P. Parrish - An Unquiet Grave

Charlie nodded and ran off. Louis knelt by the door’s edge, dropping his head into the hole. There was a rusted mechanism on the bottom platform that looked like some kind of hydraulic or pulley-type lift.

Louis stood and looked west. This hole was directly in line with the back of the infirmary. He looked back at the rusted doors. This had to be connected to the mortuary in the bottom of the infirmary. It made sense that there would be a direct way to transport the dead from there to the cemetery. Most likely, a casket would be loaded on a gurney in the mortuary and wheeled through a tunnel to here, where a lift was used to bring it up for burial. It made sense, too, that this would be a tunnel dedicated only to this grim task so patients and staff didn’t have to see the dead. It probably ran under E Building, unconnected to the main tunnel system.

Surely they had bricked this one off, too. But if not, it was a perfect conduit for the killer that allowed him to enter the tunnels through the cemetery, outside the scope of the police surveillance.

Charlie was back with the flashlight and Louis clicked it on to check the battery. It was strong. Then he shone it down the hole.

Ten feet to the bottom, he estimated. The flashlight beam picked up the rusted workings of the lift. It looked to have enough places to grab on to so he could get back out.

“Are you going down there?” Charlie asked.

“Just for a second,” Louis said.

“Don’t go.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Louis stuck his flashlight in his belt, sat down on the door rim, and grabbed the edge of the other door. Sliding off the ground, he let himself hang for a second, then dropped to the bottom.

He hit with a clang of metal, sending a stinging through his ankles that forced him to catch the wall to keep from falling. Afraid the crash had echoed through the tunnel, he grabbed his flashlight and pointed it into the darkness. The beam stretched on, fading to a whisper of light, then nothing.

Louis took a few steps, sweeping the beam over the floor as he walked. Concrete, with patches of ice. Leaves. Mud. Dead flies. Roaches. The ice had turned to water now, black and murky.

It was cold, the air thick with a mustiness that almost made him gag, and he had the awful thought that the liquid at his feet was seeping grave water, probably all around him, dripping down the walls and from the ceiling.

“Mr. Kincaid?”

“I’m okay, Charlie.”

Shit. He should have counted his steps, but he’d been too busy looking around. Too busy keeping his heartbeats under control. But he knew he’d gone at least twenty feet and had not seen a cinder-block wall.

“Mr. Kincaid?”

Charlie’s voice sounded like a child’s, high and hollow off the concrete walls. Louis turned quickly, looking back. He could still see the shaft of sunlight back at the entrance of the tunnel.

“Charlie, can you hear me?” he called out.

“Yes. . yes, I can!”

Louis ran the flashlight beam slowly over the walls. He could hear a dripping sound and smell rotting earth. A heaviness filled his chest.

This was where it had happened.

This was where Rebecca Gruber had been tortured and murdered. It had been her screams, her crying that Charlie, sitting in his tree, had heard.

He swung the flashlight beam into the darkness. The killer was down here somewhere, probably right now. If he didn’t already know his home had been invaded, he would soon. And no way was Louis leaving this opening unguarded. He had to go get help.

He went back to the shaft and looked up. Charlie was still there, peering down.

“You coming out now?” Charlie asked.

“Yeah,” Louis said, clicking off the flashlight and slipping it into his belt.

He grabbed hold of a piece of metal screwed lengthwise into the concrete wall, jerking on it to make sure it was steady. Sticking a foot on one of the lower rails of the lift, he stepped up. The lower rail crumbled into dust.

“Damn it,” he said.

He tried the corner, where the thin bars came together, but it was already loose, and his weight crushed it to the floor.

He stepped back and looked up. It was more than ten feet up to the top, he saw now, maybe close to fifteen. No way could he reach the middle bar, not even if he jumped. He took the flashlight back out and steadied it on the rails. They were all broken and rusted through. No. Not broken. They were all unscrewed deliberately. Some were even missing.

He turned and looked down the tunnel. This man didn’t want anyone coming down here and getting back out.

Louis went a few feet back into the tunnel. There had to be something sturdy enough to stand on, something the killer used to get up. If he could just get part way, he could reach that middle bar and swing his legs up to the edge or reach Charlie’s hand. But he didn’t see anything he could use.

“Mr. Kincaid?”

“I’m all right, Charlie.”

He came back to the shaft. He saw a single metal post, three feet high, welded to the corner of the platform. Clicking off the flashlight, he stuck it back in his belt.

“Charlie, I’m going to try to climb up,” Louis said. “Reach down and grab my hand and pull, okay?”

“Okay!” Charlie leaned over and extended his arm down as far as he could. Louis brought up his foot and was able to get it up on the post. His fingers found another thin piece of metal close by, the gap between it and the wall so small he could barely get his fingertips between them.

He eased his way up, most of his weight balanced on the sharp tip of the narrow post. He leaned inward to grab the middle bar but still couldn’t reach it. Charlie’s outstretched hand was a good three feet above him. He had to get higher.

He knew if he jumped and missed the bar, he’d fall back to the floor. But he had to try. He made a leap, catching the bar with both hands, his fingers immediately sliding on the crusty film. But he did a quick pull-up, and grabbed it again, a stronger hold this time. The bar was like ice, and the rust like sandpaper under his fingers.

He could see Charlie’s fingers frantically waving overhead.

He swung his legs up, missed and swung again. His heels caught the rim. The bar snapped. He fell back to the bottom of the hole.

The fall knocked the breath out of him, and for several seconds, even the darkness was spinning.

“Mr. Kincaid!”

Louis shook his head. “Damn it,” he hissed, trying to get up. “Son of a bitch. .”

“Mr. Kincaid!”

He looked up. Charlie’s face was blur far above him. He struggled to his feet.

“Charlie, you’re going to have to go get help.” The fall had knocked the wind out of him and he could barely pull in enough air to talk. “Can you run back to the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“Can you get to the gate, where the policemen are?”

“Yes.”

“I need you to do that for me,” Louis said. “Right now. I need you to run as fast as you can and bring the policeman at the gate back here. Right here.”

“Okay.”

Louis pulled in a shallow breath. “Don’t go inside the hospital. Don’t climb the fence and don’t try to find any policeman inside the fence. Go right to the gate.”

“Okay.”

Louis stared up at him, afraid he didn’t understand. “Okay,” Louis said, “tell me, where are you going to go?”

“To the gate. To get the policeman.”

“All right,” Louis said. “Go. Now.”

Charlie took off and Louis reached back for the flashlight. It was gone. His eyes swept the concrete floor and finally he saw it. He picked it up and flicked it on, training the beam into the dark tunnel.

His chest and left shoulder were throbbing from the fall. He felt dizzy and slid down to the floor, sitting there, trying to get some air back into his lungs. And when he could breathe, he looked up at the bright blue sky.