Final Reckonings (14 page)

It was weeks later when Cynthia was exposed as an impostor in Reno, and almost a month had passed before they actually broke into the Krass residence.

Even after entering the house, it took fifteen minutes of preliminary searching before Lieutenant Lee of the Homicide Squad went down into the cellar.

Another fifteen minutes were spent in frantic conjecture and incredulous surmise.

It was then, and only then, that Lee put through his phone call. "Hello . . . this Burke? Lee, Homicide. Yes . . . we're at the house now. Found a body in the cellar — locked in a deep-freeze unit. "No ... it was a man. Walter Krass.

"His wife? Yeah ... we found her, all right. Chopped into pieces, lying all around the deep-freeze. All but her right arm.

"Missing? No, it isn't missing. It's on top of the deep freeze. I said, it's on top of the deep-freeze, holding the lock shut.

"I don't know how to tell you this . . . but it almost looks like that arm pushed Walter Krass into the deep-freeze and then—locked him in!"

The Tunnel of Love

T
HE ENTRANCE TO THE TUNNEL
had been painted to resemble a woman’s mouth, with Cupid’s-bow lips bordering it in vivid red. Marco stared into the yawning darkness beyond. A woman’s mouth—how often had he dreamed of it, this past winter?

Now he stood before the entrance, stood before the mouth, waiting to be engulfed.

Marco was all alone in the amusement park; none of the other concessionaires had come to inspect their property and put it in working order for the new season. He was all alone, standing before the mouth; the scarlet mouth that beckoned him to come, be swallowed, be devoured.

It would be so easy to run away, clear out and never come back. Maybe when the summer season opened he could sell the concession. He’d tried all winter long, but there’d been no takers, even at a ridiculously low price. Yes, he could sell out and go away, far away. Away from the tunnel, away from the red mouth with its black throat gaping for some human morsels.

But that was nonsense, dream-stuff, nightmare. The Tunnel of Love was a good stand, a money-maker. A four-months’ take was enough to support him for an entire year. And he needed the money, needed it more than ever since he’d married Dolores.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have married her, in view of his troubles, but in a way that’s just why he had to marry her. He wanted something to cling to, something to shut out the fears that came to him at night. She loved him, and she would never suspect; there was no need for her to suspect if he kept his own head. Everything was going to be all right once the season started. Now all he needed to do was check up on his equipment.

The ticket booth was in good shape; he’d opened it and found no damage through leaking or frost. A good coat of paint would help, and he’d put a new stool inside for Dolores. She’d sell the tickets next season and cut down on his overhead. All he need bother about would be running the boats through; shoving them off and docking them for the benefit of the giggling couples who eagerly tasted the delights of the Tunnel of Love.

Marco had checked the six gondolas stored in the shed behind the boards fronting his concession. All were sound. The treadmill motor was oiled and ready. The water intake and outlet were unrusted. He had dragged one of the flat-bottomed gondolas out and it lay ready for launching once he flooded the channel and started the treadmill operation.

Now he hesitated before the tunnel entrance. This was it. He had to make up his mind, once and for all. Would he . . .

Turning his back deliberately on the jaws of the monster (he had to stop thinking like that, he
had
to!) Marco stepped over and opened the water. It ran down into the channel, a thin brown trickle, a muddy jet, a gushing frothy stream. The tunnel swallowed it. Now the treadmill was obscured; the water rushed into the tunnel full force. It rose as it flowed until the normal depth of three feet was attained. Marco watched it pour into the mouth. The mouth was thirsty. Thirsty for water, thirsty for . . .

Marco closed his eyes. If only he could get rid of that crazy notion about mouths! Funny thing, the exit of the tunnel didn’t bother him at all. The exit was just as big, just as black. The water would rush through the entrance, complete the circuit of the tunnel, and emerge on the other side from the exit. It would sweep over the dry treadmill, clean out the dirt and the debris, the accumulation of past months. It would sweep it out clean, bring everything from the tunnel, it was coming now, yes, he could hear it now; he wanted to run, he couldn’t look!

But Marco had to look. He had to know. He had to find out what floated on that bubbling, gurgling stream; had to see what bobbed and twisted in the torrent that emerged from the tunnel exit.

The water trickled, eddied, churned, swept out in a raging and majestic tide. Marco knelt in the gutter and stared down at the flow. It would be a hemorrhage, it would be blood, he knew that; but how could it be? Marco stared and saw that it wasn’t blood. Nothing emerged from the tunnel but dirty water—dirty water carrying caravels of leaves, a fleet of twigs, a flotilla of old gum-wrappers and cigarette butts. The surface of the water was rainbow-veined with oil and grease. It eddied and mingled once again with the steady flow from the faucets leading back into the tunnel. The level rose to the markings on the side of the treadle-pit.

So the tunnel was empty. Marco sighed gratefully. It had all been a nightmare; his fears were groundless. Now all he needed to do was launch the single gondola and go through the tunnel for an inspection of the lights on his exhibits.

Yes, all he had to do was sail into the waiting mouth, the hungry mouth, the grinning jaws of death—

Marco shrugged, shook his head. No use stalling, he had to go through with it. He’d turn the lights on; he could use the handswitches en route to stop the treadle if needs be. Then he could inspect the cut-off and see if everything was barricaded off. There was nothing to worry about, but he had to be quite sure.

He slid the heavy gondola off its truck and into the channel. Holding it with a boat-hook, he stooped again and switched on the motor. It chugged. The treadle groaned under the water, and he knew it was moving. The deep, flat-bottomed gondola rested on the moving treadle-struts. Marco let the boat-hook fall and stepped into the forward seat of the boat. It began to move forward, move towards the red lips, the black mouth. The entrance of the tunnel loomed.

Marco leaped from the boat with a spastic, convulsive tremor agitating his limbs. Frantically, he switched off the motor and halted the gondola at the lip of the tunnel. He stood there, all panting and perspiration, for a long moment.

Thank God, he’d thought of it in time! He’d almost gone into the tunnel without remembering to turn on the lights. That he could never do, he knew; the lights were necessary. How could he have forgotten? Why had he forgotten? Did the tunnel want him to forget? Did it want him to go into the blackness all alone, so that it could . . .

Marco shook his head. Such thoughts were childish. Quite deliberately, he walked into the ticket booth and plugged in the cord controlling the tunnel light circuit. He started the treadle going and jumped into the moving boat, barking his left shin. He was still rubbing the sore spot as the boat glided into darkness.

Quite suddenly Marco was in the tunnel, and he wasn’t afraid any more. There was nothing to be afraid of, nothing at all. The boat bumped along slowly, the water gurgled, the treadle groaned. Little blue lights cast a friendly glow at intervals of forty feet—little blue lights behind the glass walls of the small papier-mâché exhibit booths set in the tunnel sides. Here was Romeo and Juliet, here was Antony and Cleopatra, here was Napoleon and Josephine, here was the cutout . . .

Marco stopped the boat—halted the treadle, rather, by reaching out and pulling the handswitch set near the water’s edge in the left wall of the tunnel.

Here was the cutout . . .

Formerly the tunnel had contained an extra loop; a hundred and twenty feet more of winding channel through which boats had doubled back on an auxilliary treadle. Since November this channel had been cut out, boarded up, sealed up tightly and cemented at the cracks by Marco’s frantic fingers. He had worked until after midnight to do the job, but it was well done. Marco stared at the wall. It had held. Nothing leaked into the cutout, nothing leaked out of it. The air of the tunnel was fetid, but that was merely a natural musty odor soon to be dispelled—just as Marco’s fears were dispelled now by the sight of the smooth walled surface.

There was nothing to worry about, nothing at all. Marco started the treadle. The boat swept on. Now he could lean back in his double seat and actually enjoy the ride. The Tunnel of Love would operate again. The bobby-soxers and the college kids, the sailors and the hicks would have their romance, their smooching, their dime’s-worth of darkness. Yes, Marco would sell darkness for a dime. He lived on darkness. He and Dolores would be together; just like Romeo and Juliet, Antony and Cleopatra, Marco and—but that was over.

Marco was actually grinning when the boat glided out into the light of day again.

Dolores saw the grin and thought it was meant for her. She waved from the side of the channel.

“Hello, darling!”

Marco gaped at the tall blonde in the flowered print dress. She waved at him, and as the boat drew up opposite the disembarking point she stooped, stopped the motor, and held out her arms to the man in the gondola. His grin disappeared as he rose.

“What are you doing here?”

“Just thought I’d surprise you. I guessed where you’d be going.” Her arms pressed his back.

“Oh.” He kissed her without giving or receiving any sensation.

“You aren’t mad, are you, darling? After all, I’m your wife—and I’m going to be working here with you, aren’t I? I mean, I’d like to see this old tunnel you’ve been so mysterious about.”

Lord, she was a stupid female! Maybe that’s why he loved her; because she was stupid, and uncalculating, and loyal. Because she wasn’t dark and intense and knowing and hysterical like . . .

“What on earth were you doing?” she asked.

The question threw him off balance. “Why, just going through the tunnel.”

“All alone?” Dolores giggled. “What’s the sense of taking a boat ride through the Tunnel of Love by yourself? Couldn’t you find some girl to keep you company?”

If you only knew
, thought Marco, but he didn’t say it. He didn’t care. “Just inspecting the place,” he said. “Seems to be in good shape. Shall we go now?”

“Go?” Dolores pouted. “I want to see, too.”

“There’s nothing to see.”

“Come on, darling—take me through the tunnel, just once. After all, I won’t be getting a chance after the season opens.”

“But . . .”

She teased his hair with her fingers. “Look, I drove all the way down here just to see. What’re you acting so mysterious about? You hiding a body in the tunnel, or something?”

Good Lord, not that
, Marco thought. He couldn’t allow her to become suspicious.

Not Dolores, of all people.

“You really want to go through?” he murmured. He knew she did, and he knew he had to take her, now. He had to show her that there was nothing to be afraid of, there was nothing in the tunnel at all.

And why couldn’t he do just that? There
was
nothing to fear, nothing at all. So—“Come along,” said Marco.

He helped her into the boat, holding the gondola steady in the swirling water as he started the treadle. Then he jumped into the seat beside her and cast off. The boat bumped against the sides of the channel and swayed as he sat down. She gasped.

“Be careful or we’ll tip!” she squealed.

“Not a chance. This outfit’s safe. Besides, the water’s only three feet deep at most. You can’t get hurt here.”

Oh, can’t you?
Marco wiped his forehead and grimaced as the gondola edged towards the gulping black hole of the Tunnel of Love. He buried his face against her cheek and closed his eyes against the engulfing darkness.

“Gee, honey, isn’t it romantic?” Dolores whispered. “I bet you used to envy the fellows who took their girls through here, didn’t you? Or did you get girls and go through yourself?”

Marco wished she’d shut up. This kind of talk he didn’t like to hear.

“Did you ever take that girl you used to have in the ticket booth in here with you?” Dolores teased. “What was her name—Belle?”

“No,” said Marco.

“What did you say happened to her at the end of the season, darling?”

“She ran out on me.” Marco kept his head down, his eyes closed. They were in the tunnel now and he could smell the mustiness of it. It smelled like old perfume—stale, cheap perfume. He knew that smell. He pressed his face against Dolores’s cheek. She wore scent, but the other smell still came through.

“I never liked her,” Dolores was saying. “What kind of a girl was she, Marco? I mean, did you ever . . .”

“No—no!”

“Well, don’t snap at me like that! I’ve never seen you act like this before, Marco.”

“
Marco
.” The name echoed through the tunnel. It bounced off the ceiling, off the walls, off the cutout. It echoed and reechoed, and then it was taken up from far away in a different voice; a softer voice, gurgling through water.
Marco, Marco, Marco
, over and over again until he couldn’t stand it.

“Shut up!” yelled Marco.

“Why . . .”

“Not you, Dolores. Her.”

“Her? Are you nuts or something? There’s nobody but the two of us here in the dark, and . . .”

In the dark?
How could that be? The lights were on, he’d left them on. What was she talking about?

Marco opened his eyes. They
were
in the dark. The lights were out. Perhaps a fuse had blown. Perhaps a short circuit.

There was no time to think of possibilities. All Marco knew was the certainty; they were gliding down the dark throat of the tunnel in the dark, nearing the center, nearing the cutout. And the echo, the damned drowned echo, whispered, “
Marco
.”