More scuffling, and Rutherford took over. “Mr. Ammon has gone to get a cough drop,” Rutherford said, “but it sounds like the conversation went well. I have to say I saw some of the fire at the museum, and it was spectacular. Did you get to see any of it?”
“No.”
“Well, there will be other opportunities. Mr. Ammon has a list of activities prepared to demonstrate his commitment to completing Mammon’s holy ceremony.”
“More fires and kidnappings?”
“Very definitely. Mr. Ammon is still a bit under the weather from time to time, but he’s a master at planning a campaign such as this. He would have made a wonderful general. A regular Napoleon.”
There was some offstage growling and a muffled conversation.
“One last thing,” Rutherford said, returning to the phone. “Mr. Ammon would like to order a dozen cupcakes. Six chocolate and six red velvet with cream cheese icing. I’ll send someone over to pick them up.”
I disconnected, grabbed a cupcake container, and filled it with the dozen cupcakes. I wrote “Martin Ammon” on the container, and set it out front next to the door.
“Gather up some food and kill the lights,” I said to Clara, Josh, and Glo. “We’re going underground until Diesel returns.”
Five minutes later we locked the bakery, took the stairs to the storeroom, and moved into the tunnel. I pulled the shelves back in place, so the tunnel entrance wasn’t visible. Clara led the way with the big spotlight. Glo and I had smaller flashlights tucked into our tote bags. Carl skipped alongside me. Josh carried two large freezer bags filled with meat pies and muffins. We would be able to get water at the speakeasy.
“These tunnels go for miles and miles under Salem,” Clara said. “The speakeasy is the most elaborate of the hidey-holes, but there are storerooms and bunk rooms all over the place. Houses and office buildings have changed hands and been renovated, and the current owners probably have no idea they’re living over tunnel entrances.”
We reached the speakeasy and settled in, allowing ourselves light from just one lightbulb in case Rutherford returned to Gramps’s house.
“We’ll know if someone is in the house,” Clara said. “You can hear people walking overhead on the creaky floorboards. And if you climb the stairs and stand in front of the door, you might be able to get cell service.”
We ate meat pies and played checkers. I tried to reach Diesel a couple times but had no success. At nine o’clock Clara wanted to check on the bakery, so we left Josh and Glo and Carl at the speakeasy, and Clara led me through the tunnels to a trapdoor. We unlatched the door and popped up in a dark, musty shed that was housing a lawnmower.
“This shed belongs to Myra Belkar,” Clara said. “It’s a total wreck, and Myra would love to demolish it and put up a garage. Unfortunately for Myra, the shed is deemed historic, so she can’t change it, and she can’t tear it down.”
We crept out of the unlocked shed and looked around. There were no streetlights on the narrow street. The small houses crammed into small pieces of land were in dark shadow. Lights were on in the houses. None had shades drawn. We could see Myra in her kitchen, at the sink. The bakery was a block away. We walked to the corner and looked down the street. We didn’t see any fire-blackened buildings. No fire trucks. No yellow crime scene tape. No lunatic Ammon employees hanging out. It all felt benign. I supposed Martin Ammon was happy with the cupcakes.
“At least they didn’t attack the bakery,” Clara said. “It would be painful to see it destroyed. My first instinct is to stand my ground and protect it, but I know that’s not smart. It’s just a building after all. It can be rebuilt.”
My phone chirped with a text message from Diesel. It was just one word…success. He had the coin. I messaged back that there were problems, and we’d gone underground. Look before you shoot was his answer. I assumed that meant he’d try to find us.
Clara and I retraced our steps and returned to the speakeasy. Josh and Carl were playing checkers in the dim light.
“Who’s winning?” I asked.
“Carl is winning,” Glo said. “If we don’t let him win he pitches a tantrum and throws the checkers all around the room.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
When you’re underground, the only way to know if it’s day or night is to check your watch. And I imagine if you were underground long enough even your watch wouldn’t keep you from being disoriented. It was close to midnight when I fell asleep. I was on the floor, using my tote bag as a pillow. I awoke at five, drifted back into a restless sleep, and woke up again at seven.
Glo was up and pacing, Josh was playing solitaire, and Carl was sprawled on top of a poker table sound asleep.
“Where’s Clara?” I asked Glo.
“In the tunnels. She said she needed exercise. Personally I think it’s a creepy place to go for a walk.”
“Not for Clara. She played in these tunnels when she was a kid. And she’s probably freaked out that the bakery is closed. The bakery is never closed.”
Clara returned at seven-thirty, and moments later we heard someone walking overhead. We snapped the light off and froze. No one spoke. I looked at my cellphone. No bars. If it was Diesel upstairs, looking for the entrance to the speakeasy, he couldn’t reach me. I tiptoed to the stairs and crept up to the door. A text message flashed on f
rom Diesel. Can’t find entrance.
I texted back broom closet. A moment later I heard the broom closet door open and mops and a bucket getting kicked around. I opened the secret door at the back of the closet, and Diesel handed me a cardboard box with four coffees from Starbucks.