groaned and heaved my weight into it. After a moment, the bench and the pile of chairs scraped in an arc away from the door. The thought of Tom trapped in the closet gave me the strength to pick up the organ bench and smash the doorknob. Both disintegrated in the process. By the time Arch and I finished with this place, they?d need a federal grant for renovation.
I grabbed the flashlight with one hand, stuck the fingers of my other hand through the hole made by the missing doorknob, and yanked the door outward. I took a deep breath of dusty air and flashed the light into the windowless closet space.
Lining the walls were floor-to-ceiling shelves spilling over with yellowed papers and booklets. The smell of mold was dreadful. Except for dust devils and intricate spiderwebs lining the corners, the room was empty. Disappointment congealed heavily in my chest.
?I want to tell you what kind of cake I want,? said Arch?s distant voice. I came out of the closet in time to see his flashlight shining huge and scarlet in back of the stage right curtain.
?What?? I directed my beam up on the stage just as Arch?s shape emerged from behind the curtain. His footsteps echoed across the wood.
?Pepper ? mint!? His light wobbled against the ceiling. ?Agh!? A loud cracking noise, like wood breaking, made me momentarily lose the grip on my beam. I refocused it shakily on the area where Arch was. Or had been. The stage floor was collapsing beneath him.
?Help!? my son shouted.
?Oh! Lord help us!? came the cry of a woman from the floor below.
14
My body felt impossibly cumbersome as it clattered over to the stage. I jumped up three steps, tripped, then crab-crawled to the place where the boards had given way. Arch had fallen through. I knew he was alive because I could hear his surprised voice half-talking, half-crying. I directed my light downward and peered through the hole of jagged boards to a whitewashed stone room lined with gray file cabinets. Arch was struggling, a knot of dark sweatsuit and long legs, on top of Lucille Boatwright, a wide and clumsy apparition in expensive-looking dark slacks and matching sweater. She was moaning, and her outfit was being ruined by the rolling action she was making on the dusty floor. I speculated wildly. Was Arch?s back broken? Would the hone up at Hymnal House be connected? Would Mountain Rescue be willing to send an ambulance for Lucille Boatwright two days in a row? ?Arch! Are you okay? I?m up here! Are you hurt? Don?t move if you feel anything?s broken!?
?I hate this place, Mom!? he shrieked. Sweat prickled coldly over my body at the relief of hearing him respond. ?This whole place is just so old!?
Poor kid. He was embarrassed and trying to cover it up with anger. Making a huge effort, he untangled himself from Lucille. Recriminating questions crowded my brain. Hadn?t Lucille heard us in the barn? Why didn?t she let us know she was down in the file room? Would the neighbors come running when they heard the commotion?
As I stared helplessly from above, my eyes gradually adjusted to the fact that there was more light in the basement than there was in the barn. A fuzzed stripe of dim grayness from the cloudy afternoon sky filtered in through the small basement room door that Lucille had left open. On the table was a tin-colored, battery-operated camping lamp that looked too new and expensive to belong to the conference center. It cast a metallic glow over the once-white masonry walls and the crowded row of file cabinets. With his knees drawn up, Arch leaned against one of the cabinets and vigorously rubbed his shins. One of the drawers in the adjoining cabinet was open. Next to it, a small stack of drab-colored files lay in a neat pile of a massive oak table. Groaning, Lucille rolled over on her side. She grasped the leg of the table and struggled to get to a sitting position. I knew the woman well enough to know that as soon as she was standing, she would set about scolding Arch. I needed to help him get out of there; I needed to protect him. I scrambled off the stage and out the barn doors. Slipping on wet pine needles, I skidded down the small slope to the basement and through the door of the storage room. The two were still seated on the filthy floor; both looked dazed.
I came in close to Arch?s face, which was liberally smeared with dust. His glasses were askew. ?Can you move? Are you okay? Oh, honey, talk to me.?
?I?m fine, Mom. Just leave me alone, okay??
?My goodness gracious, land sake?s,? Lucille huffed. Disconcerted, she tried to get control by brushing ineffectually on her filthy green outfit. Her silver hair was disheveled; dust covered her everywhere. The physical surprise of the fall made her seem more elderly, and there was a wild look in her eyes. The Mace. Oh, Lord. I offered her my hand. She took it without compunction and jerkily cranked herself to a standing position, breathing heavily.
Arch groped to straighten his glasses. His fingers slid back over the floor. He picked up the Mace canister and then small and round, which he examined close to his lenses. ?Are you all right, Mrs. Boatwright? Did I get you with the Mae?? He made a gargling noise, and I was afraid he was going to be sick. ?Looks like you broke your necklace.?
?Arch, please, hon, stand up.? Clutching his finds in two tight fists, he again refused my hand and struggled to stand up next to me. His cheek was scraped, and his sweatsuit was covered with thick stripes of dust. But mercifully there was no blood.
?Did the Mace hurt you?? I asked Lucille. I didn?t quite have the courage to ask, What the hell are you doing here?
?No, but that is dangerous stuff, heaven knows. Now, your son. How is he??
We both looked at Arch, who avoided our gaze. He was mortified, but not in pain. He?d had a fright, and probably should take some aspirin and go to bed for the rest of the day. Or course, neither of these was likely. I looked up at the broken ceiling. It appeared that the wood had rotted through. This place needed renovation more than the church office, no question about it.
?Lucille? Are you hurt? I am so sorry this happened. I can?t believe the conference center doesn?t have somebody check these floors before they rot!?
?Well, my dear … Honestly! There I was, one minute,? she gestured helplessly toward the file cabinet with a shaky finger, ?and then he, why, I thought the whole place was caving in ? ? She swallowed. ?I suppose we should notify someone of this. And then be leaving, of course. This is a dangerous place, no situation for a child ? ?
?Let me see if the police have arrived,? I interjected. ?If you?re sure you?re all ? ?
But she was not all right. She took one step and cried out in pain. Her aristocratic face crumpled. ?The spray bottle didn?t get me, but my ankle is twisted,? she announced stoically.
?Stay with Mrs. Boatwright a few minutes,? I quietly ordered Arch.
He nodded sullenly. I vaulted up to the barn. No Sheriff?s Department, inside or out. When I arrived back at the storage room, Arch was handing a seated Lucille Boatwright the last of the beads from her broken necklace, which she held in a piece of crumpled paper in her palm. She awkwardly folded the paper and put it into her purse, next to the neat pile of folders in her lap. In my absence, she had managed to smooth her hair and he clothing. Because of her injured ankle, I felt obligated to suggest that I drive her home in the van before finishing what I?d come for. She insisted that we all go back to her house to get cleaned up. I told her I had to stay at the conference center to do some looking around.
?For what?? Lucille demanded in her customary regal manner. ?There?s nothing here.? She gave me a look that said, I am always right and am seldom disobeyed. I glanced at the files in her lap. A faint pink wash of color climbed her cheeks.
?I?ll tell you all about the church?s filing problems when we get back to my house,? she said in crisp defense. ?But my ankle is turned. I can drive my car, I simply cannot walk on it. I need to be brought to it.? She pressed her lips together and with rusty effort added, ?Please.?
At that moment, Investigator Boyd stuck his head through the door of the storage room. His eyes took in the broken ceiling, the mess on the floor, and our forlorn trio. He swore under his breath.
?What is going on here? You three all right??
He seemed satisfied by the simultaneous cacophony of assurances he got from us.
?We?re going through the conference center,? said Boyd. He wagged a finger at me. ?We got permission. That?s we, not you, got it??
?Aye, aye,? I said agreeably. ?Lucille, please give Arch and me a few moments to make space for you in the
