The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks (18 page)

Josh Lanyon

On the second floor, he listened. Then he moved quietly. Pausing outside Center’s door, he heard only dead silence. Even odds that Center was downstairs in Jane Bridger’s apartment.

There was no light and no sound from Stein’s apartment.

The door to Watson’s room was marked with crime scene tape, but there was nothing to prevent Nick from using Perry’s keys to let himself inside.

Soundlessly, he closed the door behind him. His flashlight played over the empty apartment, spotlighting a half-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table next to an open sketchpad -- piercing eyes stared out of the planes and angles of a face that looked suspiciously like his own roughed out in pencil.

He moved to the bedroom. The white beam of the flashlight caught the sexy cartoons of women in exotic dress like a spotlight. The bedclothes were tumbled, the clock on the floor beside the bed. The closet door stood wide, and there was a crooked taped outline where Tiny’s body had sprawled as it tumbled from the closet.

Stepping over the taped outline, Nick ran his hands lightly over the back of the closet.

It seemed solid enough. He didn’t dare try tapping, despite the temptation to let Center think his buddies in the spirit world were dropping in to say hi. He put his shoulder against it and shoved.

The wall didn’t give exactly, but Nick sensed a certain hollowness behind the panel.

Kneeling, he felt along the bottom, and there seemed to be a sharp ridge at the joining of wall and floor. He turned the flashlight on the seam of the wall, following the line and then feeling behind the back shelf at the top of the closet. And there it was. A small spring latch. He pressed it, and the door swung in a few inches, revealing a black mouth of the entrance to what was most definitely a passageway between the rooms.

Nick ran the flashlight over open beams and rough-hewn floors disappearing into darkness.

He felt around, found one of Watson’s shoes and stepped into the passageway, stooping long enough to wedge it to keep the doorway from closing all the way shut.

He turned the flashlight ahead, and the back passage seemed to stretch endlessly.

The doorway swung shut with a little click. Nick glanced back. The shoe kept the door from closing all the way. A square of light fell across the wall, illuminating a grimy lantern.

Nick turned down the hall, and the square of light grew smaller and smaller behind him.

* * * * *

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For a few moments he lay there, blinking sleepily, trying to place himself in unfamiliar surroundings. He remembered that he was in Nick’s bed -- without Nick, unfortunately.

And something had wakened him.

There it was again. Perry sat up. He wasn’t dreaming. He wasn’t imagining that faint scratching sound. Mice in the woodwork? It was only too likely. The only cat in the house was Jane’s, and according to Jane, he’d never shown interest in anything that couldn’t be opened with a can opener.

There…not exactly a gnawing sound…but…something was moving behind the wall.

Something larger than a mouse. Larger than a cat. Something big…

Perry bolted from the bed and made for the living room.

In the murky light he could make out the blankets and pillow neatly folded on the end of the couch. There was no sign of Nick.

Bewildered and still half asleep, Perry tried to make sense of this. He recalled Nick going off to investigate on his own the night Perry had found the dead man in the bathtub.

He began to search for his keys. They were gone.

Perry swore. What the hell was the deal with Nick anyway? Would it kill him to ask for help -- or at least discuss his plans? For a practical guy, Reno wasn’t showing the best sense taking off without making sure he had some kind of backup.

That was probably because he didn’t think Perry was much use as backup, and maybe Perry wasn’t a Navy SEAL, but he knew enough to get help if Nick needed it.

And if Nick had been gone the entire night, there was a damn good chance he did need help.

He went back in the bedroom and dragged on his jeans, stepped into his sneakers, and exited Nick’s apartment, leaving the door unlocked just in case he didn’t have luck finding Nick.

When he was dressed, he went across the landing to his own tower room just in case Nick was over there, but the door to his apartment was locked -- which was doubly annoying. He couldn’t get into his own rooms if he wanted to.

Perry went quietly downstairs to the second level. The smell of baking wafted from David Center’s rooms, filling the musty hall with warm blueberry fragrance.

Hearing something from the main hall, he looked over the balcony in time to see Miss Dembecki letting herself out the front door, furtive and noiseless. He considered going after her, but the need to find Nick and make sure he was okay was stronger.

He continued quietly down the hallway and studied the imposing crisscross of yellow crime scene tape across Watson’s door. Somehow he just knew Nick would not find that forbidding web as intimidating he did.

He tried the handle.

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The door swung open.

Perry parted the bands of yellow tape and stepped inside. It was hard to see in the gloom -- the blinds drawn against the early morning -- and it smelled of the unfamiliar chemicals the crime-scene technicians had used.

“Nick?” he called softly.

There was no answer. He supposed he had not really expected one. Glancing around, he froze at the sight of his open sketchbook -- and the rough draft of Nick’s face. The deputies must have been looking through his stuff. Hopefully, Nick hadn’t seen that. He’d be more uncomfortable than he already was.

Perry made his way to the bedroom and snapped on the light, confident that with the blinds drawn no one would be able to tell he was inside the apartment. The closet door stood open.

Something was not right…

At first Perry thought the clothes pole had broken, but then he saw that this was an illusion of the crooked way the shadows fell from the compartment interior. The back wall seemed to be out of alignment.

Cautiously, one eye on the taped outline of where Tiny had died, he stepped inside the closet. Yes, the back wall of the closet was in fact a door. A pretty solid door at that. He felt the edge -- four inches thick and solid wood. Something was propping it open. His gaze fell on the shoe wedged between wall and door and his heart stopped.

Cheap brown leather with a hole in the sole. It was the shoe worn by the dead body in Perry’s bathtub.

His heart began to thud in tattoo of delighted thrill and alarm.

Just as he had thought -- well, suggested -- there was a secret passage in the house.

Perry pushed against the back panel, taking care not to dislodge the shoe propping it open. Facing what appeared to be a wall of darkness, he paused. He needed a flashlight.

He’d seen one somewhere in Watson’s apartment…

Perry ducked back out of the clothes that still smelled of Watson’s tobacco and aftershave and searched around until, on the far side of the bed, he finally located a heavy flashlight that looked like it meant business.

Steeling himself, he returned to the closet and pushed the opening wide, stooping long enough to wedge the shoe back into place. He switched on the flashlight.

Long cobwebs floated gently from open beams. Dust coated everything in gray velvet.

In fact, he could see a swarm of dusty footprints leading off into the pitch black.

Great. Cold, damp, and dust. The asthma triumvirate. He pulled out his hanky and covered his mouth. He patted the inhaler in his pocket reassuringly. He was okay. He could do this.

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Turning the flashlight down the long corridor, Perry began to follow the footsteps in the carpet of dust.

An occasional floorboard squeaked beneath his quiet steps. He was unhappily aware that he and Nick might not be the only people moving through the bowels of the mansion.

For sure he now knew how the body of the dead man in his bathtub had been transported away. Someone was using this network of tunnels and walkways as their own private transportation system.

What if Nick had run into that someone? Surely the fact that he had been gone all night was bad news.

As Perry walked he tried to pick out landmarks in case it was difficult to find his way back; it quickly became apparent the narrow tunnels wound through the house like a rabbit warren. How old were they? It seemed that some parts of the passageway were more finished than others indicating that some of the earliest sections might have been part of the original structure while later additions might have happened during the many extensions to the farmhouse -- or even at the time of the major renovations of Henry Alston. Certainly these tunnels would have been useful for Alston’s parties.

Generations of tunnels…who on the Alston Estate knew about them? Would Mrs.

Mac? She had been managing the boarding house for years now. Mr. Teagle was related to the current owners of the house. But did the current owners of the house know about these passageways? Surely when the last renovations had been done -- when the reapportioning of rooms for apartments had occurred, the builders would have noticed and mentioned these interior walkways and tunnels.

But if Mr. Teagle and Mrs. Mac knew about these passageways, they had certainly played dumb about them.

Abruptly Perry came to a dead end.

He turned the flashlight on the rough paneling. There it was. A small latch at the top of the door. He pressed it. The door swung backward nearly hitting him. He had a glimpse of a row of silk shirts and tweed jackets in military formation. David Center’s closet.

He had somehow managed to travel in a circle. Maybe this explained what Nick had been doing all night.

Perry pressed the latch, closing the door quickly again and started back the other way.

This time he paid closer attention to the direction he was moving, taking note as he passed the band of light that came from Watson’s bedroom, crossing through it and continuing to walk for maybe five minutes until he came to a wooden staircase. The passage had narrowed noticeably so that there was just room enough for the stairs leading sharply down into nothingness.

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He went down them carefully, counting -- fifty steps and then there was a bend and another narrow tunnel -- a flat stretch with a stone floor which he traveled quickly -- and then more steps leading to another open-beamed walkway like the one on the second floor.

It was much colder down here. He had the impression that he might be outside --

underground, perhaps. If he was still inside the house, he had no idea where he was, although he figured he could still find his way back to the house --

From a few yards ahead came the scrape of footsteps. He realized someone was coming toward him. His heart lifted, thinking it was Nick, but then some instinct held him still. He turned out his flashlight and listened.

Would Nick be walking so quickly and confidently?

The footsteps stopped, and Perry heard something…knocking. No…tapping. The

person ahead of him was testing the panels, seeking something. Another doorway? A hiding place?

Whatever it was, it gave Perry an opportunity to retreat. Whoever was using these tunnels had probably killed two people already to protect his secret.

As silently as he could, he felt his way, mentally retracing his steps. At this juncture he had made a right…so left now…

He crept along until the sound of tapping died away behind him. Coming to the stairs, he inched quietly up, one hand out to guide himself, one hand gripping the flashlight to use as a possible weapon if he had to.

Unexpectedly reaching the top of the steps, his groping hand touched cloth and then skin. Bright light blazed into his eyes, blinding him momentarily. He put an instinctive hand up, only to be grabbed and thrown back down the stairs.

But the staircase was so narrow that his sprawl of legs and arms worked to stop his headlong crash. Hearing the heavy thud of footsteps following his descent, Perry scrabbled over and half crawled, half fell the rest of the way down the stairs. Reaching the bottom, he jumped up and ran headlong down the passageway only to slam into another compact living form.

Perry cried out.

Hands fastened on his shoulders. “Perry! It’s me.”

Nick’s voice sliced through the panic, and Perry stopped struggling. It was Nick. Like the answer to a prayer. It was warmth and strength and safety and everything he’d ever wanted in human form.

Perry’s arms locked around the older man. “Nick.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

Something was the matter, that was for damn sure. Perry babbled a long string of muffled words into Nick’s shoulder.

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“What? What the hell are you doing down here?” After a hesitation, Nick folded his arms around Perry. “Shh.” His lips brushed Perry’s ear. It was a small, delicately shaped ear.

Reminding Nick of…what? Shells? Scroll work? And it was cold. The kid was shaking like a leaf -- and why the hell was he once again not wearing a jacket?

“He tried to kill me,” Perry said into his neck.

Nick stilled. “Who?”

“I didn’t see. I couldn’t tell. He shone his flashlight in my face and then shoved me down the stairs.”

Nick was processing fast, preparing for assault even as he said, “Jesus. Are you hurt?”

He ran quick hands over Perry’s trembling body.

Perry shook his head. “I dropped my flashlight. And my handkerchief.”

“Your --” Nick let that go. Perry was walking and conscious, so he was probably okay.

Just shaken up. Nick was shaken too -- and furious. The thought of that murdering bastard coming after Perry made him want to kill.

He said crisply, “If you’re not injured, then pull yourself together.” But briefly he gave into temptation and rested his cheek against the soft, spiky hair, before letting Perry go, moving away, drawing his gun. “Stay behind me.”