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WHEN HE REACHED the bottom of the stairs, Joe saw that the basement was a typical subterranean cinder-block room. It had a washer, a dryer, a water heater, a furnace, stacks of boxes, and a pile of lawn furniture. Four small, high windows let in some light.
There was no bed or sofa or anything that suggested a living space. But under the staircase was a narrow door with a gleaming brass doorknob that suggested use and might be the entrance to Clement Hubbell’s “hole.”
Joe considered again what he was doing and was sure he was not breaking any laws. He’d been invited into the house, had gotten permission to go to Hubbell’s room. He turned the knob and the door opened, letting him into another hallway, this one totally devoid of light.
He left the door open behind him, and after letting his eyes acclimate, he noticed that the floor of this hallway was made of poured concrete and that it was on a fifteen-degree downward angle. Calculating the turns he’d made, he was heading under the vegetable garden, but about twenty feet down.
He cupped his hands and called out “Hellooooo.” Not hearing an answer or any sound, he kept one hand on the cinder-block wall and walked down the incline until it terminated in an empty twelve-by-twelve room that was dimly lit by a pale-blue light.
Centered in the floor of that room was a hatch door flipped back into the open position. There was an attic-type folding ladder attached to the hatch frame by a spring-loaded hinge, and the ladder extended straight down into a pale pool of bluish light.
Joe called “Hellooooo” again, and as before, there was no answer. He had too much curiosity to walk away, but climbing down that ladder was a big commitment to the unknown.
He would need both his hands on the ladder, meaning his gun would be holstered and he would be backing down virtually blind into whatever lay below. Although Hubbell wasn’t home, Joe still had a queasy feeling that this hole could be a bear trap.
He put his hands on his knees and peered down into the opening; he looked down from another side of the hole and saw nothing but the long length of ladder and the dim blue light. He decided to retrace his steps and tell Denise Hubbell of the unbaked muffins that he’d visit again some other time.
But instead, he found himself getting a grip on the ladder, making sure it was steady, placing one foot on the top rung. And after that step proved to be stable, Joe began the descent to the bottom of the ladder.
When both of his feet were on solid concrete, Joe found the source of the light: a couple of open laptops on a roughly made desk. He was moving toward the desk, hoping to find a lamp, when a muscular arm snaked across his chest from behind and a sharp, cold blade stung the tight skin of his throat.
“Who the hell are you?” said the man with the knife.
CHAPTER 81
JOE FROZE.
He considered kicking back at the man’s knees, but since that action could get his throat cut, he held up his hands and said, “Nothing to be concerned about, Clement. You certainly don’t need the knife, man. Your mom asked me to come down and check on you, that’s all. She was worried. Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
Joe had kept his voice steady, but he couldn’t control either his heart’s sudden drumbeat or the sweat beading his upper lip.
The arm around his chest loosened slightly, but the knife tightened. Joe felt it cut into his skin; at the same time, he felt the man’s hand lift the gun from his shoulder holster.
“Nice piece,” said the man’s voice. “Government grade. What are you? FBI?”
“I worked for the Feds,” Joe said. “I’m a civilian now. Retired.”
“So what are you doing here?”
Joe said, “I drive this road sometimes, and when I see your mom in the garden, I talk to her. She gave me some chives one time.” Joe was making it up as he went along, but he sounded con
vincing to his own ears. At the same time, adrenaline was coursing through his veins like a river over its banks in the rainy season.
He forced himself to slow his breathing and focused on his surroundings.
The room was about twelve by eight feet, the dimensions of a roomy two-person jail cell. There was a metal-framed bunk bed against one of the long sides of the room. On the short side to his right was that desk, made of a couple of ten-inch boards resting on two cinder-block pedestals.
To his left, on the other short wall, were a toilet, a washstand with no mirror, and a four-cubic-foot refrigerator. Joe had no sense of what was behind him on the opposite long wall.
“Have a seat, G-man,” said the ex-con who lived in the hole. He moved the knife away and shoved Joe against the lower berth of the bunk bed, which moved a couple of inches back toward the wall when he struck it.
Joe righted himself and got his first good look at Clement Hubbell. Hubbell was lanky, leaner than when his mug shot had been taken. His hair was close-shaven. He wore a wife-beater and a pair of cotton pants; he was barefoot. His arms were tattooed from fingers to collarbones in prison art: skulls, snakes, naked women, the word MOM inside a heart on his right biceps. The heart pulsed when Hubbell flexed his arm.
Joe watched as Hubbell set the knife down within reach on the desk and checked to see if Joe’s gun was loaded. It was. He pointed it at Joe and at the same time lifted the ladder, which was weighted so that it easily rose up to rest parallel to the ceiling. As the ladder rose, the ceiling hatch closed.
Joe’s hammering heart picked up its tempo. He was twenty years older than Hubbell. With the ladder up and the hatch closed, there was no way out.
Hubbell pointed to a pair of handcuffs beside Joe’s feet, and Joe saw that the cuffs were linked to a length of chain that ran under the bed. The other end of the chain was likely looped around the bed leg closest to the wall.
