George moved his light to the next wall, and another monster stared down. Lion mane, bulging eyes, mouth wide to devour a headless infant gripped between its hands.
“That's a bad copy of one of Goya's Black Paintings,” Crowe said. “I've seen it in the Prado in Madrid.”
The more I got to know the Swain County sheriff, the more she impressed me.
“Who is that creep?” George asked.
“One of the Greek gods.”
A third mural depicted a raft with billowed sail. Dead and dying men littered the deck and dangled overboard into the sea.
“Enchanting,” said George.
Crowe had no comment as we crossed to the rock wall.
The door was held in place by black wrought-iron hinges, drilled into stone and cemented in place. A segment of chain connected a circular wrought-iron handle to a vertical steel bar adjacent to the frame. The padlock looked shiny and new, and I could see fresh scars in the granite.
“This was added recently.”
“Step back,” Crowe ordered.
As we withdrew, our beams widened, illuminating words carved above the lintel. I played my light over them.
“French?” Crowe asked, sliding her flashlight into her belt.
“Old French, I think. . . .”
“Recognize the gargoyles?”
A figure decorated each corner of the lintel. The male was labeled “Harpocrates,” the female “Angerona.”
“Sounds Egyptian.”
Crowe's gun exploded twice, and the smell of cordite filled the air. She stepped forward, yanked, and the chain slithered loose. There was no resistance when she lifted the latch.
She pulled on the handle and the door opened outward. Cold air rolled over us, smelling of dark hollows, sightless creatures, and epochs of time underground.
“Maybe it's time to bring him down,” said Crow.
I nodded, and double-stepped up the stairs.
Boyd showed his usual exuberance at being included, prancing and snapping the air. He lapped my hand, then danced beside me into the house. Nothing on the ground floor dampened his delight.
Starting down the basement steps, I felt his body tense beside my leg.
I added an extra coil to the wrap around my hand, and allowed him to pull me down the steps and across toward Crowe.
Three feet short of the door he exploded, lunging and barking as he had at the wall. Cold prickled up my spine and across my scalp.
“All right, keep him over there,” said Crowe.
Grabbing his collar with both hands, I dragged Boyd back and gave Bobby the leash. Boyd continued to growl loudly and attempted to pull Bobby forward. I rejoined Crowe.
My flash revealed a cavelike tunnel with a series of alcoves to either side. The floor was dirt, the ceiling and walls solid rock. Height to the tunnel's arched top was approximately six feet, width was about four feet. Length was impossible to tell. Beyond five yards, it was a black hole.
My pulse had not slowed since I'd entered the house. It now went for a personal best.
Slowly we crept forward, our beams probing the floor, the ceiling, the walls, the recesses. Some were nothing more than shallow indentations. Others were good-sized caves with vertical metal bars and central gates at their mouths.
“Wine cellars?” Crowe's question sounded muffled in the narrow space.
“Wouldn't there be shelving?”
“Check this out.”
Crowe illuminated a name, then another, and another, chiseled the length of the tunnel. She read them aloud as we progressed.
“Sawney Beane. Innocent III. Dionysus. Moctezuma. . . . Weird bedfellows. A pope, an Aztec emperor, and the party meister himself.”
“Who's Sawney Beane?” I asked.
“Hell if I kno—”
Her beam left the wall and shot straight into nothing. She threw out an arm, catching me across the chest. I froze.
Our lights leapt to the dirt at our feet. No drop-off.
We rounded the corner and inched forward, sweeping our beams from side to side. I could tell from the sound of the air that we had entered a large chamber of some sort. We were circling its perimeter wall.
