A waitress noticed Potts. “Hey, Georgie. Looking for Morgan? He’s in the kitchen.”
Morgan was wearing an apron that covered a small portion of him. My guess was that Morgan ate more fried food than he served. His face was sweaty and greasy from standing over the fryer, and he was singing an unintelligible song to himself.
“Potts, my man,” Morgan said, dumping a basket of fries out into a metal tray under a heat lamp. “What’s up? You have a cutie and her grandma standing here. Dude, don’t ask me to play wingman on this one.”
“Nah, it’s cool. I was telling Stephanie and her grandma about the tunnel entrance in the basement,” Potts said. “Is it okay to show them?”
Morgan jerked his thumb toward the back of the room. “Basement door is through the storage closet. I’d go with you, but I have to put some burgers together.”
I led the way past tubs of lard and gallon jugs of mayonnaise. A roach the size of a hamster peered at me from between plastic bags filled with burger rolls. I gave an involuntary shiver and pushed on to the door at the far end. I opened the door and looked at the stairs. Not good. Hastily put together a long time ago and not maintained. A couple of boards were at odd angles and obviously loose. I switched the Maglite on and carefully went down first. At the bottom of the stairs, a long, yellowed string hung down from a bare lightbulb. I gave it a pull and the room lit up enough to show your typical ugly basement. The floor was packed dirt and there were thick cobwebs in every corner. Grandma and Potts followed me down. Grandma went to a crude wooden door on the far side of the cellar. It had a large rusted-out metal padlock and ring handle.
“I have a good feeling about this. Let’s get this baby open and find my treasure,” Grandma said. She pulled her .45 long barrel out of her purse and aimed it at the lock. “Stand back. I’ve seen this work on TV. There’s usually a lot of splintering.”
Potts looked worried. “I don’t do well with splinters. I once had one that took two weeks to work its way out. I almost fainted every time I looked at it.”
Grandma unloaded a couple of rounds into the wood door, and we all froze. Our eyes focused on the cellar ceiling. We didn’t hear anyone screaming about shots fired or feet stampeding to the front door. It was business as usual in the café.
Potts put his finger in one ear and then the other. “Check one. Check two. Sibilance. Sibilance,” he said. “I have delicate eardrums. I hope I didn’t rupture one when Grandma shot the gun.”
I gave the door a kick, the lock popped off, and the door swung open revealing the tunnel. It was almost identical to the one attached to the Mole Hole.
I aimed the Maglite down the tunnel to my right. I could see the entrance to the passage where the cave-in happened. The tunnel to our left seemed clear, but in a state of neglect and decay. At least the wooden braces weren’t charred, but water dripped between boards that were supposedly supporting the tunnel ceiling. The floor of the tunnel was muck.
“This doesn’t look safe,” Potts said. “I can feel my sinuses clogging. I think I smell mold.”
Mold was the least of our problems. The tunnel reeked of sewer gas and animal rot.
“I’ll go first,” Grandma said, taking the Maglite and forging ahead. “I’m already too old to die young.”
I scrambled to keep up with her, sliding on the sludge, ducking around the worst of the drips. I could hear Potts humming behind me. I had no reception on my cell phone and my worst fear was that the batteries would fail on the Maglite.
“Are you looking for etchings and symbols on the walls?” Potts called to Grandma. “Are there street signs down here? Where are we?”
“I think we gotta be going to Philadelphia,” Grandma said. “I’m leading the way so you’re in charge of the symbols.”
“I’ll take pictures,” Potts said.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“I don’t like this tunnel,” Potts said, twenty minutes in. “I’m cold and wet and muddy. I’m going to have to take zinc and vitamin C when I get home. My mother is going to yell at me when she sees my sneakers.”
Grandma’s flashlight beam caught a shadowy figure some distance in front of us. It was a black-clad woman, and the silver studs on her boots bounced the light back at us. Gabriela.
“Follow her,” I said to Grandma. “Don’t lose her.”
My hope was that Gabriela knew what she was doing, because we sure as hell didn’t. My fear was that we’d wander forever in the dark until we face-planted in the muck and someone found our bones ten years from now.
An instant later Gabriela disappeared. It took me a beat to figure it out. There had to be a bend in the tunnel. We hurried after her as best we could, sliding in the muck. We rounded the bend, I caught sight of Gabriela, and then she was gone again.
“How is she finding her way without a light?” Grandma asked.
“Probably has night-vision goggles,” Potts said. “Or maybe she’s like a cat woman.”
“Do you think she knows we’re following her?” Grandma asked.
“I’m sure she can see the Maglite,” I said.
Impossible to know if she was leading us somewhere or running from us. Also, impossible to assess the danger level. She could turn around and shoot us all dead. I didn’t think a Chardonnay drinker would do this, but you never know.