Lies That Bind Us(43)

We did get soaked. At first it was just a few fat, oily raindrops, but the heavens opened before we could get all the food inside, and we went from a clear, if overcast, evening to a full-on storm in under three minutes. The rain washed away the lingering strangeness, pulling us together as we laughed at our saturated summer clothes and marveled as lightning flickered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the living room. Our rediscovered happiness and exhilaration even survived the blackout.

We had been directly under the storm for maybe twenty minutes when the lights went out. The sky was just bright enough to see the way the trees bent in the wind, but the last glow of the sun was fading fast and the storm was, if anything, intensifying, rain lashing the windows so that great sheets of water ran down with each gust. The silence was almost as alarming as the darkness. Melissa had been shuffling through her nineties alt-rock playlist through the speakers wired to the villa’s expensive, if old-fashioned, hi-fi, and when the sound (Blink 182’s “I Miss You”) died abruptly, taking with it the soft drone of appliances that you barely noticed, I actually gasped.

“Damn,” said Simon. “Hold on. Let me check the breakers.”

The box was in a wall closet at the foot of the stairs to the tower, and he made his way there while the rest of us sat in expectant silence.

“Ooo,” said Gretchen. “Spooky.”

We heard movement from the kitchen, then the snap of switches.

“Anything?” called Simon.

A chorus of nos.

“No worries,” Simon proclaimed. “We are prepared for all eventualities. Brad, you wanna help me with the generator? There’s a flashlight in the cabinet under the kitchen sink.”

“Because of my experience as a professional mechanic, you mean?” said Brad. “What the hell do I know about generators?”

“I’ll come,” I said.

Even in the gloom and with my dreadful vision, I registered Simon’s hesitation.

“I know a bit about generators,” I said. “The store carries them.”

I was glad it was dark because even though I spoke with a hint of defiance, it felt like a confession. I was reminding everyone that while they worked with their brains, their talents, while they had money and glamour or a sense of purpose, I checked invoices and filled shelves and reported Joey Mansetti to HR for missing his shift, and was in bed by six in the evening.

“OK,” said Simon. “Though all I really need is for you to hold the flashlight while I pour the gas.”

“I’ll stay here and protect the womenfolk,” said Brad.

“My hero,” said Kristen beside him.

“Be quick, there’s a love,” said Melissa. “Sitting in the dark is going to get pretty fucking tedious fast.”

Simon made a noise that might have been a sigh and might just have been a breath. I felt my way into the kitchen, located the sink, and dropped to the cupboard beneath it. My eyes, already bad, were exponentially worse in the gloom, but my hands found the heavy rubberized barrel of the flashlight. I snapped it on, a good bluish brightness that made the shadows around me leap.

“This way,” said Simon, reaching for it.

I gave it to him and followed close as he led me round to the tower steps at the end of the open foyer.

“There’s a stairwell down here,” said Simon, opening a door I had assumed was a cloakroom or closet on the wall opposite the tapestry hanging. It looked like it should lead to a tasteful little half bath, but inside was only a cramped hallway with a stone floor and a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling. It was dingy inside, and the corridor was less than ten feet long, ending in a much heavier and unfinished wooden door that gave the impression of having been there a very long time. It was barred with iron, and its joints were reinforced with large square-headed nails, black with age.

Simon gave the flashlight back to me and worked the bolts free while I guided its beam, and then he shouldered the door open. Behind it was a spiral staircase down into darkness, the steps a mixture of old stone and concrete. A heavy rope running through rings set into the walls provided a handrail. The stairwell smelled old and musty. I wouldn’t have liked it even in daylight.

“This is the less classy part of the house,” said Simon.

“No kidding,” I said, trying to mute my unease.

“It’s OK,” he said. “There’s some pretty extensive cellarage for a house this size, but the genny is just round this corner.”

He led the way down a dozen steps that turned slowly like a corkscrew into the ground. At the foot of the stairs, before you entered the room proper, was the scuba gear, the air and oxygen tanks carefully stacked, the masks and fins hanging from hooks on the wall.

“Through here,” said Simon.

We emerged in a low-ceilinged chamber piled with old crates, gardening implements, and rusty tools. Coiled around a stand of ancient mattocks and shovels was a bright new garden hose, green and glinting like a python. It was the only thing down there that looked less than half a century old. I played the flashlight around the room, which was maybe fifteen feet square, the walls and floor stone and draped with cobweb. At one end were five or six steps down to a metal-framed door made of heavy wire mesh, like a cage.

“What’s through there?” I asked.

“Unused storage rooms,” said Simon. “Cellars. The place was closer to a castle than a house, once upon a time.”