just to get the chill out.
I walked through the parlor toward the kitchen. Every step sent a shiver up my spine, and it wasn’t coming from my bad leg. By the time I got to the dining room, I realized the draft was more than just wind whipping through old windows and siding.
I looked at the thermostat on the dining room wall.
Fifty-seven degrees.
Brrr.
I tapped it, hoping the little pointer was just stuck.
Nope.
Something must be wrong with the furnace.
Nice timing. The weatherman called for a three-day November squall, and I didn’t have heat. I pictured the mess I’d have on my hands if the pipes in my gravity system froze up.
I twisted the controls and hoped to hear the sound of the furnace cycling on.
Nothing.
The problem could be basic, like giving the thing a good, swift kick. Or, it could be more of a nightmare, like needing a new boiler.
Either way, I’d have to go down and take a look at it, just in case I had only to hit the reset button or flip a switch.
I didn’t relish the idea of tackling the basement steps with my bum leg. Sure, I’d been hobbling around just fine all day, but now I was tired.
I yawned. Too late for all that tonight.
I would simply put on a few extra layers and curl up in my sleeping bag tonight. Tomorrow, there would be plenty of sunshine down in the basement so I could see what I was doing. And my leg would be rested up to handle the task. If I couldn’t figure out the problem in the morning, at least it would be business hours so I could call somebody.
I slipped into my shorts-and-T-shirt pajamas and pulled sweats and a sweatshirt over top. I put on fat wool socks, as well, just in case the temperature dipped dramatically during the night. I climbed into my down-filled sleeping bag, snuggled into my pillow, and tried to drift off.
What must have been only a few hours later, I jerked awake. The blast of a train sounded in the distance. The rumble must have woken me.
I looked around the room, bathed in light from the street lamps.
I could see my breath. The temperature in the house had dropped into the danger zone. I tucked my nose into the nylon covers, in hopes of avoiding the icy air.
Then I remembered my dream.
Grandma, again. She lay in bed, dying. In her hand was a red foil envelope. She turned it over and over.
“Let it lie, Tish, let it lie,” she whispered.
I remember a feeling of helpless rage washing over me in my dream as Grandma stopped breathing. Then she was sinking into the cistern. Her features turned to stone as she plunged into the concrete. I was kneeling next to her, clawing at the cement, trying to bring her back. But all I did was break off my artificial nails, one by one, until they looked like pale pink rose petals sprinkled on a grave.
Safe on my cot, I almost laughed out loud at the image. That just went to show how foolish dreams could be. There was nothing pale about my fake nails. They were as neon as a color could get.
I fanned out my fingers, just to confirm that my nail color was really as obnoxious as I’d remembered. The Flamingo Pink almost glowed in the dark.
One of my fake nails was missing. I wondered if I’d lost it at the restaurant, David’s place, my house, or somewhere in between.
I curled my hands into balls and tucked them back under the covers. A girl could get frostbite if she wasn’t careful.
By now, I had launched into an uncontrollable shiver that started at my toes and worked its way up to the muscles in my neck. I lay shaking for a few minutes before admitting defeat. There was no way I would get back to sleep in this freezer. As much as I wanted to avoid it, I had to go check the furnace, if only to give it a good kick. I threw back the covers and put my stocking feet on the carpet.
I put on my ski parka and shoes, then flicked on every light along the way to the kitchen to face the cellar door.
I stopped on the linoleum in the alcove between the kitchen and the bathroom. I stared at the oak-paneled door in front of me, suddenly hot under my layers of clothes.
I slid back the bolt.
I reached for the doorknob and gripped it. The freezing metal burned against my skin. I half hoped I would be stuck there, my sweaty hand frozen to the knob like a tongue stuck to the monkey bars, rather than having to go downstairs.
I listened.
Just the steady hum of the refrigerator and howl of the wind outside.
I turned the knob.
24
The door creaked open into the stairwell, then thumped and stopped against the wall.
I looked down. The steps dissolved into blackness.
The stove clock clicked and rotated. 4:00 a.m.
Night was mostly over.
Another five hours and it would be bright as day down there.
I turned toward the kitchen sink. I could almost see pipes bulging, ready to burst from the ice inside them.
Another five hours might be too late.
I turned on the basement light.
I took a deep breath to steady myself, then stepped down.
My foot took forever to touch the wooden riser. I stepped again. An eternity passed.
I listened as the stove clock made another rotation.
No other sounds.
I swallowed, gathering up the minuscule crumbs of courage scattered through my veins.
Then I bounded down the steps. My bad leg hit the cement first, sending an extra oomph of pain shooting through my body from the memory of the last time I’d been down here. I squinted in the direction of the cistern.
The semicircle of rocks looked pretty much the same as the last time I’d gotten a peek at it.
Except tonight, the collage of colored stone seemed somewhat attractive. The light from the bare bulb hit one of the pinkish-toned rocks and brought out a shimmer like diamonds, and for a moment I could almost see the stone wall integrated into a classy entertainment center of some sort, complete with a mounted plasma TV.
Hmm. Plan C.
With Plan C in action, I could have my rec room and not mess with demolishing the cistern or walling it in.
Not that I was worried there was a body behind those lovely stones, of course. Simply because Plan C made my life easier than if I decided to take on Martin Dietz and his board of Nazis. I could turn the original historic detail of the home into a major selling point.
There. Dietz wasn’t such a bad guy after all.
I bent to look at the furnace, no longer afraid to be alone in the basement on a cold, dark night. A couple wires, some dials, a few knobs. It all looked Greek to me. I tapped and twisted, hoping for a fiery resurrection.
I knelt down and looked in the tiny glass window close to the floor.
