David Robbins - Madman Run

Geronimo offered his rifle to Blade. “You’re welcome to shoot him with my gun if you want.”

“Why waste the bullet?” Blade said and resumed hunting for clues.

They covered every room on the second floor, then went up to the third.

Again they found chambers filled with furniture, ornaments and paintings that would have cost a small fortune prior to the Big Blast. But evidence someone lived there eluded them.

“How many floors are there in this place?” Hickok asked as they made toward the last doorway along the corridor.

“There must be six or seven in a building this size,” Blade guessed.

“We can be here all day.”

“If you have a better idea on how we can discover who’s behind all of this, I’m open to suggestions.”

“I was just thinkin’ about Attila.”

“What about him?”

“We’re supposed to be on guard duty tomorrow night. If we don’t show up, he’ll be as mad as a wet cat.”

Geronimo snorted. “You have such a wonderful way with words, Nathan.”

“We’ll be back at the Home by the time our shift starts,” Blade predicted. “Even if we stay over here tonight, we’ll have all day tomorrow to make the return trip.”

“Are you plannin’ to stay over?”

“It depends on how things turn out.”

Hickok chuckled. “You can’t fool me. The real reason you want to stay another night is you’re hopin’ to see those fairies again.”

“ Please use my gun,” Geronimo begged.

Blade turned to the door and reached for the knob when from somewhere far below, seeming to come from the very bowels of the earth, came a faint scream, a terrified shriek that lasted for a good 30 seconds and abruptly ended in awful silence. “Let’s go,” he barked and made a move toward the stairs.

“We can’t,” Geronimo stated.

“Why not?”

“The torch is going out.”

Sure enough, the flames were much lower and might extinguish completely within the next couple of minutes. “There must be something we can use to make another one,” Blade said, then he opened the door.

A music room unfolded before their wondering eyes, with a harp in one corner, a bass on a stand in another, a violin mounted in a case on the south wall, and another piano, this one smaller than its counterpart downstairs, the only furniture consisted of two chairs, a small sofa and a narrow cabinet against the rear wall.

“There doesn’t appear to be anything we can use,” Geronimo said.

Blade was about to close the door when his gaze fell on the polished piano. An idea occurred to him, and he hastened to the maple cabinet.

“What are you doing?” Hickok asked.

“Looking for whatever they used to polish the furniture and the piano.”

“What in the world for?”

“It just might be flammable,” Blade responded, opening the panel doors. There were four narrow shelves crammed with odds and ends—several bows for the violin, music books, a harmonica, three glass bottles partially filled with liquid substances, folded pieces of cloth and more. He raised one of the bottles and read its label: EVERLASTING WOOD POLISH. Unscrewing the cap, he raised the bottle to his nose and promptly regretted doing so. An acrid scent capable of gagging a horse made him turn aside and cough. On closer inspection of the label he found two words printed at the bottom: WARNING. FLAMMABLE.

“Bingo,” he announced.

Geronimo had walked to the sofa and was examining the stitching in the smooth, pink fabric covering the upholstered seat and back. “Your knives can cut this easier than my tomahawks,” he remarked.

Blade went over and handed the bottle to the Blackfoot, then crouched.

Drawing his left Bowie, he proceeded to cut six-inch wide strips of pink fabric, each about a foot long, and draped them over the armrest. After accumulating four such strips, he slid the knife into the sheath and stood.

Hickok was standing guard at the door.

“The owners won’t be very pleased at having their furniture destroyed,” Geronimo mentioned.

“And I’m not overjoyed at having someone beat on me with a chair,” Blade replied. “Which makes us even.” He took one of the strips and poured the polish over it until the fabric was soaked, then did the same with the remaining three.

Meanwhile, the torch had sputtered down to a few lingering fingers of flame.

“Hold it out,” Blade directed, clasping the drenched strips in both hands. He had to work quickly or suffer burnt fingers. Extending his arms to the side, he waited until the torch was almost out and he could barely see the limb, then he whipped the strips around and wrapped them tightly about the smoldering end. No sooner had he secured them and drew his hands back than the torch flared to life again with a sizzling sound and a puff of smoke.

“Pretty clever, pard,” Hickok complimented him.

“Now let’s go see where the scream came from,” Blade proposed and hastened from the music room to the stairs, his companions right beside him. They paused at the landing to listen.

“Think it was the woman in the white dress?” Hickok wondered.

“No telling,” Blade said, moving slowly downward. “But from now on we stick together no matter what.”

“Shucks. Do you mean I can’t go chasin’ after any wood nymphs?”

“Will you stop already with the wood nymphs?”

“Sure. Just tryin’ to cheer you up after the lickin’ you took.”

“Do me a favor.”

“Anything.”

“Try and cheer Geronimo up for a change.”

“Hey, don’t involve me,” the Blackfoot said softly. “He’s your problem.”

“Who are you callin’ a problem?” Hickok demanded.

“Quiet,” Blade said sternly.

The gunfighter, of course, had to get in the last word. “Boy, what a couple of grumps.”

In silence they descended to the ground floor and halted. Blade stood at the edge of the next flight of steps and peered into the inky domain below.

The air felt cooler, and the dank scent was stronger. He gripped the Marlin and went down cautiously, carefully placing one foot after the other. Another stone corridor, narrower than those upstairs, appeared below, with branches running in four different directions. At the next landing they stopped to survey the lower level.

To Blade’s amazement, they’d discovered a subterranean network of passageways and rooms. A half-dozen doors were visible along each branch. Even more surprising was the fact that the stairs continued down to yet another level. He speculated on how far down the levels actually went. If there were as many floors below ground as above, then trying to search every square inch of the castle was an impossible task.

The dank, cool air intensified, and a slight breeze caressed their faces.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Geronimo said.

“How can there be a breeze down here?” Hickok asked.

“I don’t know,” Blade admitted, wrestling with the decision of whether to go lower or check this level first. He believed the scream came from farther down, but the idea of venturing into the castle’s nether realms intimidated him. His vivid imagination created all sorts of horrid beasts waiting below for the chance to pounce on them. Before he could make up his mind, however, an unforeseen event occurred.

Hickok cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said ever so politely.

“What is it?” Blade responded, turning to find the gun-fighter staring up the stairs.

“We’ve got company.”

Startled, Blade turned and couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the lady in white standing not ten feet away.

This time the woman didn’t flee. She stood calmly in the middle of a step and regarded them with transparent curiosity. Her eyes were a striking green, her lips a rosy red, both contrasting sharply with her exceptionally pale complexion.