Sunken Graves Alan Lee (reading e books .txt) 📖

The little girl took the big man’s hand and pulled him out, telling him he could open his eyes now.

Ann Lynch?

That was Jingle Bell Rock drifting up from below. The Christmas party at Peter Lynch’s house?

Concrete facts began to solidify. Implications and warnings landing on her shoulders.

Hathaway realized she was having a nightmare wide awake.

The Lynch homestead was lit up with Christmas bulbs and music. Late partygoers were still arriving and three valets arranged cars up and down the long driveway.

Jennings parked out of the lights, a ways down the drive. He’d driven here at a hundred miles per hour, but now he needed calm. He needed good decisions. He sat in the car, adjusting his prosthesis, and breathing deep. Said a prayer and shoved open the door.

He hurried up the road, staying inside the tree line, but paused near the parked cars—at the roundabout, near the house, there was a police cruiser. Next to it, he recognized an unmarked cruiser, the chief’s.

Waiting inside, waiting to arrest him. And the chief had brought at least one henchman…

There! At the stairs, prowling the front porch, just beyond the lights. Officer Hudson, the corrupt cop who’d pulled Jennings over and torn him from the car.

Theories and fears and questions demanded Jennings’ attention. How much did Gibbs know? That his son had killed an innocent man earlier that day? Doubtful, because the body was still there. Did Hudson know he was guarding the house of a madman? Did Hudson know a woman had been kidnapped? Was Daisy really in that house? Who could Jennings call for help? Maybe Mackenzie, the private detective? No one at all until he got his hands on a phone! But Daisy couldn’t wait.

Jennings wouldn’t risk charging through the front door. He’d be immediately arrested, or possibly shot. Or maybe Hathaway wasn’t there and he’d misread the situation. He needed information first, needed to recon.

Using his memory of the house and the lawn, Jennings made his way around back. The ground was wet enough so the leaves didn’t crackle, but not so wet to give his unsteady prosthesis trouble. He used no light, walking slow, and relying on the ambient glow of the house.

Circumventing the wide clearing took ten minutes, the loneliest of his life. Every step his faith failed. The people inside were probably laughing at crazy Mr. Jennings and his cocaine charges. He’d been desperate to earn his place and failed in spectacular fashion. He couldn’t do this. Maybe Hathaway wanted to marry Lynch. He’d go to jail. Maybe she’d be killed. He’d bleed out into the rocks. The tribunal would find him guilty.

He squeezed on the fear. Remembered Kelly Carson. Refused to let Hathaway suffer the same or worse.

He reached the rear lawn and checked his watch—the party had been going for forty-five minutes. Had Lynch proposed yet? A wide porch dominated the back of the house, like the front. The rear doors led into a hallway off the busy kitchen.

He would let himself in that way. He wasn’t trying to sneak in entirely unnoticed, but rather enter the party without causing a scene. It’d be better if Lynch—

Police Chief Gibbs appeared at the window and pinned him with a glare. The bald man’s eyes full of hate.

Jennings froze. He knew that car belonged to Gibbs! Everything was ruined now. Gibbs would arrest him for trespassing, for breaking the conditions set on his bond. He was going back to prison and there was no chance of getting out before his hearing. He reached for his phone. But it wasn’t there. Should he start shouting? Should he…

But wait.

Gibbs’ gaze shifted away from him. Searching the darkness of the entire backyard. After a minute the man left the window, returning to the party. He hadn’t seen Jennings in the shadows.

Relief flooded Jennings and his heart pounded like someone beat on his ears. That was too close.

Damned if he’d back out now. He’d just be more careful. Stay away from Gibbs until he saw Hathaway.

But he couldn’t go in through that door, into the hallway patrolled by the chief. Jennings’ eyes fell to the basement door.

He tried it and the door swung inward. Stepped in and flicked the light switch. He stood next to a utility sink in the bowels of the house. The gas furnace was churning and a tankless hot water heater hissed. The air handler drowned out the music above. He crossed the room, through a door, and entered a concrete storage area. Wooden shelves were stacked with boxes, bottles of alcohol, two steel safes, an old bicycle, football equipment, books, electrical cords, surplus construction materials, buckets of paint. A work bench was laden with tools.

Two doors led out of the storage area. Jennings tried the first but it was locked. The second, on the far wall, was unlocked and it opened into a dark billiard room and a staircase leading upward.

First, though, sick curiosity ate at him. What was behind that locked door?

He returned to it and searched the top of the frame for a key. Circled the room looking in all the obvious places. Found nothing. But there was more than one way to breach a door. He took a screwdriver from the work bench.

As he worked on the doorknob he heard footsteps and laughter on the wooden floor above, muffled by insulation. The screws came out and he retracted the knob. Pushed the opposing spindle with his finger until it fell and clattered inside the locked room. Using the screwdriver, he twisted the latch until the bolt popped free of the faceplate.

Through the little hole in the door he could only see darkness beyond. His skin crawled like pure evil leaked out.

The deadbolt wasn’t engaged. He pushed open the door but could see very little. His fingers found a switch and he flicked it, and madness jumped at him.

In the brilliant great room above, the party raged and