We came to Winston’s hidey-hole. None of the dangling flashlights were on. I shone my light around, saw bones, racks, rats, and old clothes, but not him.
I went around and turned on the flashlights hanging from strings, and when I had as many on as I could comfortably manage, that section of Winston’s underground world was filled with light. Rats scampered and roaches scuttled into the darkness. But there was no Winston.
“Amazing,” Buck said.
“We leave these on, this will be our beacon back.”
“Where’s Flashlight Boy?”
“He doesn’t check in with me, Buck. There are other tunnels, not bricked in, so he could be in any one of them. He may be out in the rain. He’s used to weather. He may be stealing flashlights and batteries, trying on new clothes at the graveyard. Come on.”
We moved along quickly with the water trickling and the rats running and came to the concrete wall that was actually a door. I pulled the tire iron from my belt, and with Buck holding the flashlight, I stuck it in the crack between door and wall and heaved. It was tough, but not as tough as the outside door. It slid open. The air that sighed onto us was fresh and cold because we were soaked from head to foot.
Not bothering to wipe my shoes, I put the tire tool in my belt and took the light from Buck and guided us up the stairs until we came to the platform where the outside light came through the window and laid a cold creamy square of illumination over us. I could see rain in the light coming from outside, and it came down hard enough to make the window rattle.
I put my ear to the door. Except for the outside rain, it was as silent as Lincoln’s tomb. I turned the latch and pushed the door aside. There was the same bit of light like before, shining out from dull bulbs.
I shifted the light to my left hand, pulled my pistol out from under my shirt, and moved along in the dimness of the corridor on tiptoes and wishful thinking. Buck sneaked along behind me.
I came to the ballroom and gently cracked open the door. Dead dark. We went in there, pausing just long enough for Buck to stand under the non-glowing disco ball, cock a hip, and point a finger in the air.
“I was born to boogie,” he said.
“I can see that.”
His moment of humor passed, and I led us along, careful about it, but moving swiftly as well.
We went up the steps and into the room that overlooked where Creosote Johnny hid patiently in a cabinet, where the garrote chair and the triangular table were kept.
Inching back one of the curtains, I looked down into the room. It was dark. The table and chair and raised stage were merely shapes.
Perhaps after losing their sacrifice, Mrs. Chandler, the council had canceled the night’s festivities.
We left that room and I led us to the file room. After we slipped inside, I closed the door and locked it. Buck leaned the shotgun against the frame of the doorway and I waved the flashlight around.
I picked a file drawer, gave Buck the flashlight again. I stuck my revolver back in my waistband, pulled the tire tool from my belt, and jammed the beveled tip into the edge of that drawer and gave it a sharp pop.
I pulled the file drawer open. There was a fat folder in there. I opened it, thumbed through it.
Buck leaned over my shoulder with the flashlight shining the beam on what I had found.