The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(68)

“Look in what?”

“A secret hiding place in the shelter that we used when we were kids. I bet you didn’t know it was there.”

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

“I didn’t think so.”

The steel door has a serious padlock on it. I take the bolt cutters from Baxter and work the magic myself. The thing snaps off easily enough. I drop the cutters in the grass and open the squeaky, heavy door.

“Is there still electricity here?” I ask.

“Don’t know.”

I glance at Baxter’s cane and legs. “I don’t expect you to navigate the steps. I’ll go down myself.” I find the old light switch, but nothing happens when I flip it. Unfortunately, the shelter is dark and dank, and it smells of mildew and who knows what else. The walls are still black. It will be impossible to see anything in here.

“No lights!” I call up the stairs.

“I have a flashlight in the truck. Be back in a sec.”

The sunlight streaming in from the open door illuminates the immediate area around me. Cobwebs cover much of the space. The partition separating the shelter from the toilet is still behind the stairs. I’m dying to peer behind it, but I figure I won’t be seeing anything without the flashlight.

“Here you go!” His head appears above. We make eye contact and he drops the torch. I catch it—it’s the heavy-duty kind that police use. I flick it on and shine it over the main room. It has been completely cleared of any furniture and wall decorations. Eddie’s artwork is gone. The pentagram on the floor, however, is still there, albeit worn and faint. It’s a creepy, haunted place now, even in the daytime.

I move around the partition. The toilet has been damaged. The seat is missing and the cracked top looks as if someone had smashed it with a sledgehammer. The floor is dusty, and cobwebs cover the space behind the commode. I grimace as I use the flashlight to sweep away enough of the webs so that I can kneel and touch the concrete floor. I don’t see any giant spiders or cockroaches, thank goodness.

Holding the light in my lap, I feel around where I remember the sides of the slab are located. The grime is thick and it takes some doing. I wish I’d brought some gloves. Eventually, I discern the demarcations in the surface and recall that it was often difficult for me to lift the cover.

“You all right down there?”

“Yes! I found the spot. Now, if I can just get it open!”

“Do you need help?”

“I’ll let you know!”

I tug, push, press, and scratch, getting nowhere. Will I need a chisel? A lever of some kind? Another minute ticks by as I work at it.

“Shelby?”

“I’m still trying!” I hear his footsteps on the stairs. “You don’t need to come down, Jim.”

“It’s all right, I won’t break my neck. What the heck are you doing?” He peeks around the partition and finds me on my knees.

“I’ve almost got it—” And then, it gives. I manage to lift a side high enough for me to use the friction of my fingertips. Once I get it to where I can grasp it from underneath, it’s cake.

I lift the slab and shove it to the side, revealing the square hole in the ground.

A faded envelope sits atop a dark cloth. Written on it, in Eddie’s familiar block-letter printing, in pencil, are the words TO SHELBY TRUMAN.

“Oh my God.”

“Don’t touch it!” Baxter says. “Wait.” He pulls out a cell phone and takes a photo. “Okay, go ahead.”

I lift the envelope. It’s sealed.

“Should I open it?”

“Go ahead.” He takes another photo as I do so.

It’s a letter, again scribbled in block, printed letters. I start to read it, but my eyes jump to the cloth. It’s dark blue. Blue. It’s a bundle. The cloth is wrapped around something.

“Oh shit. Oh Christ.”

It’s Michael’s baby blanket.

I carefully lift the thing out of the hole. Light as a feather.

“What is it?” Baxter asks.

“My baby brother’s blanket.”

He snaps another photo.

I slowly unwrap it.

My scream echoes off the walls of that dank, dark portal to hell.

Inside the blanket are the skeletal remains of an infant.





29



AUGUST 14, 1966

DEAR SHELBY— I AM GONE AWAY. MY DAD IS SENDING ME TO A PRISON HOSPITL PLACE. I DONT KNOW IF I WILL SEE YOU AGAIN. IN CASE HE FINDS THIS OR IF POLICE FIND THIS, I HOPE YOU GET THIS LETTER. IT WILL BE HERE TIL SOMEBODY FINDS IT.

I CAME OVER YOUR HOUSE ON JULY 4 TO SEE IF YOU WANT TO WATCH FIREWORKS WITH ME IN THE PARK. YOU WERE IN YOUR BAKYARD WITH YUR MOM AND DAD. I HEARD BABY CRY. I WENT TO HIS ROOM AND PICKED HIM UP. I TRYED THAT BOUNCE YOU SHOWD ME. I THINK I DID IT TOO HARD. HE STOPED CRYING. I DIDNT MEAN TO HURT HIM. I GOT SCARED. REAL SCARED. I THOUGHT I HAD TO HIDE HIM. I PUT HIM IN DAVY JONES LOCKER. I DIDNT KNOW WHAT TO DO. YOUR MOM WOULD KILL ME. MY DAD WOULD KILL ME.

SO I BLAMED MR. ALPINE. I PUT YUR BROTHERS RATL AND PICTUR IN MR. ALPINES BEDROOM. I DID IT BECAUSE HE DID BAD THINGS TO ME. AT FIRST I DIDNT KNOW THEY WERE BAD. MAYBE SOMEDAY YOU WILL FIND OUT WHAT HE DID. IM SORRY. SO FAR NO ONE KNOWS ABOUT YUR BROTHER. IT WAS A ACSIDENT. IM NO GOOD. I LOVE YOU BUT NOW I AM A BAD PERSON. DAD SAYS IM CORUPTED. I HOPE YOU CAN FORGIV ME.