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40
Captivity
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
Molly held the table steady with one hand and the chair balanced on top of it with the other as Sherlock pried the plywood off the window again with the bridge cue. This time the wood broke apart, and she handed the pieces down to Molly. She stared at the filthy window caked with grime and spiderwebs and dead spiders. “Well, this is disgusting.”
“What do you see outside?”
“It’s still daylight. I can’t see much more, the window’s too grimy, but I can make out lots of trees. Toss me one of those blankets.”
Sherlock rolled up the blanket Molly passed her and rubbed it over the windowpane. “That’s better. I see trees everywhere and no guards. It’s a hinged window with a handle. I’m going to give it a try.” She pulled on the rusted handle, but it didn’t budge. No surprise. She rolled an edge of the blanket tight and wrapped it around the handle, pulled down on it with all her weight. The window creaked and groaned and finally started to give. She cranked the window open as far as it would go.
She said over her shoulder, “Molly, it’s time to give it a go. Hold the chair steady.” Sherlock hoisted herself up into the window frame, stuck her head through, and worked her shoulders until they were free. Her hips were harder, but she fit, barely. She pushed herself back in and stepped carefully down from the chair and off the table. “Now you, Molly. Give it a try.”
Molly climbed up on the table and then the chair as Sherlock held them steady for her, eyed the narrow window opening. Sherlock gave her a boost as she pulled herself up and pushed her shoulders up against the frame. She got stuck and pulled back, twisted into a swimming motion and pushed again, one shoulder first. She pushed and twisted and groaned as the window casing cut into her and finally got her shoulders through, but it was obvious she couldn’t get her hips through no matter how hard she tried. Finally, Molly pulled herself back. She was nearly in tears when she stepped off the table. “It’s a no go, Sherlock,” she said. “Nero was right. I can get my shoulders through but my butt’s too big.”
Sherlock patted her shoulder. “We’ll figure out something else.” She looked down at the broken pieces of plywood on the floor. “There’s no way to put that plywood back in place.”
Molly grabbed her hand. “Sherlock, listen. You can squeeze through. I think you should go—”
Sherlock squeezed her hand, said matter-of-factly, “I’ve thought about going out alone if you couldn’t fit, at least to look around, maybe try to find out where we are. But here’s the problem, Molly. There’s no telling what Nero would do in retaliation if I’m caught or can’t get back. I think this house was built a long time ago by people with money. It looks like it’s surrounded by lots of acreage, mainly forest. We could be a long way from the nearest town, and I wouldn’t have a cell phone or a weapon or any kind of transportation. It’s worth the risk together, but not alone. We’re not splitting up, I mean it. We’re going to find some other way out.”
Molly sighed. “Maybe you’re right, Sherlock, but what scares me is you’re not the one they wanted. I’m terrified Nero sees you as expendable and will shoot you any time he wants.”
Sherlock was well aware of her situation. “Don’t go there, Molly. It does no good to scare ourselves senseless. Dillon and Ramsey and your father are scouring the earth for us, probably facing down Shaker in Las Vegas already. But right now there’s no one but us who can get us out of here. We’re going to do it.”
Molly said, “I feel like a failure for not getting my butt out of that blasted window.” She paused, drew a deep breath. “Do you know my first thought when I couldn’t get through the window? ‘I wonder if Ramsey really likes my butt or he thinks it’s too big too.’” She snorted a laugh, shook her head. “I’m losing my mind. All right, what are we going to do?”
“You have a very fine butt, Molly. The way Ramsey looks at you tells me he fully agrees.” She pointed to the piles of boxes. “What we’re going to do is look through all those boxes for something useful, something that might help us.”
Molly looked over at the mountains of piled boxes, nodded. “A loaded old Colt .45 would be nice.”
They worked quickly, and five minutes later, they were halfway through the third box. All they’d found were piles clothes in the styles of the 1940s and 1950s, even a bright blue poodle skirt.
They hit a jackpot in the fourth box. Molly said, “Look at those ancient photo albums. Maybe they’ll tell us where we are.” She pulled out the one that looked the oldest, wiped the dust off it with one of the skirts. Black-and-white photos from the 1920s and 1930s were carefully pasted to each page, mainly of two women posing in front of the house, alone and together, vamping for the camera.
“Look at the plants in front of the house. They look like they were just planted, so maybe that means the house was just finished. And look at their clothes.” Molly pointed to the woman wearing what looked to be a satin dress with a band around the hips, and a beaded headband in her waved hair. She said, “They both look so happy, like they’re headed out on the town, maybe to a speakeasy. I bet they never thought one day in the future there’d be prisoners kept in their basement.” She choked back a sob, looked at Sherlock. “They’re dead now, however their lives turned out. I wonder if people will look at pictures we’ve taken and shake their heads at how old-fashioned we all look. Maybe wonder when we died.”
Sherlock grabbed Molly’s hand. “Stop it! I know you’re thinking about Emma and Ramsey and the twins. I’m as scared as you are. The thought of never seeing Sean or Dillon again makes me want to curl up in the corner and give up. But we’re not going to give up. We have a problem to solve and that’s what we’re going to do. Look at this photo. The house is a huge square, three stories and the basement. Light gray stone, wide wraparound porch. I’m thinking a house this spectacular might even have a name attached to it. Maybe we can find it, or even an address.”
Molly got herself together. “That garage, it’s got to hold six cars. And what is that gorgeous old car in the driveway?”
“That hood ornament—a big ‘B’ with wings; it’s a Bentley, probably late twenties or early thirties.”
Molly looked closely at the photo. “The tires are barely wider than a bicycle’s. Can’t see a license plate.”
They rifled quickly through the more recent photos albums. There were children, grandchildren, and the same two women they’d seen earlier, older now, styles and hair changed with the times. By the 1970s, only one was left and she looked old and tired, but still had a hint of that wonderful smile she’d had in the 1920s.
Sherlock said, “Here’s a color photo, probably from the seventies or eighties. The front yard is huge, must be at least fifty yards from the driveway to the road. Look at the oaks and pines and maples pressing in. It doesn’t suggest any particular part of the US to me, only places we’re not. What do you think, Molly?”
Molly studied the photo. “It’s obviously early spring in the photo, like it is now. I’m thinking we’re still on the East Coast, more north than south, I really can’t say why, but it’s something about those trees, and the style of the house. We’re talking old money, Sherlock, very old money.”
“Agreed.”
Molly sighed, pointed to the stacks of old dust-covered photo albums. “I hope the family looked at all these photos now and then, at their mothers and grandmothers, before they were tossed into boxes and forgotten. At least they didn’t throw them away.”
Sherlock opened another box. “Look, Molly, a pile of letters.” She untied the ribbon holding them together, looked through the ones on top. “They’re dated back in the twenties, and they’re all written to a Roselyn, probably one of the women in the photos. Maybe they’ll tell us who these people were, or mention where we are.”
