Chill Of Fear

CHAPTER 10

"I don't know what's going on," Mrs. Kincaid said to Stephanie, "but I'm telling you that girl is up to something, Ms. Boyd." Stephanie took another sip of her strong black coffee, wishing she'd been granted another hour or so of sleep this morning. She hated mornings as a rule, and this one was turning out even worse than usual.

"What do you expect me to do, Mrs. Kincaid?" she asked, keeping her tone brisk but pleasant. "Ellie Weeks hasn't done anything wrong. So far, anyway. Certainly nothing to merit any kind of warning from me."

"I realize that, Ms. Boyd," the housekeeper responded, her tone stiff. "And as head of the housekeeping staff, it is of course my responsibility to issue any such warnings. I simply thought it best to keep you informed."

Informed of what? Stephanie wanted to ask. But she didn't.

Instead, she said, "I appreciate that, Mrs. Kincaid. And I trust you'll continue to do so."

"Naturally I will."

Stephanie nodded. "Great. And I wanted to inform you that the police have asked to review old paperwork and historical documents stored in the basement, as well as go through whatever's in the attic, so don't be alarmed to find any of them or Agent Hayes in the areas of the hotel normally out of bounds to guests."

The housekeeper frowned. "The attic?"

"Is there a problem?"

"I don't know what they expect to find in the attic."

"Neither do I, but since they're investigating the death of a child here at The Lodge, I certainly don't want to declare any area at all off-limits to their investigation."

"No, of course not." But the housekeeper's frown lingered. "I do hope you remind them, Ms. Boyd, that both the attic and basement are merely storage areas and, as such, are not cleaned or aired on a regular basis."

It was, Stephanie thought, rather amazing how some people became so protective of their domains. First Cullen Ruppe down at the stables, resisting a search of his tack room, and now Mrs. Kincaid worrying about her reputation due to dust in the basement and attic.

Trying not to sound patronizing rather than soothing, Stephanie said, "I'm sure they'll understand that, Mrs. Kincaid."

"I hope so, Ms. Boyd." The housekeeper rose to her feet and turned to the door, then paused and looked back at Stephanie behind her big desk. In a rare moment of loquaciousness, she said, "I've been here a long time, you know. Longer than anyone else on the staff. And my mother worked here before me, as housekeeper."

Surprised, Stephanie said, "I didn't know that."

Mrs. Kincaid nodded. "That Agent Hayes — he was here as a child, with his parents. Twenty-five years ago. I remember him."

Since the housekeeper rarely had any direct contact with guests, Stephanie was even more surprised. "After so many years?"

With another nod, Mrs. Kincaid said, "That was a bad summer, and not one I'm likely to ever forget. One of our maids then had a little girl who was murdered. The police never found out who killed her." She paused, then added, "He was a friend of hers. Agent Hayes. They said he was the last one to see poor little Missy alive. Other than the murderer, of course."

Stephanie didn't know what to say.

Returning to the subject that had brought her to the office, the housekeeper said, "I'll keep an eye on Ellie, Ms. Boyd. You don't have to worry about that."

"Fine." Stephanie wasn't about to remind Mrs. Kincaid that watching the girl was her own idea.

Apparently satisfied, the housekeeper left the office, closing the door softly behind her.

Stephanie sighed, then drained her coffee and got to her feet, deciding to return to the stables and see if the search of the tack room had turned up anything.

She had a feeling it had.

A very bad feeling.

Nate flatly refused to allow anyone to go down that ladder until the backup he called for arrived.

"There's no way in hell," he told Quentin, "that you're going down there without me. Which means neither of us is going down there until I get someone here to watch our backs."

Diana was reasonably sure that Quentin wasn't happy about the delay, even though he agreed readily. She was very sure of her own emotions on the subject.

She did not want to go down there.

Not that either of the two cops had said or implied that she would, but she knew. She knew that she was meant to see whatever was down there, just as Quentin was. That she had to go down that ladder and into the darkness.

Shivering, she dug her hands deeper into the pockets of her jacket. Why was she still cold?

Nate checked his watch, then said, "Look, it'll take a good half hour or more to get some of my people out here and get set up. You two go get some breakfast. I'll wait here."

"You haven't eaten either," Quentin said.

"Yeah, well. Send somebody down with a gallon of coffee and an egg sandwich, and I'll be fine."

From the tack room door, Stephanie Boyd said, "I can take care of that." Her gaze was on the uncovered and open trap door, and she added incredulously, "You found something?"

Quentin took Diana's arm and guided her past the other woman as Stephanie stepped into the tack room. "We found something, all right. Nate, if you even think of going down that ladder without me—"

"I won't, I won't. Go eat breakfast."

"There's a ladder?" Stephanie was even more incredulous.

Diana couldn't help smiling wryly as she and Quentin moved out of the tack room and out of earshot. "Why do I think she's going to want to go down that ladder too?"

Quentin must have heard something in her voice, because his question was immediate. "Don't you?"

"Not really."

"Why not? Something you sense?"

Diana took a breath and let it out slowly, shifting just a bit as they walked to remove her arm from his light grasp. "It's a black hole in the ground, Quentin. Doesn't seem very inviting. My usual five senses are telling me that much."

He didn't bother to remind her that she was responsible for the fact that they even knew about that black hole. Instead, he said, "You don't have to tell me you'd have been far happier if we hadn't found anything at all in there."

That surprised her, and she shot him a quick look.

"So you could tell yourself once again that you were just imagining things," he explained.

Diana couldn't think of anything to say in defense of her defensiveness, so she changed the subject. "What can an old hole in the ground possibly have to do with murdered children?"

"I have no idea," he admitted.

"If you've been investigating this place for years, how did you miss it?"

"I haven't been investigating this place — unfortunately," Quentin said. "At least, not on site, and not farther back than the last twenty-five years. I have a feeling what we found is a hell of a lot older than that."

"The trap door? Or the hole itself?"

"Both, I'd say. That barn's been there a hundred years, or close to it; it was one of the original structures here. I know that much from the postcards they sell in the gift shop, the ones showing this place around 1902, just after it was first built."

"You think the hole must have been... excavated... before the barn was built?"

"Probably. It would have been hell to dig the thing from inside that tack room. You saw the ground; unless that was a natural opening, somebody had to bore or blast through solid granite at least partway down. It could have been an old well at one time; the size is about right. Maybe it went dry, or the water was bad and it couldn't be used anymore."

"What about the ladder?"

"I've never seen one in a well, even an old one. Looks to me like that hole's been used in some other way."

"Which means we'll find more than water at the bottom."

"More than possible."

Diana shook her head. "The hinges didn't squeak. Did you notice that?"

"Yeah. Old iron hinges with no rust and no squeaks. Which means that somebody's taken care of that trap door."

"It was hidden."

"But in such a way that the saddle racks could be moved aside with very little effort."

"Why?" Diana demanded, hearing the strain increasing in her voice.

"We can't even guess about that, not until we see what's down there."

"And none of you — as kids — found the trap?" She glanced at him in time to see a quick frown.

"Not that I remember," he said.

Diana was silent for a few moments as they continued up the path from the stables to the main building of The Lodge. It was still very early, but the usual dawn risers were up and stirring: gardeners and maintenance people, somebody splashing in the pool, someone practicing their serve on the tennis courts. A morning jogger passed them with an absent nod, his eyes already fixed on the looming mountains whose winding trails challenged hikers and joggers.

For most of the guests, it was just another morning, punctuated as usual with habit and ritual.

Diana wondered what it felt like, that normalcy.

When they stepped up onto the veranda, they pretty much had their pick of tables for breakfast. Only two were occupied, one by a young couple and the other by the little girl Diana recognized from — was it only yesterday morning?

It felt like weeks since she had stood with Quentin in the observation tower and looked down on the little girl and her dog on the lawn below.

Now, the dog was lying across the little girl's lap, and she sent Diana a shy, fleeting smile before continuing to gently stroke her sleeping pet.

"She's up early," Diana murmured.

"Again," Quentin agreed. He indicated a table near the one they had occupied the day before, and as they sat down added, "So far, I've only seen her and one other kid, a little boy. A few teenagers coming and going. As I said, this place doesn't really cater to families."

A waitress approached them with a bright "Good morning" and the coffeepot, effectively ending the discussion for the time being. They accepted coffee and ordered breakfast, neither needing to see a menu.

Diana wrapped her hands around the hot cup, again conscious of a chill she found difficult to understand. The sun was warm on the veranda, on their table. The air was warm and smelled fragrantly of flowers mixed with the sharper scent of bacon cooking.

It had been more than two hours since she'd come out of the gray time. So why was she still cold?

"Diana?"

She met his gaze reluctantly.

"What's bothering you?"

She heard a little laugh escape her.

Quentin smiled. "Okay, dumb question."

Before he could ask a more reasonable variation of it, Diana changed the subject. "You said that you didn't remember if any of you found the trap door that summer."

"That's right."

"I guess... I assumed your memories of the summer would be vivid. That you would have remembered everything because of how traumatic Missy's murder was."

Quentin looked down at his coffee, that slight frown returning. "An understandable assumption. And I don't know why it isn't so. Some things stand out, of course, as clear as snapshots in my mind. Other things..." He shook his head. "There are gaps I can't really explain. A fuzziness to some of my memories."

"Maybe because of the shock of finding Missy," Diana suggested.

"Maybe."

"You were awfully young, Quentin. And it has been twenty-five years."

"Yeah. Still. I should remember more, and what I do remember should be clearer." He shrugged. "Maybe if I could be hypnotized, I could get at the memories. But since that isn't possible..."

"You can't be hypnotized?"

"No. And neither can you." He sipped his coffee, adding, "Psychics are always in that percentage of people who can't be hypnotized. No one knows why."

With some feeling, Diana said, "Just once, I'd love to be able to say you were wrong about something like that. About me."

"Sorry."

"No, you're not."

"Okay, I'm not. Diana, I know all this is hard for you. I get that, I really do. But you have to admit that continuing to deny the paranormal when you're experiencing it on a regular basis is just a little bit stubborn."

"You think so?"

"Just a little bit."

"Well, pardon me for needing more than twenty-four hours to get used to the idea."

Quentin chuckled. "Point taken. I can be impatient sometimes."

"No, really?"

"Sorry. I'll try to do better. And try to remember this is all very new to you."

"I suppose it was something easy for you to accept?"

He hesitated, then grimaced. "It was fairly easy for me to accept the existence of my abilities. But it didn't make my life any easier when it first dawned on me that I was different. Especially since my father, being an engineer, didn't have a whole lot of tolerance for anything that couldn't be scientifically weighed, measured, and analyzed. Still doesn't, really."

"How does he feel about the work you're doing now?"

"He wasn't very happy that I chose to use my law degree in police work, but we're still on speaking terms. Which is something, I suppose."

"And your mother?"

"My mother thinks I walk on water." He grinned. "Being her only offspring, I can do no wrong. But.. .I think it used to spook her when I'd tell her the phone was about to ring, or that my father would be getting an unexpected bonus, stuff like that. We don't really talk about it now."

"That must be lonely."

He thought about it. "In some ways, I guess. Or at least it used to be. But finding a home with the SCU, where the paranormal is the rule rather than the exception, changed everything. For most of the team, it's the only time in our lives we haven't felt isolated and alone."

Diana could well believe that. "Do your parents know you're with the Special Crimes Unit?"

"Yeah. But they don't know what's really special about the unit."

"So... they've never really come to terms with what's a very large part of your life."

"No. And your father may not either, if that's what you're thinking."

Diana wanted to again express her irritation that he was so adept at picking up on her insecurities, but it seemed a wasted effort. She contented herself with a sigh he'd have no trouble interpreting and looked away from him, allowing her gaze to wander around the veranda.

To her surprise, several of the tables were now occupied.

Or... were they?

The woman in Victorian dress she had seen the day before sat alone at one table, again raising her teacup slightly as her eyes met Diana's. Nearby, a man sat at another table, his rough work clothing and heavily bearded face making him obviously different from the usual hotel guests or staff; he, also, was staring at Diana, and nodded somewhat brusquely when she looked at him.

Diana tore her gaze away from him only to see two small children sitting at another table. Both little boys, both wearing clothing of a style she vaguely recognized as belonging to another time. Both solemnly returned her stare.

Dimly aware that Quentin was speaking with their waitress, Diana looked at the table nearest theirs, watching as a tall woman dressed in a very old-fashioned nurse's uniform rose to her feet and took a step toward her.

"Help us," she said.

"Help us," the little boys echoed.

"It's time," the working man grunted.

"Diana?"

She started and looked at Quentin. "What?"

He was frowning, and indicated the table between them, now holding their breakfast.

"Oh. Right." She sneaked a glance at the nearby tables that had been occupied by otherworldly people, finding them now empty. "Right." Part of her wanted to tell Quentin what she had seen, but another part of her was already doubting, questioning.

Had she really seen them? Had they really been ghosts? And if she had, if they were, then what did they want of her? How was she supposed to help them? What did they expect her to do?

"Diana, are you okay?"

She took a sip of her coffee, trying to think. To decide. "Just... cold. I'm just cold, that's all."

"Maybe a hot meal will help."

"Yeah. Yeah, maybe." She'd have to tell him, she knew that. Sooner or later. And maybe he could explain it all rationally, maybe he would offer a logical reason why, after two weeks of relative peace here at The Lodge, she had suddenly begun encountering ghosts.

Nate was wary enough of rousing media attention that he called in only two of his detectives for backup, explaining to Stephanie that they were the two who were already scheduled, in any case, to help him in interviewing staff members later. So Zeke Pruitt and Kerri Shehan arrived quietly in an unmarked police car and made their way without fanfare down to the stables, as ordered.

Both, however, registered considerable surprise when they saw the trap door and what lay beneath it.

"That's a hell of a thing," Pruitt noted, almost admiring, presumably of the effort undoubtedly involved in its construction.

Shehan, more to the point, said to Nate, "Are we thinking this may help explain some of the mysteries on Agent Hayes's list?"

"You've been looking into that?" Nate asked, not really surprised. Kerri Shehan was the sharpest detective he had, and he'd more than once been conscious of the guilty knowledge that her abilities were going to waste in his small, usually peaceful town.

Now he was very glad he hadn't encouraged her to move on to bigger and better things elsewhere. He had a feeling he was going to need all the brainpower he could get.

Zeke Pruitt, approaching middle age and perfectly happy with the usual mundane work the few Leisure detectives dealt with, groaned before his partner could answer their captain's question. "She was up at the crack and at her desk, poring over stuff in the historical database and linking to newspaper morgues all over the state. Stuff about The Lodge and its history, even local legends. Wouldn't even let me finish my coffee before she was reading to me out loud."

He eyed the trap door, adding, "Have to admit, though, this does make all the old stories about people going missing around here a bit more interesting."

"We don't know yet whether there's any connection," Nate told them.

"How was it even found?" Shehan asked, studying the way the saddle racks had obviously been pulled aside.

"Luck," Nate replied firmly as Quentin and Diana came into the tack room.

Neither one of them disputed the statement. Neither did Stephanie, who came in behind them just in time to hear it.

To Nate, she said, "Okay, Cullen's been informed that this tack room is off-limits until he's told otherwise. He's not happy, but he's got his orders. Any of the horses needed from this barn will be taken to one of the others to be groomed and saddled." She frowned toward the trap door. "Always assuming that thing isn't just an abandoned well or something equally innocuous."

"Let's see. No need to move all this junk — I mean tack — out of the way if we don't have to." Nate got one of the powerful police flashlights his detectives had brought, and went to shine the light down through the trap door.

Since there was so little room there, nobody came along to peer over his shoulder, but it was safe to say everyone in the room was holding their breath to hear the verdict.

He didn't make them wait, straightening after only a moment to say, "It's not a well. Zeke, help me clear a little more space around here, okay?"

"What did you see?" Quentin asked as the burly detective began helping Nate move the heavy floor-standing saddle racks back away from the trap door.

"The shaft goes straight down about fifteen or twenty feet, then it looks like it turns almost horizontal. West, toward the mountains."

"A tunnel?" Stephanie asked in disbelief.

"Maybe. But something just occurred to me. There was a lot of mining in these mountains in the years before The Lodge was built, at least according to one of my high school history teachers. I wouldn't expect to find much of anything underneath us here in the valley, but we're close enough that this could, originally, have been an air shaft."

"And nobody noticed it when they built this barn?"

"You're assuming the trap door was cut in later," Nate said. "And maybe it was. Or maybe it was here all along. Are there any original blueprints for this barn?"

She grimaced. "God knows. Did they even do blueprints for barns? I mean — weren't they just... raised?"

Nate lifted an eyebrow at her. "A barn like this one? I'm betting there were blueprints."

With a sigh, Stephanie said, "Well then, maybe Agent Hayes can find them in the basement."

He said, "I'll certainly look. And it's Quentin." He waited for her nod, then said to Nate, "I don't know enough about mining — modern or historic — to disagree with you; my father is the engineer in the family. But don't air shafts usually angle upward to the surface from major tunnels?"

"Yeah, if it's a planned shaft. But miners also made use of natural shafts and crevices, old wells — whatever was handy. At least according to that teacher I mentioned. It was a hobby of his, exploring old mines and caves, and he went on and on about it, boring most of us senseless."

Stephanie said, "Some of it sunk in, obviously."

"Yeah. Who knew it might come in handy one day?" Nate eyed the cleared space around the trap door, and added, "Zeke, you and Kerri stay topside for now; make sure nobody else comes in here. Quentin, if you're ready, grab a flashlight."

"I'm coming too," Diana heard herself say. She kept her hands jammed in the pockets of her jacket, still so chilled that it required an effort not to shiver visibly.

Nate said, "Shit," but with more resignation than anything else. He looked at Quentin, brows raised.

Quentin was looking at Diana, but even though she refused to meet his eyes, he nodded to the cop. "I think she needs to go down there. Even more, I think we need her to."

Stephanie said to Diana, "You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din. I'm curious as hell, but you couldn't get me down there at the point of a gun." She sat down on the long bench with an air of making herself comfortable. "I'll wait here until you guys get back. And I'm sure I don't have to remind any of you that you go down there at your own risk."

"Noted," Quentin said, accepting another flashlight from Pruitt and preparing to follow Nate down the ladder. He paused only long enough to direct a steady question to Diana. "Are you sure about this?"

"Yes." She was sure, but that didn't make her any less frightened. And it didn't do a thing to warm her as she put her cold hands on that cold iron ladder and followed the two men down into the cold ground.

With Angelo at her heels, Madison walked down through the gardens in the general direction of the stables, but turned off that path and made her way to the English Garden.

"They wouldn't let us in the first barn anyway," she told her little dog. "Becca says it'll be closed to guests all day. Maybe even longer. So you won't have to pretend you're not afraid of the horses."

Angelo looked up at her intently as they walked, his ears alert and tail waving. But he looked less happy just a minute or two later, when Madison chose the path that would lead to the little gazebo in the distance.

He whined uneasily.

"Angelo, you're beginning to get on my nerves," she told him. "Becca said to meet her in the gazebo, so that's where we're going. I told you that."

The little dog hesitated, actually pausing for a moment as his mistress continued on, then hurried to catch up with her, ears and tail lowered now.

"I like Becca," she informed him, compelled to defend her preferences. "She's fun. And she knows all about this place. Besides, you know as well as I do that we could get into real trouble if we didn't have Becca to warn us about the bad stuff."

Angelo stuck close, silent but still obviously anxious.

Madison turned her attention ahead of them, and quickened her step when she saw Becca waiting for them in the center of the white-painted gazebo.

"Hey," she called.

Becca waited until Madison and Angelo joined her before responding. "Hey yourself. Did you have breakfast?"

"Sure. Pancakes. They were good."

Becca nodded slowly. She seemed to hesitate, then said, "They've found the door."

"You said they would."

"Yeah. The thing is... I maybe took Diana down there too soon."