“Mother and the rest went over to the farm,” he said, burying his nose back in the comic book. “They’ll be over later with lunch.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Basement's this way,” I added to Dr. Smoot, throwing open the door.
He glanced through the opening. I was relieved to see that he didn’t panic, but he seemed to be waiting for me to lead the way.
Chief Burke would have to put up with me, apparently. I grabbed a flashlight and obliged.
Dr. Smoot nearly lost his nerve when I opened the door from the finished part of the basement into the unfinished part, with its maze of small rooms. I eventually cajoled him into moving again, but only after he grabbed my arm with both hands, and from the unsteadiness of his steps, he probably had his eyes closed.
“It's only a few more steps,” I repeated. I tried to say it loudly enough that Chief Burke would hear me and relieve me of my recalcitrant charge, but apparently the chief was arguing with Sammy. I could hear their voices, the chief's mellow baritone alternating with Sammy's nervous tenor, and occasionally I saw sudden flashes of light.
When I got closer, I saw that the light came from Horace, who was slowly and methodically laboring with a small trowel to uncover the rest of the body, pausing every few minutes to wield his digital camera.
“I’ve brought Dr. Smoot,” I said.
“You could have sent him,” the chief said. “We can take it from here.”
“Don’t desert me!” Smoot wailed, tightening his grip on my arm until I was worried that he’d cut off the blood circulation.
“Dr. Smoot was a little worried about the...um...footing down here,” I said.
“You didn’t tell me the body was in a basement,” Smoot moaned.
I heard whispering.
“That's all right then,” the chief said, in a falsely hearty voice. “Sammy, why don’t you go help the doctor?”
Smoot welcomed Sammy's help—I breathed more easily when one of Dr. Smoot's hands detached itself from my bruised forearm. But it took both of us to coax him over to the side of the hole, and he stood there for the longest time with his eyes pressed tightly shut, breathing deeply.
Since I was standing there anyway, I leaned over to peek into the excavation Horace was making. If I hadn’t known it was Lanahan, I might not have recognized him at first. Alive, he had been handsome in a beefy, football-player way. Now, his features looked pale and puffy, and the faint, rather dashing scar on one cheek stood out more. But it was Lanahan. My eyes drifted down to his chest. For a moment, I couldn’t quite decipher what I was seeing, and then it all fell into place.
“Good grief,” I said. “Is that an arrow in his chest?” “You’re not supposed to see that,” the chief snapped. “Fine,” I said. “Am I not seeing what I think I’m not seeing?” “Horrible,” Smoot muttered. “Great dark echoing caverns of blackness.”
Since he still had his eyes closed, I didn’t think he was referring to the arrow.
“Technically it's a crossbow bolt,” Horace said.
“Is he going to be all right?” the chief asked.
“I thought you said he was dead,” Smoot said. “Why did you bring me down here? If he's alive, any old doctor would do.”
Sammy and I looked at each other. Sammy shrugged.
“He looks pretty dead to me,” I said, in my most soothing voice. “Dr. Smoot, why don’t you just open your eyes and pronounce him officially.”
“And then Meg will lead you right out,” the chief added.
“Isn’t he supposed to do some investigating?” I asked. “I mean—”
“We can worry about that down at the morgue,” the chief said. “Let's just get him to pronounce so we can move the body.”
Smoot pried one eye open, gazed down at the body, and moaned. “Yes, he's dead,” he said, screwing his eyes shut again. “What a horrible place to die!”
“Don’t worry, he didn’t die here,” I said as Sammy and I began to lead Smoot away from the excavation.
“How do you know that?” the chief demanded.
“I think we’d have noticed if someone was down here playing bows and arrows in the middle of the night,” I called over my shoulder. “And it would have to have been the middle of the night—after Dad knocked off digging for the evening, which couldn’t have been that long before Flugleman's closed, and before we all got up to begin the move, which was maybe five this morning.”
“Hmph,” the chief said.
“I’ll get the door,” Sammy said. We’d been leading Smoot toward the cellar doors he hated so much—my plan was not to let him open his eyes till he was nearly outside. It worked—he took one look at the open doors, uttered a squeak, and ran outside.