(35)

It was cool down there and my nose had acclimated to the smell, and though my body still hurt, the throbbing had passed.

I was worried Flashlight Boy might see himself as a kind of Batman and me as his newly acquired sidekick, Ass-Beaten Boy, and here in the rat or bat cave, depending on choice of name, we would dwell forever.

We were sitting on concrete blocks that jutted out of the wall, him across from me, his mouth sagging open, full of that ugly greenery, studying me like a cut of meat at a butcher shop. I was studying him as well, keeping it friendly with smiles. He had, after all, saved my life. I remembered the story I had heard about him being bullied, about those football players Mr. Candles had mentioned. Because of how he was treated, maybe he felt I was being bullied by those two clowns and had come out of the dark and saved me. I had no doubt he was proud of himself. I was proud of him too. Had it not been for him, I might well be in a shallow grave in the midst of a dry Moon Lake, waiting for the water to come back, cover me over, and forever hold me down.

Though this was our first up-close meeting, Winston had been around me a lot; maybe he even recognized me. That light I had seen the night of the deep-water plunge, him on the bridge, and then the flashlight beam moving through the shadowed woods the day Ronnie found the other bones.

I was trying to figure how some of his bone collection had ended up in the car trunks while we sat there looking at each other. I didn’t come up with any answers. But it was obvious to me that this was part of the tunnels that had been built during Prohibition, the ones Mr. Candles talked about. It had been an ambitious project indeed, but the liquor business then had been lucrative enough to warrant it. This room had stored barrels and even contained trucks for hauling across the South and maybe beyond. Trucks like the broken-down one in the other room.

I took a chance and pointed to a large corridor that led off from where we were. Winston leaned forward when I said, “Over there?”

He grabbed the flashlight that was on the concrete block beside him, sprang up suddenly, dislodging a few rats that had been trying to climb back on him, rapidly came across the gap between us, grabbed me up, and started pulling me toward the dark gap where I had pointed.

Me and him were the best of pals.

*  *  *

The corridor was dark, and his light was like an enormous firefly. Flashlight Boy moved so rapidly, I had to be on my game to keep up with him. He was fast as the rats who loved him, and they squeaked along in the dark as we went. Roaches blackened the floor of the tunnel and the walls, some of them damn near big enough to own a motorcycle.

Water reentered the picture as we bounced down some stairs and along a wet, mossy trail that led to who knew where. I wasn’t sure I was glad I had asked about what was down this dark tunnel.

There was some debris in places, mostly barrel staves where the goods had been stored or perhaps at some point abandoned. Then we were going upstairs again, and finally we came to a wall and our progress stopped.

Flashlight Boy, Winston, turned and put the flashlight in my face so that all I could see was that blinding light. Then he snapped the light off, wheeled, and put his shoulder against the wall.

The wall screeched slightly and moved. When it moved there was faint illumination that oozed into the darkness, and then we were in a massive cellar, and in the cellar were rows of racks stacked with bottles and barrels. Spiderwebs, cobwebs, and dust coated the goods. A few rats came out of the tunnel and ran between our feet and among the barrels.

Winston took off his damp, muddy shoes, and, copying him, so did I. We left them on the dark side of the tunnel. Obviously, Winston wasn’t going to win a spelling bee or a job teaching calculus, but he was shrewd in his own way. He had experience in this kind of business, and being here appeared to be something he had done numerous times.

As we stood in the center of the room, I saw the source of the light was a block-style window high up—built just aboveground was my guess—and the light was artificial. It couldn’t be late enough, or early enough, to be sunup. Across the way was a big double wooden door with big pull rings on it. I went over there and out of curiosity pulled at one of the rings. The hinges were well greased and the door came open. Inside was a large room full of trucks and cars, wheelbarrows, gardening tools, and automotive parts. A garage and storage area, obviously, and a well-furnished one. The automobiles and trucks looked as new and shiny as a child’s first Christmas.

I pushed the door shut. I turned and looked up.

There were some stout stairs that led up to a platform perched before another large door. Winston grabbed my shoulder in a viselike clutch and propelled me to the base of the stairs, stopped there, and put a finger to his lips.

Then up the stairs he went, and I followed. He put his ear to the door and listened. From the platform, I could see out the small, square window. I saw a light on a pole. It was the source of the slice of dusty yellow light in the cellar.

Gently, Winston opened the door. When he did, the air turned fresh, cool, and crisp. It was softly lit in there; the lights glowed along a lengthy, white-tiled hallway that blinked with polish. There were a lot of photos on the walls, and at the far end of the hall was a wide and tall mahogany door with a big black handle on it.

I didn’t have to figure on where we were at all.

We were inside the Long Lincoln Country Club.