The sour cherry surprise

The second screw came away easier. With an outstretched hand Mitch was now able to push the left side of the cover inward by a couple of inches, immediately releasing the moldy smell of the root cellar within. He went to work on the third screw, wedging the Baby Terrier into the punky frame, patiently prying the vent cover from it. And now the third screw came away and he was clutching the inch-thick plywood cover in both hands, working it back and forth until the final screw gave way and the cover came free. He turned it on its side and pulled it out through the vent opening, laying it on the ground next to him. Then he took the light from Molly and shined it downward at what appeared to be a four-foot drop to the cellar’s dirt floor.

Briefly, Mitch thought he heard a faint moan coming from in there somewhere. But it was raining so hard on the decking overhead that he couldn’t be sure. He put the Maglite in his mouth and plunged headfirst through the open vent. His head and shoulders made it easily. His hips and butt, well, not so much. He had to do some serious wriggling. Got himself snagged on the splintered wood, but Molly freed him. And he just did manage to squeeze through the opening, thankful for every single ounce he’d taken off.

The only trouble now was that he found himself teetering there on the vent frame. The top half of his body hanging in midair while his legs still flailed around out in the mud with Molly-who decided on her own that what he needed more than anything else was a good, firm shove. So she gave him one.

And that was when Mitch fell in.

CHAPTER 15

Am I tripping?

That was Des’s first thought. She was just plain imagining it. Had to be. She’d taken a big-time blow to the head. Wasn’t totally with it. Was maybe even drifting in and out of consciousness. She had to expect this sort of thing to happen, didn’t she?

Then came her second thought: Her ears were simply doing a number on her. Trussed up like she was in total darkness. Rumbles of thunder shaking the ground. That damned rag stuffed in her mouth. Little Molly very likely lying dead right there next to her. Her senses were spooked. Human nature to hear things that weren’t really there.

So why am I still hearing it?

Actually, Des wasn’t sure what she was hearing. Some kind of steady, determined little scratching noises. They seemed to be coming from somewhere down there in the root cellar with her. Could they be

…? Of course, mice were skittering their way along the foundation. She was hearing their little claws on the stones, that’s it. Harmless little field mice. Not to worry. Unless, that is, they were rats. Please, God, please don’t let them be rats. This is my final night on earth. I don’t want the last thing I remember before I die to be rats all over me, gnawing on my nose and my lips and my…

Wait, now she heard a whole new sound. And it had zilch to do with rodents. This one was the sound a rusty nail makes when you’re yanking it from a board with a claw hammer. Suddenly, Des was blinded by a shaft of light. Her eyes blinking and watering as they adjusted ever so slowly to it. It wasn’t even a bright light, really. Just the dim light of the night slanting across a narrow section of the dirt floor. She heard more noises, quicker and bolder. And now somebody yanked open one of the air vents, flooding the entire root cellar with half-light. Des could hear the sound of the rain coming down outside. She could even smell it as her eyes flicked wildly about, searching and searching.

She was alone down there. No sign of Molly anywhere in the small, bare, root cellar. Or anything else. If the meth was stashed down there they must have buried it.

Now a flashlight beam was pointing straight downward to the dirt floor. Gauging the distance maybe. She let out a moan, gasping as someone began to wriggle headfirst through the narrow open vent. Some fearless SWAT cowboy with more cojones than brains. Some daring, wonderful fool who placed no value on his own life. She wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out to be Grisky. His operation. And his kind of grandstand play. No matter. If that bastard got her out here alive she’d kiss him. Hell, she’d do him. It would only take a minute and half of her time, after all. Yeah, it had to be Grisky. Only someone with his amount of advanced training could pull off a rescue operation like this with Clay and Hector right there above her in the house. The man must have been a Navy Seal before he joined the bureau. He was incredibly gutty and silent and sure as he made it through that opening, readying himself to drop soundlessly down to the dirt floor and…

And he landed with a thud.

Seriously, the man fell like a great big sack of potatoes. An “Oof” of air came out of him when he touched down. Des drew in her own breath, hearing rapid footsteps on the kitchen floorboards overhead. Had they heard him? Were they going to open the trapdoor and check on her?

No, please no…