A quick scan of the rooms revealed a welcoming environment; décor and furniture practically begged guests to curl up in front of a roaring fire with a cozy mystery novel. Perhaps it was designed to lure people in, like a house made of gingerbread.
That was Willa’s voice again.
“Split up. Search the house,” Otis said.
In what was surely Lizzy’s bedroom, LED monitors covered most of one wall. The screens were black at the moment, but Fergus had no doubt that when powered on, they would reveal grainy, black-and-white images of the basement. Perhaps even other sections of the cabin and surrounding area. On the bed lay patched and faded denim jeans, a threadbare flannel shirt, and a woven straw hat — wardrobe essentials for many of the Whitaker Holler females. Lizzy hadn’t used witchy powers to kidnap Willadean. She’d used a disguise to sneak into the village and snatch the child from her bed. Perhaps he wouldn’t share this discovery with Willadean. The magic stuff is more fun.
The three gathered in the kitchen a minute later. Lizzy wasn’t discovered skulking in a coat closet or hiding under any of the Laura Ashley beds. She had vanished like a bad dream in the sudden light of a bedside lamp.
Something didn’t look quite right about the positioning of a rolling butcher’s block. “Let’s move this,” Fergus said when the three made it to the kitchen.
Otis slid the small cart from against the southern wall...the dog house wall. The butcher’s block had hidden a framed opening along the baseboard, wide enough for an adult to slither through. A curved surface lined the small space beyond. A circular opening had been excavated into the ground; the wooden rungs of a ladder leaned against the side of a bricked tunnel descending into blackness.
Lizzy had spared no expense in building her kill house. She’d even planned for the contingency of an FBI raid.
Otis ducked through the opening, positioning himself on the top of the ladder.
“Wait a minute,” Fergus said. “This may be exactly what she wants. You get to the bottom of that hole and Lizzy might be standing there with a gun.”
“Or she may already be escaping out the other end.”
“Hold on. I have an idea.” Fergus darted from the room. The previous search of the house had revealed a small bedroom used for storage. Tidy shelves and neatly stacked plastic bins lined the walls. On one of the shelves, a braided nylon rope coiled around three stainless steel heavy-duty pulleys, revealing the magic behind Lizzy’s tree crucifixions. In the center of the room lay a familiar object, tossed onto the floor like a child’s discarded toy, its pockets and hidey holes closed except for a rubber strap extending through the top zipper. His backpack.
A quick search uncovered the tear gas cartridge still nestled at the bottom of one of the compartments. He grabbed the pack in one hand and the CS cartridge in the other and ran back to the kitchen. Otis saw the object he carried.
“No way. You toss that down and we won’t be able to follow her. The gas will fill up the tunnel.”
“Contrary to popular belief, there is no gas in tear gas. It’s actually a chemical solid, ground into tiny particles and dispersed using aerosols, creating a fog of unpleasantness that irritates the eyes, skin, and trachea.”
“Exactly. So we’re not using it. I’ll take my chances.” Otis began to descend.
“Wait,” Fergus said, unzipping the largest compartment of his pack. “Ever wear one of these?” Lizzy had returned the gas mask to his pack at some point. Perhaps she had kept his belongings for her trophy collection.
“Never. Help me get it on, then we’ll toss the gas,” Otis said.
“And while you’re navigating the tunnel, I’ll meet you at the other end of it.”
“How the hell do you know where it leads?” Skeeter asked.
Fergus grinned. He had remembered another useful tidbit from Harlan’s astral-plane intel. “Why would anyone build a shed so far away from their house? Why not have your lawn mower and your garden gnomes stored close by, within easy reach?”
“Shit,” Otis said, struggling to position the mask.
“What?”
“I left Serena Jo and the kids hiding near that shed.”
“Go. Now,” Fergus said, suddenly grim. He finished securing the mask on Otis, popped the canister’s top and dropped it down into the abyss.
Otis didn’t hesitate.
“Can you run?” Fergus asked Skeeter, digging through his backpack for the revolver Ray had given him. It was there, as well as a handful of bullets.
“Not as fast as you. Go on. I’m gonna look for my Mossy. I’ll catch up.”
“You can’t shoot a rifle with one hand, old man,” Fergus said heading for the front door.
“The hell I can’t.”
There was no time to argue. Fergus ran through the door and out into a blustery rain-scented wind — an outflow boundary, the type that precipitated a storm.
As he sprinted down the porch steps, a sudden zig-zag of intense brightness flashed in the east. Ominous rumbles followed the next second, registering inside his chest like the low notes of a bass cello. The storm would soon be upon them and the greenish, bulbous clouds indicated hail at the least — perhaps even a tornado if his good luck had suddenly dried up.
The white siding of the shed peeked through the branches of a copse of pine trees a hundred yards in the distance. He made out movement
