Page 96 of A Gathering of Secrets

The good news is that I now know Edna Lambright is either guilty of—or at the very least involved in—the death of Daniel Gingerich. I think about Neva and I wonder if her going missing was a ruse, or if she’s somehow involved, too.

A noise from above quiets my thoughts. Flipping off the flashlight, I look up, listening. I hear footsteps, movement, something being dragged across the floor. Through the opening, I see the shifting of shadows.

“Edna, you need to open that door and let me out of here. One of my officers is on the way. It’s over.”

I wait but there’s no response.

“It’s not too late to stop this, Edna. Think of your family. They need you. Talk to me and we’ll work through this together.”

Nothing.

The rain is still coming down, but not as hard and I can hear her moving around. What the hell is she doing?

“Talk to me, Edna,” I say. “Come on, work with me.”

The next thing I know, something heavy lands a few feet away from me. Flicking on the light, I realize she tossed a wood pallet through the opening. Dust flies in the cone of light. I shift the beam upward in time to see a wooden crate tumble down, nearly striking me. A second crate follows, busting on impact. What the hell?

I’m about to call out to her when I discern the unmistakable smell of gasoline. Fear lands a punch squarely in my chest. If this woman was capable of locking Daniel Gingerich in that tack room and setting the barn on fire, who’s to say she won’t do the same to me?

“Edna!” I shout. “Don’t do anything foolish. Unlock that door and let me out!”

Several more boards fly down through the hole. The smell of gasoline intensifies and I realize she’s dousing all that old wood with gas.

I try to appeal to her. “Mer sot em sei eegne net verlosse; Gott verlosst die seine nicht.” One should not abandon one’s own; God does not abandon His own.

Another board clatters atop the others.

“Edna!” I shout. “Don’t do this! The police are on the way!”

Silence.

Spinning, I shine the beam around the room, looking for an escape, windows, doors, loose siding or even a loose stone in the foundation. Seeing nothing, I hasten to the staircase, take the steps two at a time to the top. I try the knob again. No go. I check for hinges, thinking I might be able to tap out the pins, but they’re on the other side of the door.

Without hesitation, I step back, raise my right leg and kick the wood next to the knob hard enough to jolt my bones. Once. Twice. Three times. I look around for something heavy with which to ram it. But there’s nothing. Getting a running start, I thrust my shoulder and hip into the door, putting as much body weight as I can behind it. The door holds solid.

“Edna! Don’t do anything stupid.” Grinding out the words between gritted teeth, I take the steps back down to ground level.

My eyes scan the area, looking for something I can use to bust down the door. A cinder block. A length of wood. A stone from the foundation. All the while I’m aware of the shuffling of feet above. Someone moving around. Something scraping against the floor. I spot a T-post, rush to it. I’m bending to pick it up when I hear a tremendous whoosh! A fireball the size of a car flares above and then plummets downward.

A gust of intense heat shoves me backward. Turning away, I sprint to the stairs. At the base, I glance over my shoulder to see the pile of wood ignite. For an instant, I consider trying to douse the flames, but the fire is too large, there’s too much gas, and I don’t have the means.

“Edna!” I scream. “Open the door!”

Panic jabs my solar plexus hard enough to take my breath. Smoke rises and expands along the ceiling, pouring out through the opening from which I fell.

I dart to the T-post I saw earlier, snatch it up. I run to the fire, poke at it with the post, hoping to disperse the fuel source, weaken the flames. Within seconds the heat and smoke drive me back. Steel post in hand, I rush back to the stairs, take them two at a time to the top. Using the post like a battering ram, I slam it into the door as hard as I can. The impact jars my body, scrapes my palms. But the door holds.

All the while smoke billows all around, a noxious cloud reaching for me with black, toxic fingers. I ram the post against the lock. Once. Twice. Three times.

“Help me!”

In the back of my mind I wonder where Skid is. If he’s tried to raise me on the radio. If he’s on his way. Images of Daniel Gingerich’s burned body flash in my mind’s eye. I see the contracted tendons and charred, split flesh, his face blackened beyond recognition. I wonder if his last minutes were like this. If he’d thought up until the end that he was going to survive. It’s a terrifying thought that pushes me to the edge of panic.

Setting down the T-post, I snatch the flashlight from my waistband and descend the stairs. Another layer of fear tears through me when I see that the fire has doubled in size. A bellowing monster spewing smoke and heat and snatching all the air.

I stand there, heat singeing my face, smoke burning my lungs. I look up at the hole in the ceiling. No one there. I scream out her name anyway. “Edna! Open the door!”

Heat sends me backward. Coughing, I look around. I’m not strong enough, heavy enough, to break down the door. There are no windows. No other doors. No escape.