Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [106]
I reach for the knob of the nearest door. It’s a coat closet, empty save for a pair of black shoes on the floor. Not only is it inadequately supplied, it’s too shallow for what I have in mind. I close it and try the next door, which turns out to be a much better choice. It’s a utility closet, and about eight feet deep. An assortment of brooms and mops, a shop vac, various cleaning solutions, and two rolled carpets fill the space, and there’s a large sink mounted on the back wall. Looking over the room’s contents, I notice there’s a thin layer of dust covering everything. It suggests that this is a secondary storage area, one not often used by the staff. It’s perfect.
I guide Geeves into the room, forcing him far enough in so that both Espy and I can join. I find the light switch and then close the door. I hand my partner the gun and, though we haven’t rehearsed this part, she takes it with only a minimum of fumbling. Once she has it pointed in the right direction, I push Geeves face-first against the wall, slip my hand behind his coat, and search his back pockets. I’m rewarded with a rectangular wallet-sized bulge. Flipping through the wallet’s contents, I find the man’s license, pull it out and then hand the wallet back to him. I check the name.
“I really am sorry about all this, Mr. Stemple,” I say. “I usually don’t do this sort of thing.”
He is unmoved.
I step past him and unroll one of the carpets, pleased with our good fortune. It’s heavy and thick, and I’m confident the aged man will find it an unbeatable foe.
I gesture at the rug. “If you’d be so kind.”
He responds with a snort and focuses his eyes on some point on the ceiling.
“We don’t have time for this,” Esperanza says. “If you don’t move now, I’m going to put a bullet in that geriatric kneecap of yours.”
There’s no way of knowing if it’s the tone of Espy’s voice that does the trick, or the look of surprise on my face, which forces Stemple into motion. I don’t blame him for the crack in his resolve. Espy even has me believing that she will indeed shoot this man.
I direct Stemple to lie down at one end of the unfurled rug. When he’s in position I take the edge and fold it over him, then gently roll him along the floor, wrapping him in the thick material. There’s enough length to get three complete revolutions. I take a roll of duct tape from one of the pockets of my work pants and proceed to seal him in. Stemple is now cocooned. A last length of tape serves to mute him.
I stand back and review my handiwork. I’d bet a year’s salary that he couldn’t budge more than an inch. Espy hands me back the gun—perhaps a bit reluctantly—and after I lock the door from the inside, we slip out into the hallway.
Juggling competing urgencies can lead to an ulcer, if the rumbling in my midsection is any indication. Espy and I are balancing two nearly incompatible realities as we navigate our way through the mansion: the necessity of conducting a search, and a keen understanding that time is not our ally. It takes us fifteen minutes to go through the first floor and I can hear the clock ticking in my head. It’s only a matter of time before someone finds the old man in the closet, or wonders why there’s a landscaping van parked outside but no workers in sight. The professional part of me—the one that can spend hours studying a single room in minute detail—thinks we’re moving too quickly, perhaps missing something important. I have to force myself to remember that we’re not searching for the bones; rather, we’re hunting a person, and so a quick check of each room is all that’s needed.
And I’m beginning to suspect that, besides the unfortunate Mr. Stemple, we might be the only ones here. The mansion’s atmosphere is decidedly creepy. It’s as if this vast estate were really a museum, and Stemple its curator. But, according to what I’ve been