Fred switched on the miner’s light that was on his hat. Damn glad he had it on there. Well, it was always on his head except when he was sleeping. You just never knew when you might need a light and right now he sure needed one. This tunnel was black as old Coty’s ….well it was black alright. He took a few tentative steps forward. The tunnel was dark, and damp, and musty. He would have bet there were lots of spiders and centipedes and Lord only knew what. It was hard to believe that just a foot above his head the sun was shining very brightly, because down here it was another world. Well, this was no place to wishy wash about something. Just do it. Sooner you do it the sooner it was done. And Fred, although every fiber of his being wanted to turn and run out into the bright sunlight, pointed his lantern forward and walked determinedly behind it. Something was not right and by God in Heaven, Fred Himes was going to find out what it was and for once in his life, set it right.
He was amazed at how quickly he arrived at the back entrance to the house. Sure seemed a lot further when he was digging the silly thing. He pressed his ear to the door and listened. Not a sound. He knew the man was gone, but still the cabin was deathly quiet. Very slowly he eased the door inward. Nothing. Not even a drippy faucet. Absolute silence. Now the door was completely open. He looked around at the kichen. Not a dish out of place. The towel hung on the oven door handle. The clock hand moved jerkily around. Fred stepped in the kitchen and closed the tunnel door behind himself. He moved stealthily across the kitchen to the bathroom. Empty. Living room. Undisturbed and empty. There had to be a woman here somewhere. He had seen the man bring her inside. He very slowly opened the bedroom door and peered inside. No one.
Fred stared in consternation at his face in the mirror. Where was she? He canvassed the house once more and then his eyes fell on the door beside the door he had come through. The root cellar! That had to be the root cellar. After he had dug the tunnel the man had altered it and instead of coming up the tunnel to the root cellar, he had come up the tunnel to the back door. Why had he changed that? Fred reached for the door and froze. How many times had he pictured his father doing this exact same thing? Only when he pictured his father he also pictured his mother. His dear dead mother being placed in the wall of the root cellar by his father. How many times had he gone to the root cellar to get beets, or potatoes, or onions. How many times when the tornado sirens were screaming had he and his father gone to the root cellar knowing that was the one place the tornado could not touch.
And not even once had he even thought about what might be in the wall of the root cellar. Never once had he dreamt that his dear sainted mother was sleeping her death sleep just a few feet from him and his father. His father knew. He knew all along and never said a word. When Fred had wished his mother would come back to them and voiced that desire to his father, his father had only said, “Quit dreaming, Freddie, if she was coming back she never would have left.” Fred often wondered what had happened the night she died. Or was it day? He never even remembered them ever fighting. Just mom looking sad and dad reading the paper. They never talked. How could his father have ever worked up enough emotion to kill his mother. His father and mother were both unemotional people.
He stared at the door. He was going to have to open it and see what was behind it. Slowly he grasped the knob and turned it. Well, not turning. Locked. Locked! That meant the woman, probably Meg Paker was behind that door and she was locked in there. If she was locked in there she was not a willing participant that was clear. He scoured the door frame for a key. None. The man must have the key. Think! Think! He remembered back to when he dug the tunnel. At that time it had been through the root cellar. Now it was not. He jerked the tunnel door open, took a few steps and reached his hand out and felt the wall. A little further down. More. There! The dirt was soft. The man had removed the dirt over there, placing it over here. By doing that he had altered the location of the tunnel. Not much, but enough so the root cellar could now be used as a prison for someone. Or a place to bury her. Maybe she was dead.
With a furor he never knew he had Fred unsnapped the folding shovel that hung from his waist and began to dig frantically in the soft dirt. Very soon he had a hole through and could see inside the root cellar. All he could see was another wall, but he would be in the room very soon. And like a man fighting for his very life, he continued to throw dirt over his shoulder until at last the hole was big enough for him to slide through. As he stood up and looked around he saw her clearly. Meg Paker lay on a small cot with a soft cloth on her shoulder. Chloroform! He moved the cloth, but Meg did not stir.
Fred was unsure of anything at that moment. As he gazed down at the sleeping woman something stirred in his soul. Something very far back in the deep recesses of his mind fluttered and made him feel wanted. Something made him feel warm. He touched her cheek tentatively, then smiled. Funny, he did not remember smiling in a very long time, but now it felt rather natural. He knew what he had to do and as he reached for the woman he felt like he had just come home from a very long and bitter war.
Meg Paker. Darling.
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He was amazed at how quickly he arrived at the back entrance to the house. Sure seemed a lot further when he was digging the silly thing. He pressed his ear to the door and listened. Not a sound. He knew the man was gone, but still the cabin was deathly quiet. Very slowly he eased the door inward. Nothing. Not even a drippy faucet. Absolute silence. Now the door was completely open. He looked around at the kichen. Not a dish out of place. The towel hung on the oven door handle. The clock hand moved jerkily around. Fred stepped in the kitchen and closed the tunnel door behind himself. He moved stealthily across the kitchen to the bathroom. Empty. Living room. Undisturbed and empty. There had to be a woman here somewhere. He had seen the man bring her inside. He very slowly opened the bedroom door and peered inside. No one.
Fred stared in consternation at his face in the mirror. Where was she? He canvassed the house once more and then his eyes fell on the door beside the door he had come through. The root cellar! That had to be the root cellar. After he had dug the tunnel the man had altered it and instead of coming up the tunnel to the root cellar, he had come up the tunnel to the back door. Why had he changed that? Fred reached for the door and froze. How many times had he pictured his father doing this exact same thing? Only when he pictured his father he also pictured his mother. His dear dead mother being placed in the wall of the root cellar by his father. How many times had he gone to the root cellar to get beets, or potatoes, or onions. How many times when the tornado sirens were screaming had he and his father gone to the root cellar knowing that was the one place the tornado could not touch.
And not even once had he even thought about what might be in the wall of the root cellar. Never once had he dreamt that his dear sainted mother was sleeping her death sleep just a few feet from him and his father. His father knew. He knew all along and never said a word. When Fred had wished his mother would come back to them and voiced that desire to his father, his father had only said, “Quit dreaming, Freddie, if she was coming back she never would have left.” Fred often wondered what had happened the night she died. Or was it day? He never even remembered them ever fighting. Just mom looking sad and dad reading the paper. They never talked. How could his father have ever worked up enough emotion to kill his mother. His father and mother were both unemotional people.
He stared at the door. He was going to have to open it and see what was behind it. Slowly he grasped the knob and turned it. Well, not turning. Locked. Locked! That meant the woman, probably Meg Paker was behind that door and she was locked in there. If she was locked in there she was not a willing participant that was clear. He scoured the door frame for a key. None. The man must have the key. Think! Think! He remembered back to when he dug the tunnel. At that time it had been through the root cellar. Now it was not. He jerked the tunnel door open, took a few steps and reached his hand out and felt the wall. A little further down. More. There! The dirt was soft. The man had removed the dirt over there, placing it over here. By doing that he had altered the location of the tunnel. Not much, but enough so the root cellar could now be used as a prison for someone. Or a place to bury her. Maybe she was dead.
With a furor he never knew he had Fred unsnapped the folding shovel that hung from his waist and began to dig frantically in the soft dirt. Very soon he had a hole through and could see inside the root cellar. All he could see was another wall, but he would be in the room very soon. And like a man fighting for his very life, he continued to throw dirt over his shoulder until at last the hole was big enough for him to slide through. As he stood up and looked around he saw her clearly. Meg Paker lay on a small cot with a soft cloth on her shoulder. Chloroform! He moved the cloth, but Meg did not stir.
Fred was unsure of anything at that moment. As he gazed down at the sleeping woman something stirred in his soul. Something very far back in the deep recesses of his mind fluttered and made him feel wanted. Something made him feel warm. He touched her cheek tentatively, then smiled. Funny, he did not remember smiling in a very long time, but now it felt rather natural. He knew what he had to do and as he reached for the woman he felt like he had just come home from a very long and bitter war.
Meg Paker. Darling.
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