Rounding my back, I massaged and flexed both ankles.
When blood flow returned, I eased onto all fours.
Not bad.
I flexed a knee, testing the injured leg.
Tender. Tolerable.
During my corpse crawl, I’d noted that the dead had been placed with their heads or feet to a wall. Apparently, I was at one end of the tomb.
Might a door be at the other?
Arms and legs rubber, I crawled toward the spot where I’d first regained consciousness, left hand periodically skimming the brick. One step. Five. Twelve.
Twenty steps. My outstretched palm smacked brick. Another wall was meeting the long wall at ninety degrees. I’d reached the other end of the tomb.
I began sidestepping right, hand groping for a door.
Sudden horrifying thought. If the bodies had been simply bricked in, there’d have been no need of a door. No one was ever entering again. Or leaving.
My tortured brain rode another illogical wave. Poe. “The Cask of Amontillado.”
But Montresor was caught.
No. Fortunato died. Alone. Underground.
My movements became frenzied. Sitting on my haunches, I hand- swept the brick in wide jagged arcs.
Someone put you here. There had to be a way in.
There has to be a way out.
I almost gasped when my fingers brushed something set into the masonry. Flat. Smooth.
Wood!
I groped for a handle.
Zip.
A latch.
No go.
My frozen fingertips were sending little to my brain. I rubbed my hands together fast. Some feeling returned.
I began anew, more slowly. More carefully.
Eventually, my trembling fingers picked out an irregularity. Traced it.
My brain tallied the tactile, threw up a visual. A crack, outlining a door maybe two feet square.
Frantic, I began clawing at the gap with my nails. The narrow space was packed with a hard, crumbly substance.
Think, Brennan!
Fumbling back through the dark, I gathered my macabre assemblage. Then I scramble-crawled back to the door and began hacking and gouging.
Periodically, I’d roll to my back and hammer the wood with my feet. Or throw my weight from all fours, connecting with a shoulder or hip.
Sounds filled the stillness. The clink of my pirated tools. The tick of mortar falling on brick. The wheeze of air in and out of my mouth.
I was sweat-soaked and panting when the door finally popped free and dropped with a clunk.
I inched to the edge and peered out.
CLUNK.
I raised my lids.
The window shade was a muted gray rectangle outlined by strips of sluggish daylight. Again. War of the Toxic Ham Salad: Day Three.
Birdie was atop the bureau on the far side of the room. Below him, a framed photo of Katy lay angled to a baseboard.
Though better than yesterday, my body still felt like it had gone through a crusher.
I sat up. Groaned.
Bird looked an accusation in my direction.
Can cats do that?
Thursday was a blur. I could remember trying to change the sheets. To feed the cat. To shower. To eat crackers. My innards would have nothing to do with digestion. After each attempt at activity, I’d fall back into bed.
Fitful while sleeping, I’d kicked the covers to the floor. Reengaging them, I assessed. Though the fever and nausea were gone, my rib and abdominal muscles ached, and a low throbbing lingered behind my eyeballs. My nightshirt was soaked.
I looked at the clock. Ten twenty.
Bird had a point.
“You hungry, buddy?”
Prim nonresponse.
Peeling off the wet jammies, I donned sweats, then dragged to the kitchen to feed the cat.
Back to the bathroom. Already my energy level was tanking.
I studied my image in the mirror while brushing my teeth. Eyes rabbit pink. Face oatmeal. Hair pasted to my scalp and forehead in swirly wet clumps.
How would Harry describe my appearance? Rode hard and put away wet.
“Apt.” My voice sounded croaky.
Lab today?
Maybe.
Shower?
Not yet.
Hair?
Later.
One system kicked in. Suddenly I was famished. Ten hours of vomiting will do that, I guess.
The refrigerator offered condiments, Diet Coke, moldy lettuce, and a trio of plastic containers whose contents would require a gas spec for ID.
I was contemplating a grocery run when I heard knocking at the front door.
Entrance to my building requires a key. Others must buzz. Only the caretaker or a resident should already be inside.
