CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Again, the gray-haired man threw Haddie over his shoulder. Surprisingly, they carried her up the stairs, behind Harold Holmes, into the foyer. Toward Detective Cooper? Blood rushed to her head, and the stars brightened her vision. As they turned at the top, she could see only the gray rain outside. Over the pounding in her ears, she barely heard it beating on the windows.

The bearded man led the way down another set of stairs. She wanted to struggle, cause a commotion in case Detective Cooper had actually come looking for her, but she could barely orient herself over a pounding skull. She’d tried. Now, unless by some miracle the detective freed her, she’d have to endure whatever torture Holmes had planned and then lie enough that her friends might survive.

Her head spun when the back of it tapped a beam or corner as the gray-haired man navigated the house. She caught bright blues either from a couch or wall, and then turned again into a hall or another room. Lightning flashed through wide windows, and she blinked before they dropped her to a black mat beside an exercise bike. They wouldn’t bother hiding her if Detective Cooper worked for Harold Holmes. She might have been wrong about him. Was he here, looking for her? Or, had he found the connecting evidence from Mark Colman to Harold Holmes? Some bit that she’d missed.

The room turned at a slant. No. The exercise bike lifted at an angle, tilting back until the seat touched the floor. Rough hands lifted her head, and as she gasped from the pain, a strip of white flashed in front of her eyes before a gag cut into the sides of her mouth. Detective Cooper certainly didn’t work for them.

Under the floor, where the bike had been covering, a dark hole cut a rectangle. Her head still spinning, she had barely noticed it. The hatch had hinges at the back by her feet. The equipment attached to it. This, evidently, was the “hole” Harold Holmes referred to, and where she would be stowed.

Gag tied, Haddie felt a foot on her hip. With a shove they rolled her in.

She screamed despite the cloth between her teeth. Her heart stopped as the freefall began. Haddie saw the set of wooden stairs descending by her face. Her chin only dropped a foot before it jolted down onto solid wood. Her chest hit a lower step as her body angled, but by the time she landed on her left forearm she rolled toward the edge of the stairs. Her hips hit steps and rail with a crash. When her knees and boots hit, she began sliding on her side.

As she jolted against steps, she could make out an expansive basement and a dim wall of carved stone. The only light came from the opening above, but the room seemed empty, reaching out to dark curves where the floor met chiseled walls. Musty, it had a tinge of ash to the scent, like there was a fireplace.

The hatch above slammed shut, and the room turned pitch black. She slowed to a stop on the stairs, sure that her feet were only a couple steps from the floor. It was a hole.

Her side burned from scraping, and her head pounded so hard she dared not move it. The stars of light still danced across the blackness. Her arm felt as though every stitch had been pulled free. What if she just bled to death? Harold Holmes would still go after her friends. Her only chance was to endure the torture and lie to Holmes. Liz, Terry, and Sam’s lives depended on it.

Over the pounding in her ears, she heard an odd rhythmic whining. Someone exercised on the bike above.