Eddie Bourque: Speak Ill Of The Living Part 18

These are old prints.

Relieved, he looked around some more. He discovered that the bas.e.m.e.nt was not a rectangle as he had first thought-it was L-shaped, with a wing off the far side. Eddie walked the lantern around the corner, into the wing, inspecting the stone walls closely. He wasn't sure what he was looking for. A secret door? A message written in blood?

On the floor, near the base of the wall, he noticed a small dark spot, a perfect square, about two inches across. He knelt with the lantern. The square was a faint impression in the dust, nothing more. He noticed another nearby, and another.

Five in all.

Eddie stood back and connected the spots in his mind.

They made a pentagon.

Eddie's imagination superimposed an image of Henry's five-sided table over the marks in the dust. It seemed right-he imagined the table legs leaving the squares, like the marks pressed into a carpet by a heavy piece of furniture.

"Split logs all day and spend all night in the workshop? What kind of life you living, Henry?"

"It doesn't look like much now, but it's gonna be a table."

"Hush up! It's wonderful. I wish my boy Jimmy had a talent with wood like that."

"Maybe when it's done you can keep it here, Mrs. Whistle."

By the marks on the floor, it seemed possible that Henry's table had been left in this bas.e.m.e.nt long ago, and then taken away more recently, but the evidence was hardly conclusive. Eddie needed more. He crouched with the lantern and swept the light inches from the floor, studying the dust that filled the little cracks in the concrete.

He duckwalked with the light, looking for...what the h.e.l.l was he looking for?

He had gone only a few steps when he noticed a patch of concrete that seemed different from the floor around it-it was a slightly lighter shade of gray and a little b.u.mpier, though Eddie would never had noticed had he not been looking so intently. The patch was roughly oval, maybe six by three feet. He stomped on it, listened to the thud, then stomped next to the patch, to compare the sounds.

Was it his imagination that the patch sounded thinner? Hollow, maybe?

Options...options...

He could get Detective Orr, bring her back here tomorrow. Or he could come back alone in the morning, look around some more, maybe search the woods around the property for a telling clue.

It was a stupid argument because he knew what he was going to do.

Eddie hefted the lantern, felt the fuel swirling around-there was plenty, plenty of light left in it.

He ran for the stairs.

Outside, the sun was gone except for the fading pink underbelly of a distant cloud. As Eddie hurried to the barn he was surprised to feel the call of a big news story. How long had it been since he had uncovered a real scoop? He couldn't remember, but he was too excited to care. Eddie lifted the lantern to illuminate a jumble of old tools.

He grabbed a ten-pound pick.

The first blow seemed loud enough to shake down the house, but it barely dented the concrete. The low ceiling made it impossible for Eddie to swing the pick over his head. He widened his stance, bent his knees and gripped the pick at the end of its handle to increase his leverage. He swung again. A satisfying clump of concrete dust sprayed over the floor.

Wham. Wham. Wham.

Eddie's ears were ringing. He was breathing hard and sweat gathered on his back. He pulled off his shirt, threw it on the floor near the lantern, wiped his brow on the back of his hand, and then attacked the concrete again.

He wasn't sure what he hoped to find. There might not be anything under there. But Eddie was sure that the floor had been patched at least once before, some time after the original floor had been poured. He was certain he was not the first person to chip away at the concrete at this spot. He wondered if the last person to dig here had used the same pick.

Yellow sparks and chunks of concrete the size of ice cubes shot out from under the point of the pick. Eddie's arms burned. He stopped, leaned on the pick and panted. The old house creaked again, three times, as if some heavy spirit was walking across the floor above. He shuddered and listened, but heard only the angry hiss of the lantern.

No wonder people go mad living alone in big old houses.

The handle was damp with his sweat. He swung the pick again. Concrete splashed.

Wham. Wham. Wham.

Eddie couldn't help thinking that he was digging a tunnel for a prison break.

He wanted to write a news story that cleared his brother's name. As he worked the pick against the floor, he allowed his imagination to explore the future. A writer freeing his own brother would be a story itself. The Daily Empire would want to write about it. If the new management at the Empire was smart, they'd have one of Eddie's old colleagues call him for the interview.

To free a brother after thirty years would be a nationwide story. Time and Newsweek would scratch each other's eyes out over who got the first interview with Eddie Bourque. Eddie smiled over the daydream. It was an excellent fantasy, but not the one he wanted the most. He imagined Henry visiting Eddie's shack in Pawtucketville for the first time. He could see Henry reaching down, snapping his fingers to coax General VonKatz to come over. The brothers would split a six-pack of Rolling Rock, and then Eddie would set up the chessboard. Henry would play the white pieces-Eddie would know without asking what side Henry liked to play. It was the kind of detail brothers knew about each other.

Wham! The pick broke through the concrete and buried itself to the handle.

Eddie wiggled it out and inspected the blade. It was covered with dirt.

He looked around for the first time in a long while. Night had fallen outside. No light bled into the bas.e.m.e.nt from the stairwell. The lantern glowed steadily in the center of a white circle that faded to blackness all around it, as if even light was afraid to venture into the bas.e.m.e.nt's dark corners.

His arms were beat and the pick felt like lead, but Eddie a.s.saulted the floor around the hole he had punched, widening the opening with a series of hard blows.

Soon the opening was large enough to reach his hand into. He felt hard soil underneath the floor. It was obvious the hole would have to be a lot larger for Eddie to investigate what was down there. He chopped to widen it. The concrete had weakened under the relentless pounding, and large chunks started breaking off. Eddie pulled out the chunks by hand and tossed them aside. Soon, he had removed nearly the entire concrete patch, uncovering black earth, the blackest dirt he had ever seen, like a deposit of designer potting soil. Sweat dripped from his nose into the hole.

Above him, the old house squealed, as if suddenly startled.

Eddie shook his fist at the house for trying to scare him, and then smiled to himself.

Nothing but soft earth to dig.

He swung the pick three times, loosened some soil, and then reached into the hole with cupped hands and scooped out the dirt. Then he swung the pick three more times. He soon lost himself in the rhythmic monotony of the task, until the hole was knee-deep and he was standing in it.

How deep should he go? Waist deep? Eye-level? For the first time since he had started to dig, Eddie felt a sliver of doubt. What if there was nothing under there?

I'll dig until the lantern burns out, he promised himself. He moved the lamp to the edge of the hole. The very next stroke of the pick uncovered something metallic in the dirt.

Eddie tugged it gently.

A key.

Terribly rusted, the key was attached to a plastic yellow key chain in the shape of an "S." He wiped a soiled thumb over the key chain and read a set of raised letters: Solomon Secure Transport Co.

Eddie felt a cold chill, as if sleet was suddenly falling against his bare skin. The key had been here thirty years, since Henry Bourque and Jimmy Whistle had heisted the armored car.

He looked at the keychain and then into the hole.

The gold?

Eddie dropped the keychain and hefted the pick. He slammed the tool into the dirt, raked the soil.

Henry and Jimmy must have used this farm as a base when they hijacked the armored car. Jimmy's mother was already dead, the ownership of her farm was tied up in probate, and the place had been shuttered. This was where they had kept the three guards hostage, before one of them managed to escape.

If Eddie's suspicions were correct, then Roger Lime was held captive in the Whistle farm bas.e.m.e.nt until recently-which meant that Jimmy probably was in on the crime. Eddie pictured Jimmy Whistle as he dug. Jimmy seemed too pathetic to handle Lime alone, even with a gun. He must have had a partner.

The pick slammed deep into the earth and then didn't want to budge. Eddie levered it back and forth and saw that the pick had pierced a round white rock a little smaller than volleyball. Eddie dug with his hands around the rock and then pried it up with the pick. It came up surprisingly easy for such a large stone, impaled on the end of the pick.

Eddie wiped the stone, found it oddly smooth.

Then turned it and saw teeth-human teeth.

"Oh! Jesus!" he screamed.

The pick had entered a human skull through an eye socket. Eddie panted hard, fighting the urge to throw the pick and run.

Long dead...can't hurt you...

Eddie bit his bottom lip and wiggled the skull off the pick. He held it to the light. There was no bottom jaw. Black dust packed the brain cavity. The dust trickled from the spinal opening.

Eddie set the skull down gently. He kicked through the dirt in the hole and found a rib, definitely a rib. Then another long white bone, maybe from the forearm? And the edge of a buried pelvis. There were many more bones he could not identify.

Roger Lime?

Seemed doubtful-these dry bones were long dead and Lime was alive in the kidnapper's photos just days before.

No, this skull had been dead for thirty years. Eddie looked at it. "Which one of the missing guards are you?" Eddie asked under his breath. "Mr. Dumas? Or Mr. Forte?"

Not that it mattered. There seemed to be enough bone in the hole to make two skeletons. There was probably another skull in there somewhere, too.

From the corner of his eye, Eddie spotted a ghost in the shadows. It was coming silently toward him.

Rational thought abandoned Eddie for a moment.

He saw that the ghost had a noose of brown rope in one hand. Eddie had time to blink once. Time to recognize the figure in a ski mask.

And then the man was on him.

Chapter 19.

Eddie dived aside with a grunt as the attacker's weight glanced off his shoulder and the noose of rough rope brushed Eddie's face.

Eddie grabbed the pick, swung it awkwardly at the man, but the attacker was too quick. He ducked. A fist shot like a missile into Eddie's jaw. Eddie didn't feel a thing, but he heard the thud of the blow and the clack of his teeth slamming together. He tumbled backward out of the hole and onto the floor. He heard gla.s.s shatter and saw the world go black and knew he had landed on the lantern.

The pain all arrived at the same instant, a supernova in his head, stinging cuts on his back. His eyes watered and he wanted to scream, but managed no sound at all. He clutched his head and rolled over in silent agony.

The man in the ski mask was fumbling around, feeling for Eddie in the dark.

"Son'b.i.t.c.h!" the man growled. "Come over here!"

The taste of his own blood woke Eddie to reality. He felt a hand on his foot. The man said, "Ha!" Eddie kicked in the dark, felt air and kicked feebly again. The invisible attacker grabbed Eddie by the belt. An unseen hand found Eddie's throat, and squeezed.

Eddie drove his forearm into the man's bulk, but the attacker's chest was thick and powerful. A thumb pressed into Eddie's windpipe. Eddie twisted fiercely away. He gasped one noisy breath. A fist glanced off Eddie's ear. It stung, but did no real damage. He felt a fist swing past his cheek, then the hand found his throat again and the attacker settled his weight on Eddie's hips. Eddie felt the rope sc.r.a.pe over his temple.

The man was trying to get the noose around Eddie's neck. Eddie bucked and kicked, but could not break free.

This motherf.u.c.ker's too strong!

Eddie's arms thrashed; his hand brushed on something hard on the floor.

The skull. Eddie jammed two fingers and a thumb in the eye sockets, as if gripping a bowling ball. He guessed where in the dark the man's head would be, and swung with all his strength.

Bone cracked against bone. The skull bounced from Eddie's hand. The man screamed in pain and shock, the grip loosened and Eddie wormed free.

Where to go?

Eddie crawled blindly away in the dark, wheezing quietly for breath. He heard the attacker muttering. Eddie headed away from the sound. His jaw ached; his mouth wouldn't open all the way. The punch had rattled him, filled his mouth with blood. His thinking had begun to clear and he realized he could not take another straight shot to the chin. With clear thinking came the understanding that the attacker was too powerful for Eddie to beat in a fair fight. For the first time in his life, Eddie wished his big brother were around-like the man in the ski mask, Henry was built like a cement truck.

The attacker was stumbling, searching for Eddie in the absolute blackness of the bas.e.m.e.nt.

Eddie's crawled until his shoulder brushed a wall. He silently drooled spit and blood to the floor, and then crawled along the wall, until he reached a corner. There he huddled and considered his options.

If he continued to crawl along the walls, he would eventually b.u.mp into the staircase. The problem was that Eddie had become disoriented in the moments after he was. .h.i.t on the chin, and he didn't know what direction he had crawled to get away. He pictured the L-shaped bas.e.m.e.nt in his mind. The room had five corners-five places where walls came together. He could have been huddled at any one of them.

The attacker was coming Eddie's way.

Eddie heard the man's shoes scuffing the floor, and the man's hands on the wall. He was feeling his way slowly around the room, as Eddie had done.

Run? Or fight?

Eddie considered taking a free swing at his unsuspecting enemy. What were Eddie's chances of knocking the man down with one blind punch in the dark?

Not good, he decided. The man's head was an invisible, moving target. Eddie had no weapon. And Eddie's arms were exhausted from an afternoon of heavy digging; even supercharged with adrenaline, he lacked his full strength.

Eddie rolled quietly away from the wall and waited, breathing silently through his mouth. Sweat ran into his eyes and stung. His heart pounded inside his chest like a runaway piston and Eddie feared the crazy beat would give him away.

The shoes shuffled past his ear by inches.

The man felt his way into the corner and took a left turn, down the next wall. Eddie rolled silently to his feet, put a hand to the wall and listened. He heard the man stub his shoe on another wall, then stumble and catch himself.

He's at another corner.