Away in a Bunker
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"Hark the herald angel sings,
We are going to learn some things.
Will and Laura on the trail,
Finding treasure without fail."
Will caterwauled his improvised carol, nearly swerving off the road while straining to reach the high notes. With a sigh of festive satisfaction, he powered open the driver-side window, grinning as the rushing breeze played through his beard.
"Feel that air! Smell that pine!" he enthused. "I tell you, sugar plum, nothing so energizes as the sharp chill of Christmas!
Despite her misgivings, Laura found herself smiling at her companion's infectious enthusiasm. It was an odd feeling, simultaneously buoyant and poignant, and almost regretful. How far this treasure hunt had taken them; how far from their original scheme to get out of town and into adventure. Now it was all overhung by a distinct shadow of danger and foreboding.
First of all, the new flurry of media attention in Chicago recalled some of their earlier, uglier adventures -- their press conference at Bannerman, the stake-out at Miss Aimee's in Los Angeles. But with the new year approaching, the press' attentions took on a new and more violent quality. After the impromptu fire drill at CBOT, Will and Laura led a wild chase of press, police, tourists and bankers all over the Chicago loop and up the Gold Coast. Had it not been for the wiley machinations of Officer Jack, they never would have escaped. They finally eluded notice only by fleeing, appropriately enough, to the basement storage of a condo in Streeterville. Laura felt a bit like Frankenstein's monster hiding from enraged peasants.
The attention continued to heat up, too, as local news broadcasters revealed and reviewed every tiny detail. It began with rumors that Will, Laura and Jack (or the 'mysterious threesome,' as they had been dubbed by the Chicago press) were alternately representatives of a terrorist group from Iran, incendiaries from the fallen Soviet Union and freedom fighters from Northern Ireland. Eventually, they were linked to the Waterbury treasure hunt, and 'expert' after 'expert' made on-air speculations regarding the nature of the next clue and whether the trio had uncovered it.
With the stepped-up media attention, Will and Laura put themselves entirely in the capable hands of Officer Jack, who spirited them away to Grayslake, a small, rural suburb north of the city. Nearly a week had passed before they managed to steal their way out of the city and back to the treasure trail.
But for Laura, the wearying complications were only the part of the problem. Her most recent conversation with Mike merely confirmed her sense of impending danger. Calling to report their latest finding, Laura was chilled by Mike's curt manner. "I'm sorry," he cut her off mid-sentence. "I'm no longer covering that case. You can submit your findings to Agent Fenroy, extension 6455." Laura had scrambled to take down the contact information, half-knowing she'd not be calling. Something was deeply, deeply wrong, and it would probably be best to let Mike's successor make the next move.
As troubled as she was, Laura hadn't reported the conversation to Will. He was too quick to find conspiracies, in any case. The last thing they needed was to start jumping to conclusions. She'd rather keep her own council for the time being.
And now they were back on the road to Centralia. "Right Back Where We Started From," that's what the song had said. Once they were safely ensconced in the Chicago suburbs, Will confirmed their suspicions about the meaning of the clue. Gazing intently at Laura's longhand transcription of her hasty notes, his eyes suddenly widened as he ran his finger down the left margin of the page. "C-E-N-T-R-A-L-I-A!!" he cried out. "It's spelled out by the first letter of each line!"
"Not very sneaky," Jack had sniffed, unimpressed.
Centralia. Location of the next clue.
Also the birthplace of Philip Huffman. And the deathplace of Gertie Huffman. Nobody had forgotten how quickly Gertie's murder had followed on the heels of Fern Findlay's visit to Centralia. Bad things happened there. And could happen again.
Jarred from her reveries, Laura caught sight of a road sign out of the corner of her eye.
"Will! Frackville! That's it! Turn off here!"
Will gripped the wheel, took a quick glance to the road behind him and veered toward the off-ramp. Frackville, PA.
"Now we've got to keep our eyes peeled for Lincoln Street. Make a left, and then another left on T887. Then look for the corner of Altamont Street. That's the Motel 6."
"You know," Will ventured, over-casual, "There'd still be time to double back to Numidia and try to get a room at the Fair Haven Bed and Breakfast. It's closer to Centralia, after all."
Laura grimaced. "Closer, and a good deal more expensive. We don't have a budget for amenities; you know that. And it's only few minutes closer. If all works out, we shouldn't be staying here for too long."
"After our triumph in Chicago? I think not!! Kudos, by the way, for ferreting out the proper screen icon at CBOT. In all the hub-bub, I don't think I ever properly acknowledged your splendid work. Nancy Drew, eat your heart out!"
"Jack's really the one to thank. He did a good job clearing the place for us with the fire alarm. But of course," Laura added slyly, "I assume you already gave him proper thanks."
Will blushed, a slight smile playing over his lips. "As proper as I could! But he had to slink off, you know. They've called a lot of cops from other cities to help out in Times Square -- what with the teeming masses that will throng for the turning of Y2K. A fearsome, thankless task, don't you agree? But that doesn't phase our young Jack. Our good boys in uniform, they always have a duty to perform." He paused. "That sounds like the start of an ode. 'Ode to Officer Jack: Verses on a Wee Hard Body!'"
"Heaven forfend me from more bad verses!" Laura smiled quietly to herself. Will's effusions over the mild, meticulous police officer were similar in amplitude to his past affections, but different in quality. She'd never seen him so sincerely smitten, and the change amused and pleased her. World enough and time, she mused to herself, And we might see some very interesting developments.
"In any event," Will broke in, as he made a left-hand turn into the Motel 6 parking lot, "It's clear we're on the right track. Centralia is the place. Now we just have to figure out where in Centralia."
"And hope we don't run into Vesper while we're here ..."
Will didn't respond.
*****
Yemeshigi pulled his car into the parking lot of the Denny's restaurant facing the Frackville Motel 6. Sliding down in his seat, he craned his neck over the dashboard, his eyes trained on the sleek Saturn parked out front.
Yemeshigi had already had his tussle with notoriety. He didn't want to fall under the watchful eye of the press again. All he needed to do was keep a low profile, tail the leaders and try to get that one crucial step ahead of them when the all-important moment arrived.
As Yemeshigi watched, the tall, bearded fellow, foolishly trying to disguise himself with a dark wig, cowboy hat and kerchief, left the car and trotted up to the main office of the motel. Yemeshigi glanced at the woman in the passenger seat. Also disguised, her auburn hair was tucked up in a knit cap vaguely reminiscent of the main character in that witch movie.
Yemeshigi smirked. No need for disguise. Gilbert and Dial, they couldn't hide. And Yemeshigi -- he didn't need to. Just another Asian. The press never could keep straight the difference between himself and Professor Hattamari. Whatever aliases they used, the press never got them right. And they never noticed the wild variations in nationality -- the fact that they used Korean, Japanese, Chinese and Vietnamese names indiscriminately. Americans, so oblivious to the 90% of the world that is not American.
How satisfying it would be to scoop all these oblivious Americans -- to show them how they could be followed, observed and overtaken without even knowing it. All it took was time and patience. And Yemeshigi had both.
*****
Will and Laura stepped into the spartan Motel 6 double. A quick glance around the room revealed a typical economy motel room. A garish representation of rustic Pennsylvania mountains wrought in heavy oils hung over the bed, permanently screwed to the wall. Two nondescript lamps were immovably attached to the night stands. The closet offered ample hangers that could not be removed from the closet rod. It was the kind of décor that cheerily announced, "You're our welcome guest; now don't steal anything."
Will set his backpack on the small easy chair next to the window while Laura laid her bag on the vanity dresser. After so many narrow escapes, they knew not to unpack.
"Before we set out to Centralia, I say we review Chapter 9. It'll only take us about 20 minutes to drive out to town, so we should have the details in our head before we leave." Laura reached for the book. "I think we know where it's heading anyway."
Will stretched out on the bed. "Will you commence?"
"It only seems fair. After all, you drove the last shift."
She opened the book and began.
Arriving at the top of the stairs, sweet young Violet paused. The granary. It was a place of awesome spectacle and foreboding dignity. As a child, she was forbidden to enter. Only once has she dared to slip through that fearsome portal, stealing in between grain deliveries. It was then that she had learned of her father's secret coffers, never knowing she would someday return to pilfer the riches for herself.
But even with such incentive, Violet found she could not move beyond the grand porch of the granary. She gazed at the high, ebony doors, a seeming entryway to Pluto's domain. Always dark and forbidding, now covered with a thin veneer of soft, grey ash, the granary spelt to her a paradoxical life-in-death. It was a palatial house built to hold the riches of the earth, the promise of young growth; but for her it had always figured the death of the soul that dwelt in selfish miserliness.
And now that figurative death had become real indeed! Her father's lands -- her homeland -- laid waste by some unknown plague, some shadowy pestilence. But how, young Violet wondered, her hand gripping the dusty, golden door latch. "Why this devastation?" she uttered aloud, her eyes screwed shut to close out the sad fate of her childhood land.
"Why indeed!" a crone-like voice rejoined, shocking poor Violet from her sorrowful meditation. "Well might you ask why! A land, burgeoning with wealth and plenitude, now the very crib of starvation and its sad twin, death."
At the sound of the creaking voice, Violet's pink lids flew open and she turned to find the source of this sad pronouncement. Beside her stood a wizened and hunched being, clad in a dark, homespun cloak not unlike her own. A frightening figure, most assuredly human, but trailing with her the stench of death and pestilence, a living incarnation of starvation itself.
"Your father's granary was built on death. The riches of agricultural wealth that erected its gold and ivory walls were torn from the hungry mouths of his peasant vassals. This current waste of land is merely the outward show of his internal waste. It is the just redounding of his own pestilential greed upon himself. He has lain waste the peasantry, cut short the tender flowers of young man- and woman-hood through his careless overworking of land and toiler alike. Careless husbandry, seeking immediate wealth at the cost of the human life!!"
The crone turned from young Violet, sweeping a claw-like hand across the horizon, a gesture encompassing the vast expanse of her father's territories.
"The blood of oppressed workers," she intoned, "Felled by the unstinting toil of the field -- it filled the trenches, displaced the life-giving water meant to irrigate the land. The blood of innocents soaked to the core of the life-giving earth, poisoning new growth, and enervating all who touched its fruits. Widespread devastation. Enter and behold your father's just desserts!"
At her words, the doors of the granary sprang open, and the ancient dame disappeared in a puff of swirling smoke.
Violet stood, transfixed, on the edge of the doorway. A house of death, her father's granary. How could anything but death and ill-fortune befall the denizens of such house. It was her house, her family house, her prison and her legacy. Would there be any escaping such a lineage, such a patrimony? She longed to flee, yet knew the answers she sought were here, even if those answers lay only in the grave.
Stepping delicately across the threshold, the dainty lass paused to look in on the glooming darkness, her eyes unaccustomed to the deathlike blackness within. It was a cavernous space, relieved only by the refracted brilliance of the sunshine reflecting on innumerable gold-encrusted surfaces. The entry chamber was a large, empty space, wrought in marble and decorated with gold accented bas-reliefs -- images of the peasantry of the earth carrying forth the fruits of their labors. The only free-standing ornament was an enormous golden scale -- gleaming grains in one scale, gold coins in the other. Corridors branched off from the main chambers, leading, Violet guessed, to the storage chambers.
Despite the promise of great wealth held within these storage rooms, Violet knew they were empty, barren wombs denied their fulfillment. What crops could be grown, what fruits harvested, in such a waste as this? The days of plenitude were past.
And to Violet, their promised wealth was naught. She knew the target she sought. Her single childhood sojourn provided the key to her future security. His secret coffers. She knew where to go, and girded her loins against the fear of death and dark places to seek out that secret cache.
"The king was in the counting house, counting out his money ..." Violet hummed the childhood tune, soothing her jangled nerves as she made her way about the perimeter of the central chamber. The Center door, she recalled through the mist of childhood memory. Trailing her father, she had slipped in behind him, silently observing him as he gained access to the secret chamber hidden in the floor. "It is in the Center,' she chanted to herself, "The Center of my wealth, the Center of my fate -- all to be supplied by the Center door."
As she chanted, she reached the Center door and tried the gleaming, golden knob. She expected it would be locked fast. Her breath came in quick, thick pants as the handle gave easily under her grasp. With a quick turn of the wrist, the door swung open, creaking a bit on its hinges.
Violet peered into the darkened room, the counting house for her father's agricultural wealth. It was not as she remembered. The battered strongboxes that once held her father's wealth were emptied, split open by angry steel. Thin swirls of ash lined the floor, brought in by marauding feet.
As her eyes adjusted to the light, Violet let out a gasp. In the Center of the room stood a long low table. Candles, now extinguished, stood on either side. The table was crowned by a narrow box. "A coffin," Violet cringed, "A coffin, here in the dark." The lid stood open and she could barely make out the sharp outline of its inhabitant. Slowly creeping toward the bier, she was seized with an uneasiness that turned to terror. She recognized the profile that lay before her -- the stern brow, the hooked nose, the unforgiving lip.
It was her father!!
Her father, who had been laid to rest in the Center of his life, his counting house. His coffer had become his coffin, a counting house in which he counted the last minutes of his life. He had been laid here by some now unseen hand, lain to rest, to molder with the dingy tin that had been his life's Center -- his wealth. And that, it seemed, had been seized from him, his oaken safes forced to give forth their gleaming contents.
"But not the hidden coffer!!" Violet cried inwardly. She felt no love for the man -- now corpse -- that lay before her. He had lost her love long before. She had hardened herself to any glimmer of sympathy or compassion. Skirting the coffin, she crossed to the far end of the counting house. A gleaming cross, festooned with rich stones, hung in a recessed and half-hidden cornice in the wall. The crucifix was hung with a platinum banner, inscribed with jewels which read:
The marauders who had stolen her father's wealth had not seen this costly ornament. And clearly, they did not know the wealth it hid.
Violet reached up and, seizing the crest atop the ornament, pulled it forward on an unseen hinge. As she did so, the floorboards at her feet slipped away, and a staircase was revealed, leading her to unplumbed depths, a Plutonine realm beneath the earth.
"Ooooh, creepy," Will sang in a menacing tone.
"Well," Laura answered, "It's clear that Simon knows his Classical mythology. Pluto, after all, is the god of both wealth and the underworld. And, of course, Pluto is the god who seized Persephone and hailed her down to Hades."
"Hmmm. Hidden coffers. Do you think this means the next clue will reveal the treasure itself? Are we at the end of our journey?"
"It seems entirely possible. Of course, there's still chapter 10 to go. But this might be it. Are you ready to out there and find that treasure."
"Ready and willing, Cap'n!" Will leapt to his feet. "To Centralia!"
"To the land of the dead," Laura added darkly.
*****
Leia reached for another Kleenex. "Oh, George. You're such a good man!"
On the screen, a young Jimmy Stewart stood with his family beside a Christmas tree. His sweat-stained brow stood as evidence of his recent toils, and his re-affirmation of the value of human life.
"Teacher says every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings," Leia lisped along with the wide-eyed moppet on the screen and blew her nose.
In the other room, Chad, clad in nothing but a holiday apron burrowed himself more deeply into Leia's closet. "Yes, Shilah," he whispered into the phone, "I think the end of the hunt is at hand. We'll meet according to the earlier plan. Don't call me here until then. I'm not free to speak."
Chad hung up the phone and smiled. Working with Shila was not easy, but it would have its rewards.
"Chad!" Leia bellowed from the other room. He quickly squirreled away his cell-phone, hiding it behind some satin pumps. "Have you gotten into my shoes again?"
She padded into the room and over to the walk-in closet. "You nasty little thing," she cooed to him, "You will make a vile nuisance of yourself, won't you." She reached in and dragged him out. "Now you leave Aunty Leia's lovely things alone. It's time to review chapter 9. Come along."
She spun on her heels and headed back to the living room, grabbing her battered copy of Sooner Than Never from the night stand. Chad, rolling his eyes, sighed and crawled after her on all fours.
*****
A mere twenty minute drive, and Will and Laura again found themselves in the land of ashes. Conditions seemed to have worsened since their last visit. Signs posted on the outskirts of town warned of toxic fumes. Even fewer rowhouses remained than before.
Will and Laura parked on the main drag, taking their few belongings with them. "I don't want to find," Laura had explained back in Frackville, "That I've left all my worldly goods in a Motel 6, and can't get back there because of some press barricade."
The town was silent, clouds of ash swirling down the thoroughfare. They stood in the middle of the street, scanning up and down the road. A single car passed them, a man with dark, glossy hair behind the wheel. He proceeded to the next intersection, and disappeared onto a cross-street.
"Where to now?" Will asked, studying the few structures that remained.
"Well," Laura ventured, "I'm guessing we're not going back to the burn. What else does the chapter suggest."
"Violet ends the chapter by accessing an underground chamber. I'm wondering if there aren't any bank vaults, or bomb shelters here. Something like that. I think Violet's hidden coffercould be our hidden treasure as well"
"I don't know ... " Laura trailed off, looking helplessly at the desolation surrounding her. "I mean, how can you maintain a sunken chamber in a town resting on top of a fire?"
"The fire can't be everywhere. I mean, they bury things here, don't they?"
Suddenly, they both froze. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
Will dared not move. Slowly, quietly, he asked, "Coffers, coffins?"
"Uh, huh," Laura responded sagely.
A short jog was all it took. Soon, they found themselves standing very close to where Agent M had dug up Philip Huffman's grave. A lonely, desolate spot, on the outskirts of town. Fortunately for the few remaining Centralians, the mine fire didn't subtend the cemetery.
"Now what?"
Will smiled wryly, "Well, it would be convenient to find Louise Huffman's grave here, and discover that it served as the portal to the treasure."
"Yes, that would be nice. But if that were the case, the Feds would've beat us to it. That's not Simon's style, anyway. He'll pull a clue from Sooner Than Never."
Will assented. "Stick together, or split up?"
"Stick together," Laura answered stonily. Will was surprised. Laura wasn't usually superstitious.
After nearly three hours of fruitless searching, Will collapsed on the ground, wailing. "I can go no further! It's simply not here! We're on the wrong track. And we've wasted time, precious time, following this wild goose chase!"
Laura sat down next to him on the sparse lawn, her brow puckered in concentration. "We've got to be missing something." Her eyes scanned the perimeter of the graveyard, and she froze. "Did we check the crypts?" she pointed to a few squat, marble structures on the far end of the lot, half-hidden by a cluster of trees.
Will brightened. "No. No, we didn't."
Pulling Laura to her feet, Will sprinted toward the buildings. Suddenly he froze, his jaw slack. Laura ploughed into him. Slowly, his hand raised and he pointed.
Laura squinted. Through an obscuring screen of tree branches, she made out the outline of a roof. It was topped by a marble figure.
It looked like a goddess. It looked like Ceres.
They broke into a ran, stopping only before the doors of the stooped marble shack. The door read:
Laura looked to Will, who simply nodded. Without speaking, they pushed on the entrance. It swung open easily. Inside was a small, low-ceilinged chamber. Will stooped to enter, Laura right behind. Dominating the small room was a golden crucifix, affixed with a platinum banner. It read:
Laura could barely breathe. Will whispered, "Shall I play our Miss Violet?" She nodded.
He seized the cross and pulled.
Suddenly, the floor buckled and gave way. Laura felt the world slip away beneath her. As she fought to scream, her voice caught in her throat. She reached for Will, but watched him slip from sight.
*****
Slinking from tree to wasted tree, Yemeshigi skirted the streets leading to the cemetery. He had abandoned his car back in the main part of this desolate town, just around the corner from Will and Laura. And he had waited. They would retrieve the next clue, and move on. And he would follow.
But three hours had passed. Three long hours, fighting the effects of the town's toxic fumes, growing dizzy on unclean air and wiping ashes from his windshield. Will and Laura hadn't returned. Yemeshigi paced the length of the short street, and time and time again, he wandered nonchalantly back toward the Saturn parked on Main Street. There it sat, unmoved.
Desperate times, he thought. He could not let Will and Laura see him. But he could not let them slip away. He needed to catch their trail. If he could remain concealed, he could at least allay his fear that they had moved on long before.
He turned the corner where he saw the two disappear up a small hillock three hours ago. Gravestones set against the grey December sky sent a chill down his spine. Surely, they had climbed this hill.
Reaching the top, he followed their tracks, unclear and badly defined, in the clumps of ashes caught in the dying grass. Up and down the rows of graves. Near the entry, he found a backpack and a shoulder bag. The owners were nowhere to be seen.
Collecting the bags, he headed back down the hillock to his car. Yemeshigi smiled to himself. They had eluded him for now. But victory would be his. They wouldn't get far without him.
*****
Tumbling in mid-air, Laura felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. Finally, she hit bottom with a cushioned thud. Will lay beside her on an enormous air mattress.
"Not another air mattress! Shades of Bannerman." He addressed the air around him. "You're losing your touch, Simon!"
"Will, where are we?"
Will gazed about himself, suddenly struck by the splendor of the room. It looked like a lush mountain ski resort. Dark wood paneling lined the walls. Deep pile carpet comforted the foot, while cushiony leather couches lined the walls. Two queen size beds, buried under mounds of pillows, faced each other from either side of the room.
Laura, flabbergasted, seated herself gingerly on an upholstered barstool placed before a fully stocked wet bar. "Where the hell are we?"
Will threw himself into a Laz-y-Boy placed just opposite a big screen t.v. and sighed. "I don't care if we're the very pits of some Plutonian Hell. I'm happy to stay right where I am!!"
Suddenly, the big screen t.v. flickered on. Simon Waterbury's enormous head filled the screen.
"Hello, friends. This is Simon Waterbury. You are to be congratulated."
Will felt his heart flutter.
"You've come very, very close. You're but one step away from the grand prize. But ... " he paused to admirable theatrical effect, "You're not quite there yet. And you're a bit early."
Laura left the bar to join Will in front of the television.
"You see, like all mad geniuses, I have a method to my madness. And timing ..." another theatrical pause, "Is key to my scheme. I'm sure you could move on to the next clue at almost any time. But you'd uncover the grand prize a bit too soon if you did. And that would spoil the fun, now wouldn't it?
"In anticipation of such a glitch in timing, I've prepared this sumptuous ..." he paused to find the right word, "Holding pen. You'll find everything in it you need -- from elegant fare, to a completely appointed spa and bathroom to the latest in high tech entertainment. You'll also find a new copy of Sooner Than Never in the book shelf, just to be sure you can consult your road map during your stay here.
"You will be held here until 5:00 on December 31. You will then be released to make your merry way to the next location. Vehicular transportation will be provided when the time comes. I've also made sure you will be the sole bearers of a few helpful items for the conclusion of the contest -- your bonus for being the first treasure hunters to come this far. You'll find them in the knapsack by the bar. If you run into any difficulties during your stay, you can contact me on the red telephone beside the easy chair. All other external communication is prohibited. You'll find no means of communication here in the bunker; if you avail yourself of other means, you will be disqualified."
With this, the mogul paused, an air of supreme self-satisfaction playing across his face.
"I've really nothing more to say. Enjoy your little underground vacation, here in the lair of Pluto. I look forward to seeing you this New Year's Eve! Until then, have yourself a merry ... little ... Christmas."
The screen faded to black, and the room went silent.
"Well!" Will breathed. "What do you make of that?"
"I think he's serious," Laura offered. "And I think we better stick to his requirements."
"Where's the knapsack?"
Laura went to the bar, found the bag and emptied it at Will's feet. It contained a bullhorn, a cell phone (not functional), a portable siren and a large, bejeweled key.
Laura gazed at the disparate objects, and looked helplessly up at Will. "What? He's really lost it! What the hell are we supposed to do now?"
Will sat for a moment in contemplation. "I guess there's only one thing we can do. Sit tight, enjoy these sumptuous surroundings and celebrate a merry Christmas. God bless us, every one!"
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