Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(102)

I couldn’t argue, and I had no intention of trying. “Then let’s be swiftly on our way. There’s nothing for us here.”

She didn’t turn around, and didn’t really seem to hear me. “If everything happens underground, there must be an entrance somewhere. More likely, there are entrances in a number of places—secret ones, for the sake of safety and access. We must keep our eyes and ears peeled for trapdoors, stairs, or any spot where the floor sounds hollow.”

“You make these men sound like groundhogs, or chipmunks.”

“Evil ones.” She made a small grunt, like she’d prefer to giggle—but not here, and not now. She cleared her throat instead. “It’s only logical, wouldn’t you say? They must come and go. They must have taken Ruth someplace. Don’t believe in the ghosts, if that’s your preference; but believe your own eyes. This place is abandoned. She’s someplace else, and my money says it’s somewhere below us.”

The smell was wafting up my nose, into my mouth, and back against my throat as I breathed. I could taste the dank, putrid air, and it made me want to lose my supper. (Terrible waste though that would have been.) I coughed a little and said, “Over there, that’s a choir loft, of a sort.”

“We want to go down, not up.”

“I know, but do you see the staircase?” A corkscrew spiral against the wall, partially hidden by a heavy curtain of indeterminate color. “It might go down to parts unseen, as well as up.”

She ushered herself toward it, and I followed along behind her; there was no way to walk side by side anymore, not in this maze of lengthy and discarded benches and books. I kicked one of those books, and it was nothing more thrilling than a Holy Bible. Even when I opened it with my toe, no hollowed-out space revealed treasure or trap. Another book nearby turned out to be a tome about the True Americans, and yet a third was an ordinary hymnal. All were kept around for the sake of appearances, I guessed—but it was clear that no one cared about those appearances anymore.

That fact worried me almost as much as the awful, familiar odor. The congregation was finished with the pretense, which meant these deranged, villainous people were very, very near to their end goal. Whatever that might be.

“Good God, Simon! That was one hell of a guess—”

“Was it?” I joined her at the staircase. It did indeed vanish into a slot in the ceiling, but it likewise disappeared down into the floor, where a circle had been cut to accommodate it. “No, I don’t think so. You’re the one who suggested keeping an eye out for stairs.”

“This wasn’t what I had in mind, but”—she knelt beside the hole and cautiously lowered the lantern—“it might be what we’re looking for, regardless. See, over here.” Lizbeth pointed with her free hand. “No footsteps, no dust recently disturbed on the upward steps—but heading down, there are plenty of shoe prints. They’re coming from . . .” She looked over her shoulder, and brought the lantern around to help her see. “Coming from that way. If we had nothing but time, I’d say we should backtrack and see what we can find; but given the circumstances, we’d better skip that side path of an investigation and head directly down.”

She rose to her feet and dusted her knees.

I held out my hand, gesturing for the light she held. “This time, I’ll take the lantern. And the lead.”

“Oh, will you, now?”

“Yes, I will. I’m much larger, and these stairs don’t look particularly sturdy. But if they’ll hold me, they’ll hold you. Besides, I’m a consummate gentleman with a gun. In case you were unaware.”

She smiled at me, and it made me sad for reasons I’d be hard-pressed to explain. It wasn’t a happy smile, but it was a fond and polite one. “Very well, as you prefer. Take the light, and lead the way. You’re the one with a gun, after all.”

“Right. I’m the one with a gun.” Chapelwood had me rattled, that’s all I can say to excuse myself. The whole place was off-kilter in every way, and it was giving me a headache—like staring too long in a fun-house mirror and trying to make sense of your reflection. The smell, the angles, the silence, the darkness. Neither church nor temple, nor shrine nor memorial. Neither human, nor divine. It was something in the middle, and the middle was a horror.

What an awful place for Ruth to be, alone and afraid, captured by the very men she feared the most.

I took the lantern in my left hand. I retrieved my gun and brandished it with my right—though this left me with no stray hands to hold the rail for balance. It would have to suffice. I was descending into hades ahead of my time, but I would do it on no man’s terms except my own . . . even if those terms were ridiculous, and I was a ridiculous coward, even with a gun and a light. Well, show me the man who does not cower in that place—and I’ll show you a monster who has found his way home.

I steeled myself. I paid close attention to the spiral of wood-plank steps below me. One foot at a time . . . down . . . down . . . down . . .

With an unarmed woman behind me, and horror ahead of me.

So help me God.

Or whoever.





Lizbeth Andrew (Borden)




OCTOBER 4, 1921


I crept down the stairs behind Simon, treading carefully out of atmospheric suggestion rather than necessity. He was more graceful than one would expect a big man to be, but the steps creaked and shook beneath our feet, loudly enough to announce us to anyone near enough to spy us.