• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Maybe it was the maid’s day off. Hope Mobley opened the door herself this time. And this time I could see Wilton in her more clearly. She had his eyes and forehead and his tawny coloring.

“Cassandra,” she said. “You have a pretty name. I thought if I ever had a girl, I might name her that.”

“I’m intruding again,” I said. “But I wouldn’t do it if this wasn’t important.”

“I’m sure you think so. Your aunt told me how much you take things to heart. I like her.”

She caught me peeping around the big entrance hall. “I understand you’re worried about seeing Oscar. Don’t be. He isn’t here.”

“Oh?”

“No. He’s at the Drake. Until we can decide what our future will be. Whether we have different futures, I should say. You don’t have to stand in the doorway, either. Come in. You have something for me, I believe.”

With no further explanation, I took out my mammy-made sketch, handed it over. “Is that something you recognize?”

It took her a minute. “I believe so. But what on earth is the meaning of this?”

“What does it open, Mrs. Mobley?”

“This is too much.”

“Please tell me.”

“A kind of safe house. A bomb shelter my father insisted we install up at the house in Kent. My God, that was years ago. But how do you know about this key?”

“Wilton had it.”

“Wilton had it? But why? I mean, he couldn’t have. There are only two copies of this key. Mine is in a bureau drawer somewhere and Oscar’s is in his desk.”

“I bet one of them is missing.”

She took a step away from me then, suspicious. “Whose secrets are you trying to get at, young woman—Wilton’s or Oscar’s?”

“I don’t know. Maybe both. I’m not out to trash anybody’s memory. But I’m not going to stop until I know what went down.”

“No, I guess you won’t. But isn’t it time you let them rest—my son and the girl?”

“You think they’re resting? They’re not.”

I couldn’t stand the look on her face, and hated myself for putting it there.

“Go and look for the keys,” I said. “Please.”

2

Sim drove steadily and fast, at least fifteen miles over the limit. Hunched over the wheel, he was an odd mix of relaxation and attentiveness. More like a fighter pilot than a guy ferrying a lady to the country.

For a few minutes I let myself pretend I was Hope Mobley in better days, when her prosperous, lucky family was young and together. A lovely young wife on a leisurely car ride to her country place.

It was one in the afternoon when we left the highway and pulled onto the road heading north. We stayed on that until we reached the rough, rock-strewn one that led to the house.

The Mobley place stood at the end of the path; it was big and lonely looking. The wood on the upper story was splintering from wind damage, and the place needed a paint job.

“She said it’s past the house,” I told Sim. “About a half mile west of here. This way.”

He followed in my footsteps. “Why is it so far away from the house?”

“They told Oscar Mobley it should be built near some natural shelter, so he had it installed close to the dunes. To dilute the shock waves from the nuclear blast—would you believe? I guess that’s how people were thinking then. They expected Russia to try to wipe out the state of Illinois. Hope said she told her father it was preposterous, but he wouldn’t listen.”

The terrain became hilly, and soon we had entered what looked like an old creek bed. “There,” I said. “It should be about a hundred yards from here.”

I started to walk fast, and within five minutes we were staring at two moldy steel doors lying flat to the ground.

Oscar’s key. Hope’s key. The issue was moot now. We didn’t need one. The doors were flung open. We looked at the gaping blackness they bracketed.

“What you think is down there?” he said. Neither of us wanted to be the first to descend into the unknown.

Finally Sim made a move. He took the first step down the wet stone staircase. Once we were at the bottom of it, we could see nothing.

“There’s gotta be a light,” I said. “Feel around for it.”

All at once, a string of lights popped on. He’d found