start over.'
'Yeah, right,' she scoffed. 'That's how all this shit began. Those
last few years with Herbie, I took care of everything, and I did it my
own way. Starting over, as you say. I distanced myself from his old
friends and all of the wheels they grease to get ahead, and guess
what?' She was no longer talking to me, so I didn't bother answering.
'That's right, by the time Herbie died, we were flat busted. I
couldn't go broke; everyone would know. A few calls to Gunderson and
Matthews, and I was back in the black. It was so easy, but then
everything fell apart.'
'I understand, Susan. I know how much Clarissa meant to you, and
you've got information to trade. Just let me out of here.'
The sound of my voice seemed to knock away any remorse she had started
to feel.
'If I were you, Sam, I'd try breaking off some of those wood strips.
Maybe you can wedge them through the seal at the bottom of the door and
buy yourself some time. Otherwise, I'm told you've only got about
fifteen minutes.'
Bizarre. Even at this moment, there was Susan Kerr, trying to be
helpful. Without any other options, I followed her advice. I tried
pulling on the thin strips of wood that made up the stemware holders
but couldn't get enough torque to break them. Then I adopted a
different strategy, hooking the heel of my shoe on a rail of wood
running along the floor and stepping on it with all my weight. After a
few tries, my body weight won, making me grateful for those eight
pounds I can never quite drop.
I crammed the jagged edge of the broken wood beneath the cellar door,
wiggling and pushing the rail until I felt the tight rubber seal around
the door begin to give about it. Outside, I could hear Susan making
trips up and down the stairs, probably removing from the house whatever
documents she had taken from the files.
'Oh, hey, there you go, Sam. Looks like it's working. You keep at it.
Get your head down by the floor if you need to.' This woman was the
Martha Stewart of murderous lunatics. I had an image of her as an
aerobics instructor at the Mac Club, cheering clients on in the same
way.
I broke another piece of wood and wedged it a few inches from the other
one, trying to create a large enough gap to get some air in. I tried
to convince myself that I was only out of breath from the physical
exertion, but I was beginning to panic.
I lay flat on the floor, getting my nose and mouth as close as I could
to the small crack I had made beneath the door. I started to relax
when I was sure that I could feel air coming in from the basement. I
took a few deep breaths and felt my pulse slow from pounding to a
moderate race.
I told myself I was going to be OK. I had air, and I was patient. But
then I wondered just how patient I would need to be. The footsteps on
the stairs had stopped. If Susan had left for her flight, when would
anyone find me? Chuck was expecting my call, but he had no idea where
I'd been heading. If he went to bed assuming I'd blown him off, would
anyone come in the morning? For all I knew, Susan had told her
housekeeper and contractors to take the week off.
I needed to find a way out of here.
I kicked my shoes off and climbed on top of a shelf, holding on to the
bottle slots for balance. I knocked on the wood panels on the ceiling,
listening for any hollow space above, but I never did have an ear for
such things. Explains why I can never buy a good melon. I raised both
hands above me and pushed as hard as I could. The panel didn't give,
but I couldn't tell if it was because the wine room ceiling was built
against the ceiling of the original basement, or simply because I
hadn't pushed hard enough to pop the panel up.
I tried again but felt light-headed after the push. It might have been
my imagination, but I could have sworn I was running out of air.
I jumped back down to the floor, taking another series of long, deep
breaths. It definitely helped. I'd rest a little more, then try the
ceiling again.
Just when I'd regained my balance on the shelf again, I heard more
footsteps in the house. These sounded like they were on the floor
right above me. Then I heard a voice. I couldn't make out what the
person was saying, but from the low register, I was pretty sure it was
a man. I pounded my fists against the ceiling, yelling at the top of
my lungs. I hopped back down for a few more breaths, then climbed up
and made some more noise.
As I heard movement on the basement stairs again, I began pounding on
the cellar door.
'Samantha, baby. Is that you?'
This time the voice was right on the other side of the door, and tears
welled in my eyes when I recognized it. Then I heard metal against
metal, but I kept listening to my father's voice telling me not to
worry, that everything would be OK. And I knew he was right.
