Chapter 7 - Lower Room B)
Behind the pantry shelves was a narrow wooden panel secured by two sliding bolts.
Mark showed Ruiz where to press.
A section of shelving released with a groan.
Cold air rushed out.
Stone steps descended into darkness.
Deputy Harris remained upstairs with David.
Ruiz ordered Claire to stay with Margaret.
Claire obeyed for approximately forty seconds.
Then Ruiz shouted from below.
"Medical help!"
Claire looked at Margaret.
"Stay here."
Margaret nodded.
Claire grabbed her emergency bag and descended.
The basement smelled of damp concrete, rust, and old paper.
Ruiz's flashlight cut across shelves stacked with boxes.
At the far end stood a steel door.
Mark was trying to unlock it with trembling hands.
"The lock was changed."
Ruiz looked at him.
"By whom?"
"David."
"When?"
"Three months ago."
Claire felt sick.
Paul had not merely returned today.
Someone had known this room might be needed.
Mark tried another key.
Nothing.
Ruiz looked at Claire.
"The brass one."
Claire had handed it to Ruiz upstairs.
The detective inserted it.
The lock turned.
The steel door opened.
Inside, a man lay against the wall.
He was thin, gray-haired, and filthy.
His wrists were bound in front of him with plastic ties.
Margaret's youngest son was not nineteen anymore.
He was forty-six.
But Claire recognized his eyes immediately from the photograph.
Paul looked up.
"Mom?"
Claire knelt beside him.
"She's upstairs."
His eyes closed in relief.
"Alive?"
"Yes."
Claire checked his pulse.
Rapid.
Dehydrated.
Bruising around his temple.
"How long have you been here?"
"Two days."
Mark whispered, "Jesus."
Paul opened his eyes.
Then his expression changed.
"Why is he here?"
Mark stopped.
Ruiz stepped between them.
"Paul, I'm Detective Ruiz. You're safe."
Paul laughed weakly.
"No one is safe while David can still talk."
"David is restrained upstairs."
"That never stopped him before."
Claire cut the plastic ties.
Paul rubbed his wrists.
Ruiz scanned the room.
Metal shelves filled the walls.
Several boxes bore handwritten dates from the 1980s and 1990s.
A tape recorder sat on a desk.
A locked cabinet occupied the corner.
Claire saw something else.
A camp bed.
Blankets.
Bottled water.
Food.
"This room has been used recently."
Paul nodded.
"I've been staying here."
Mark stared at him.
"For how long?"
"Six weeks."
Mark's face drained.
"Why?"
"Because I knew you'd eventually come looking."
Ruiz said, "Start from the beginning."
Paul smiled weakly.
"There isn't time."
"Why?"
"David knows what's in the cabinet."
Ruiz looked toward the locked metal cabinet.
"The key?"
Paul shook his head.
"Different key."
"Where is it?"
"Mom has it."
Claire frowned.
"The brass key opened this room."
"That's Arthur's first key."
"Then what's the second?"
Paul looked at Mark.
"You know."
Mark backed away.
"No."
"You carried it upstairs the night Dad died."
"I was seventeen."
"You remember."
"I don't."
"Yes, you do."
Mark's eyes filled with tears.
Ruiz said sharply, "What key?"
Paul answered.
"Small silver key. Blue plastic tag."
Claire remembered something from Margaret's bedroom.
An old jewelry box.
Empty.
"Margaret said her jewelry box had been cleared."
Paul nodded.
"She kept the second key beneath the velvet lining."
Mark whispered, "David found it."
"When?"
"Yesterday."
Paul closed his eyes.
"Then we're too late."
Ruiz said, "Too late for what?"
Paul pointed at the cabinet.
"The original admission ledger."
Claire stared.
"Arthur's hospital record?"
"And everything else."
"What else?"
Paul looked at Mark.
"Tell her."
Mark sat on the edge of the desk.
His hands shook.
"Arthur had been gathering proof."
"Of David stealing?"
"More than that."
Paul laughed bitterly.
"Say it."
Mark covered his face.
"David was poisoning Dad."
The basement seemed to shrink.
Claire looked at Paul.
"With digoxin?"
"Small amounts at first."
"How do you know?"
"Dad knew."
"Why didn't he go to police?"
"He was trying to prove who was doing it."
Ruiz stepped closer.
"And you helped him?"
Paul nodded.
"Dad suspected David had swapped tablets. We sent samples to a private lab."
"Results?"
"In the cabinet."
Mark whispered, "David found out."
Paul looked at him.
"Because you told him."
Mark's head lifted.
"I didn't know what he'd do."
"You always knew."
"I was scared."
"So was I."
Paul's voice broke.
"But I didn't help him kill Dad."
Mark stood.
"I didn't kill anyone."
"No?"
Paul pulled up his shirt.
A long scar crossed his abdomen.
"Remember this?"
Claire stared.
Mark turned away.
Paul continued.
"David stabbed me the night Dad died."
Ruiz's eyes narrowed.
"You were stabbed?"
"In the basement."
"By David?"
"Yes."
"And Mark?"
Paul stared at his brother.
"Mark helped carry me out."
Mark began crying.
"I thought you were dead."
Paul said softly, "You hoped I was."
"No."
"You put me in the ground."
Claire remembered Mark's words.
David buried him once.
Ruiz said, "Where?"
"Old factory."
Mark whispered, "The drainage trench."
Paul nodded.
"Except I woke up."
Claire stared at him.
"You escaped a grave?"
"It wasn't deep yet. They were interrupted by a security truck."
Ruiz asked, "Why didn't you go to police?"
"I did."
"What happened?"
"I reached the road. A truck driver found me. I spent six weeks in a hospital under another name."
"Why another name?"
Paul looked at Mark.
"Because someone came looking for me."
"David?"
"No."
"Who?"
May you like
Paul's answer stunned everyone.
"Our mother."
