All the Dark Places(48)

*

Chase has found a couple of cans of ginger ale somewhere, and Mrs. Bradley and Alice sit tucked up together on the couch, sodas in their hands, when I enter the living room. He looks up at me, as if to ask, What do we do now?

“Mrs. Bradley,” I say, “we’d like to take a look at the basement.”

Her bottom lip trembles. “Okay.”

“The door would be?”

She points back toward the mudroom.

“Will you two be okay here if Detective Fuller joins me?”

She nods.

“You won’t go anywhere?”

“ No.”

I flip a switch just inside the basement door, and dim light illuminates a wooden staircase. The air is icy as we descend. The walls are stone, and the age of the house is readily apparent as we make our way down.

“Creepy place,” Chase says as we hit bottom. The floor is also made of stone, which is slick with condensation. There are a few small windows at the tops of the walls, and snow blocks them halfway up. Cobwebs hang from every corner, and what looks like old farm equipment, rusting and covered with dust, is pushed against the wall. “Doesn’t look like anyone comes down here much,” Chase says, wiping his hand on his jacket.

We walk forward, and I thumb on my flashlight. The smell of dirt and decay hangs in the air. But there’s something else, something pungent that becomes more fetid as we move deeper into the basement.

I pivot and shine my light back toward the stairs. “Nothing much at this end except the furnace and water heater.” And they’re close by the stairs. No need for anyone to access the rest of the place, I guess. I turn back toward the far end of the basement, and there’s light coming from somewhere ahead. Chase and I walk on and discover a door with a small window in it, the source of the light. I open the door, and we’re standing at the beginning of what looks like a long stone hallway with an arched ceiling. The floor dips and slopes down. Double metal doors are at the end.

“This is strange,” I say.

Chase is behind me. “Look at this, Rita.”

I turn and run my flashlight over a wooden table. Tools and knives hang neatly on a pegboard on the wall over it. There’s a hammer sitting on the edge of the table, as though someone forgot to put it away. There’s a sink next to the table, gray with age, stained with dark smudges, and there’s a drain in the floor nearby.

Chase coughs and staggers back. “I think this is where the hunters brought their game.” He holds his hand over his mouth and mumbles. “My grandfather used to hunt. We had to have venison or rabbit whenever we visited him. He had a friend who processed meat, and he took me to the guy’s place once. That’s why I’m such a wuss around blood. I was eight. The smell made me sick, and I puked up my lunch.”

Goose bumps rise on my arms. There’s something on the floor next to the table. A spilled box of nails. “Looks like Dr. Bradley might’ve dropped the nails when he finished with the window. Wonder why he left them all over the floor?” I get down on my hands and knees and wave the flashlight beam under the table. “Look at this, Chase.”

He crouches beside me. “Is that blood?”

“Looks like it to me.”

“Maybe it’s from animals.”

“Maybe.” I sit back on my haunches and rub the back of my neck, thinking. “But what if Dr. Bradley bent down to pick up the nails and saw something that made him forget all about putting away his tools or cleaning up the glass in the attic.”

“He would’ve needed a flashlight to look under the table to see the blood, Rita. Why would he have bothered when the nails were in plain sight?”

“Maybe he didn’t see the blood. Maybe he saw something else.”

“The necklace?”

“Could be. Then he saw the initials and put two and two together.” I take a deep breath. “Let’s see where those doors go.”

The metal doors are rusted, and the windows are covered in grime. But when I try the lock, it gives way easily enough. The light and air feel fresh as I step out into the snow. We’re a stone’s throw from the river here, and across a small bridge lies the blue tent.

*

The forensics team has sent a couple of people to check out the basement, and Chase and I return to the living room.

Mrs. Bradley looks toward us when she hears us approach. “Is it her? The missing woman?”

“We can’t say until the body’s positively identified.”

Mrs. Bradley nods, her mouth clenched like a child who’s trying not to cry. “Why would someone bury her here? The killer must’ve passed the house and dropped the necklace. I bet Jay found it in the yard.”

“Could be.”

She jumps up from the couch and starts pacing, holding her arms across her chest. “I don’t know how this could’ve happened, Detective, so close. We didn’t hear a thing. They’re sure she disappeared the night of the Fourth?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Bradley is shaking, and her nose is running, which she doesn’t seem to notice. She’s got that wild-eyed look that sometimes precedes hysteria. She stops walking and stands still as a pointer.

“Is the media here?” she asks.

“I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway, but I expect some will be here soon. At least from Manchester, to start.”