“John Trumbull? The portrait artist?” Dane frowned. John Trumbull was a painter best known for his Revolutionary War portraits, particularly his Declaration of Independence painting. “If he preserved the secret, it must have been in a painting.”
“There is a Trumbull portrait of Adams inside Faneuil Hall,” Jillian offered. “It was painted shortly before his death.”
“I suppose we could wait until the place opens and check it out, but I’d rather not. I’d like to stay ahead of the Sons of the Republic, just in case they’re on our trail.” Dane turned to Jillian. “You don’t happen to have another secret passageway up your sleeve?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Jimmy handed him a sheet of paper. “I’m way ahead of you.”
Dane looked at it and smiled.
“Jimmy, I owe you another bottle of scotch.”
“What is it?” Bones asked.
“A warren of old tunnels runs beneath the Freedom Trail. Most are dead-ends, running only a few meters before reaching points where the ceiling has collapsed, sealing it off from the rest of the passageways. One stretch, however, is intact, and it runs right beneath Faneuil Hall. At least, it was when the trail markers were installed on the Freedom Trail.”
“It will get us inside?”
“It will, according to the source I found. It’s a secret a few blue hairs from the Paul Revere Heritage group were trying to keep to themselves.”
“How do we get in?” Bones brimmed with pent-up energy, tapping his feet and drumming his fingers.
“The markers along the Freedom Trail all look the same: a ring of oak leaves encircling the words The Freedom Trail-Boston and this symbol in the middle.” He tapped an image on the paper Dane held. “In one spot, the marker covers a manhole leading down into the passageway.”
“Where?” Jillian had half-risen from her chair.
“That, I couldn’t find out, but there’s a subtle difference in that particular marker. If you look closely, it has lines like this on it.” He indicated a second image, and Dane held it up so Bones and Jillian could get a better look.
“The crossed circle,” Jillian breathed. She sprang from her seat and hugged Jimmy, who gave her an awkward pat on the back. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
“All right, ladies and gentlemen.” Bones stood, his eyes brimming with eagerness. “Let’s find a creepy old tunnel.”
CHAPTER 13
“So,” Jillian said, “now we take a tour of the Freedom Trail, right?”
Dane adjusted the backpack in which he carried one of the lanterns. Jillian carried the other in her own pack. “Yep, let’s start with Faneuil Hall.”
“It’s this way,” she replied, turning and walking toward the right-hand side of City Hall.
Without looking both ways, they crossed Congress Street at a trot, not worrying about cars smashing into them at quarter past three in the morning. They entered the plaza and made a beeline for the historic building.
“Think the doors are locked?” Bones asked.
“More than likely.” Jillian looked the building up and down. “And I wouldn’t consider breaking any windows, either: this is the most heavily secure historic building in the city. The cops would be on us so fast that we wouldn’t be able to blink. We need Jimmy’s secret passageway.”
“Here’s the marker.” Dane flicked on his Maglite and shone it on the gleaming disc. “No crossed circle. Where do you want to try next?”
Jillian pulled out her father’s map of the Freedom Trail and unfolded it. “Give me some light.” She ran her finger along the red line to the next stop. “Paul Revere’s House.”
They headed down narrow, cobblestoned Marshall Street and past the Hand Tavern, which Jillian told them had opened in 1765 and claimed to be the oldest tavern in America, standing dark on the left-hand side. The winding red line took them through the garlic-scented air of the North End.
“We’re in North Square Park,” Jillian said. “The Revere House is over here.”
Here, the red-bricked path was outlined in gray, marking the trail. The bricks rose up into a wall bisected by a gray hexagonal building with a pitched roof. They passed through a swinging gate and inspected the Revere House up close.
The remains of the house were flush against the tall brick building adjacent to it. The uneven brick surface of the courtyard surrounded a wood-and-glass case that held a bronze bell. A wrought iron staircase hung off the back side of the house, and flower gardens sprung up here and there, offsetting the monotonous red with greens, whites and yellows, all washed out in the pale moonlight.
Dane kept the flashlight moving until he found the marker. No cross. The tunnel wasn’t here.
“What’s next?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” Bones sounded incredulous. “We walked all that way for a five-second scan?”
“There’s nothing here.” Dane indicated the marker.
“All right, let’s move along.” Bones turned and headed for the exits.
“A little brusque. Is he okay?” Jillian asked.
“I’m sure he is. He’s obviously serious about solving this mystery. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so focused on something that wasn’t a combat situation.”
They caught up with Bones just outside the gate.
“Which way?” Bones asked.
They followed the long bricked pathway past stately oaks that looked old enough to have witnessed the first shots of the Revolution. They came to a halt in front of a tall, dark shape. Dane moved his flashlight about until it came to rest on a long face.
“I think I know what this is.” Bones brought his own light to bear.
A fifteen-foot-high statue with a smooth granite base loomed before them- Paul Revere mounted on his horse. They stared at the statue for several moments. There was dignity in Revere’s face, and a sense of the gravity of the task he undertook on that cold April night. Dane felt a touch of that same feeling. Here they were, three ordinary people on a mission, much like the one Revere undertook when he kicked his horse into motion and sent him speeding across the Charles River toward Lexington and Concord. Dane reached out and ran his fingers across the cool, granite surface, transfixed by the moment.
“Hey, Maddock, I think I found the marker.”
That got Dane’s attention. He joined Bones, who knelt a few feet away from the statue. Sure enough, they could just make out the cross pattern behind the ornate engravings.
“This has to be it.” He and Bones put down their lights and set to work. Dane strained with the effort, every muscle in his arms, back, and neck tensed as he poured all of his strength into working the cover loose until, finally, it broke free. They slid the metal disc aside and shone their lights into the hole, revealing rusted iron rungs descending to a brick passageway.
Dane tested the weight of the first rung, found it to be solid, and led the way down. Jillian followed, and then Bones climbed in, pausing to replace the marker over the hole before climbing the rest of the way down. Taking a moment to get their bearings, they set off in a Southwesterly direction.
“By car, it’s a little over half-a mile to Faneuil Hall,” Jillian said, “but if this tunnel is a straight shot, it should be even less.”
Dane resisted the urge to jog, even run. All around them were signs that time was catching up to this passageway: missing bricks, leaning walls, sagging sections of ceiling, and collapsed side tunnels.