my old cellmate. She’d be there for me. Too bad she was still serving time.

I stared into the tiny flame, remembering my first day with her.

“So how’d you land yourself behind bars?” My new roomy was a large woman, with arms as big around as my thighs. She sat in the corner, slouched down, legs sprawling.

“Um,” I said, “I’m kind of here by accident.”

“Me too. I accidentally got caught.” She gave a throaty guffaw. “At least that lying, scheming, no-good man of mine is dead. That wasn’t no accident.” She laughed again.

“You killed your husband?” My voice had a mousy squeak to it.

“If you’d have been me, you’d have done it too. Don’t kid yourself. If you’re here, you have it in you.”

I shook my head, horrified at the thought of this woman shooting or knifing or beating a man to death, and accusing me of being able to do the same. “No. It’s not in me.”

Her features looked small in her rotund face. She leaned forward, squinting. “Deny it and it’ll poison your mind like a viper. You’ll end up in the loony wing.” She rocked her head back and forth and made a funny face. Her tongue slithered out like a snake’s.

I stood at the cell gate and stared at the chunky cross-eyed convict. First I smiled. Then I laughed.

“We’ll get along just fine,” she said. “You just tell me what you need. Verna will take care of you.”

The pilot light on the furnace came back into focus. My hands were toasty, but my knees had frozen from crouching on the cold basement floor. I worked them back and forth, then attempted to stand up. I grabbed the edge of the furnace and made it to my feet.

I dusted off my jeans and considered the problem at hand. It looked like the only way I would get any more z’s tonight would be in a hotel.

I gave the furnace a final, frustrated kick. Unfortunately, I used my bad leg to do it. I crouched in pain and tried to catch my breath.

A tear coursed down my cheek. I would not let this furnace thing get the best of me.

I lifted my head with new resolve.

Across the basement, the shimmery pink stone caught my eye. It looked so pretty from where I stood. Curiosity compelled me to take a closer look.

I glanced around and checked out the far reaches of the cellar. No boogeymen in sight. I worked my way toward the basement wall on my left, then kept the hard rocks to my back as I sidestepped closer and closer to the cistern.

I could feel something electric in the air. I heard a buzzing in my ears. But there was no turning back as I drew nearer and nearer to the glimmering stone.

Ten feet to go.

My breath quickened as I stared at the rock in front of me.

Five feet.

I stopped and leaned forward, peering at the shiny surface. A salty odor stood out from the usual musty scent.

I squinted. This close up, the stone looked wet.

I dared myself to touch it, to prove to myself that what I perceived as fresh blood was really just the stone’s natural gleam. Hadn’t my eyes tricked me when I looked inside the cistern the first time? There had been no body, just lumpy cement.

And now, on the shiny pink surface of that rock, there was no blood. It was just the dim light hitting the century-old quartz at the right angle.

I lifted my arm, shifting it ever closer to the stone. The buzzing in my ears grew louder.

I ignored it.

My finger reached out and touched the rock.