And yet the kid also liked girls. It was only a matter of time before Boatwright found himself another girlfriend.
With dread and yet with grim recognition and acceptance, he felt the old urge pump into his veins again. So, this was the way it would be. This thing was a part of him; he had to admit his ties to the passion. It was here, it was ready, and it was going to goad him into action again.
Only after this time, it was going to disappear for good. He could promise himself that.
He had to kill once more before it could be finally over.
SCENE 5
Kathleen Somerville had been amused at first, but when Horace started to remove all the crystal and china from her storage closet in the basement, she decided that it was time to arrest this latest passion of his.
“You aren’t serious about this tunnel thing,” she said. “Horace, we have lived in this house for thirty years. We know everything about it.”
“Listen,” he said. He tapped on the back wall of the closet. “Doesn’t that sound hollow?”
The basement of the Homestead comprised a substantial portion of the living area of the house: kitchen, dining room, guest bedroom, den with a television set. Horace and Kathleen were in their dining room, which sat in the southwest corner of the house. Its walls were painted pale Williamsburg blue with white trim, and it was lighted by electric candles in sconces and in the chandelier. In the center of the room was a finely polished oval mahogany table on a brightly patterned Indian rug. Kathleen stored some of her china in the sideboard along the east wall, and the rest in the closet on the west wall. Now, however, Horace was un-storing it.
Horace tapped again on the back wall of the closet. Then he lifted the last stack of dishes off the bottom shelf of that closet and placed them on the table.
“Of course it’s hollow,” said Kathleen. “There’s probably half a foot of space between the lumber and the brick foundation.”
“Let’s find out,” said Horace Somerville. He lifted the top shelf from its metal brackets and set it gently outside the closet.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“Taking down the shelves before I pry loose the boards,” he said. “I don’t want to start right in with the crowbar.”
“Horace, this building is a national historic landmark,” said Kathleen.
Horace pulled down the second shelf. “I know,” he said. “If I’m wrong, I hope they don’t charge me damages by the year.”
Kathleen was glad that her children were not here to see this.
“If you’re right about a dead animal, then you’re going to need some gloves,” she said. “The smell is just awful.”
“Getting rid of it is worth a little vandalism.” He picked up the eighteen-inch crowbar and carefully inserted it into a seam between two boards at the back of the closet.
They both smelled the putrescence more intensely as soon as Horace pried the first board loose from its supporting studs.
“There’s a dead horse back there,” said Kathleen. “Horace, if you let one living creature into my house, I’ll leave you.”
“Bring me a flashlight,” said Horace. “One more of these, and I can get through.” The boards were eight inches wide and were nailed vertically across the back of the closet. He gently worked at the second board. Already there was a space wide enough for a child to slip through. Behind it was darkness, nothing as far in as he could reach.
Kathleen went to the kitchen and returned with a flashlight. The smell was worse. Horace had his handkerchief to his face.
“It’s awful,” she said. “You can’t go in there.”
He turned on the light, stuck his right leg into the hole and entered sideways. The inside was lined with dry brick. It was a narrow passage, perhaps four feet wide, and seemed perfectly secure. Its ceiling was arched and also lined with brick, and it reached almost eight feet high. It stretched away from him into the earth.
“It’s a tunnel,” he said from inside.
Kathleen said she would wait to hear him fall into an old well or whatever was in there.
With the light from the hole in the closet and the beam of the flashlight, Horace could see virtually the length of the tunnel. He had intended to walk through to see where it led, but he changed his mind once inside. Fifteen feet from where he stood, he found the source of the stench. He walked only as close as necessary to confirm what he suspected, and then he quickly retreated. He knew that he had to leave immediately, that he had to exit that close, stifling tube before he became ill.
It was not a dead squirrel. It was larger. A hideous form recognizable as human despite eleven days of decay. A white tee shirt. A head with short-cropped hair.
Angus Farrier.
SCENE 6
Eldridge Lane arrived before the police, but barely. It was 5:25 in the afternoon when he rushed into the vestibule of the Homestead.
“Good Lord, I can smell it up here,” he said. “You’re going to have to sleep somewhere else tonight.”
“An hour ago my life was perfectly normal,” said Kathleen. “Now—”
“Please tell me later,” said Lane. “I was just ahead of a large group of students. How did they find out already?”
“Good heavens,” she said. “Our Wednesday afternoon tea.” They could hear the footsteps on the porch, the prompt ring of
