Mark kept glaring.
"Do you want to turn against the rule?" John asked.
Mark lowered his eyes. "No."
"Then help Matthew with the trapdoor."
Romero's stomach fluttered. All the while John aimed the pistol at him, he watched Mark and Matthew go to the far left corner, where it took both of them to shift a barrel of grain out of the way. They lifted a trapdoor, and Romero couldn't help bleakly thinking that someone pushing from below wouldn't have a chance of moving it when the barrel was in place.
"Get down there," John said.
Romero felt dizzier. Fighting to repress the sensation, he knew that he had to do something before he felt any weaker.
If John wanted me dead, he'd have killed me by now.
Romero bolted for the outside door.
"Mark!"
Something whacked against Romero's legs, tripping him, slamming his face hard onto the floor.
Mark had thrown a club.
The three brothers grabbed him. Dazed, the most powerless he'd ever felt, he thrashed, unable to pull away from their hands, as they dragged him across the dusty floor and shoved him down the trapdoor. If he hadn't grasped the ladder, he'd have fallen.
"You don't want to be without water." John handed the jug down to him.
A chill breeze drifted from below. Terrified, Romero watched the trapdoor being closed over him and heard the scrape of the barrel being shifted back into place.
God help me, he thought.
But he wasn't in darkness. Peering down, he saw a faint light and warily descended the ladder, moving awkwardly because of the jug he held. At the bottom, he found a short tunnel and proceeded along it. An earthy musty smell made his nostrils contract. The light became brighter as he neared its source in a small plywood-walled room that he saw had a wooden chair and table. The floor was made from plywood, also. The light came from a bare bulb attached to one of the sturdy beams in the ceiling. Stepping all the way in, he saw a cot on the left. A clean pillow and blanket were on it. To the right, a toilet seat was attached to a wooden box positioned above a deep hole in the ground. I'm going to lose my mind, he thought.
The breeze, weak now that the trapdoor was closed, came from a vent in an upper part of the farthest wall. Romero guessed that the duct would be long and that there would be baffles at the end so that, if Romero screamed for help, no one who happened to come onto the property would hear him. The vent provided enough air that Romero wasn't worried about suffocating. There were plenty of other things to worry about, but at least not that.
The plywood of the floor and walls was discolored with age. Nonetheless, the pillow and the blanket had been stocked recently – when Romero raised them to his nose, there was a fresh laundry smell beneath the loamy odor that it had started absorbing.
The brothers couldn't have known I'd be here. They were expecting someone else.
Who?
Romero smelled something else. He told himself that it was only his imagination, but he couldn't help sensing that the walls were redolent with the sweaty stench of fear, as if many others had been imprisoned here.
His own fear made his mouth so dry that he took several deep swallows of water. Setting the jug on the table, he stared apprehensively at a door across from him. It was just a simple old wooden door, vertical planks held in place by horizontal boards nailed to the top, middle, and bottom, but it filled him with apprehension. He knew that he had to open it, that he had to learn if it gave him a way to escape, but he had a terrible premonition that something unspeakable waited on the other side. He told his legs to move. They refused. He told his right arm to reach for the doorknob. It, too, refused.
The spinning sensation in his mind was now aggravated by the short quick breaths he was taking. I'm hyperventilating, he realized, and struggled to return his breath rate to normal. Despite the coolness of the chamber, his face dripped sweat. In contrast, his mouth was drier than ever. He gulped more water.
Open the door.
His body reluctantly obeyed, his shaky legs taking him across the chamber, his trembling hand reaching for the doorknob. He pulled. Nothing happened, and for a moment he thought that the door was locked, but when he pulled harder, the door creaked slowly open, the loamy odor from inside reaching his nostrils before his eyes adjusted to the shadows in there.
For a terrible instant, he thought he was staring at bodies. He almost stumbled back, inwardly screaming, until a remnant of his sanity insisted that he stare harder, that what he was looking at were bulging burlap sacks.
And baskets.
And shelves of…
Vegetables.
Potatoes, beets, turnips, onions.
Jesus, this was the root cellar under the barn. Repelled by the musty odor, he searched for another door. He tapped the walls, hoping for a hollow sound that would tell him there was an open space, perhaps another room or even the outside, beyond it.
He found nothing to give him hope.
"Officer Romero?" The faint voice came from the direction of the trapdoor.
Romero stepped out of the root cellar and closed the door.
"Officer Romero?" The voice sounded like John's.
Romero left the chamber and stopped halfway along the corridor, not wanting to show himself. A beam of pale light came down through the open trapdoor. "What?"
"I've brought you something to eat."
A basket sat at the bottom of the ladder. Presumably John had lowered it by a rope and then pulled the rope back up before calling to Romero.
"I'm not hungry."
"If I were you, I'd eat. After all, you have no way of telling when I might bring you another meal."
Romero's empty stomach cramped.
"Also, you'll find a book in the basket, something for you to pass the time. D. H. Lawrence. Seems appropriate since he lived on a ranch a little to the north of us outside Taos. In fact, he's buried there."
"I don't give a shit. What do you intend to do with me?" Romero was startled by how shaky his voice sounded.
John didn't answer.
"If you let me go right now, I'll forget this happened. None of this has gone so far that it can't be undone."
The trapdoor was closed. The pale beam of light disappeared.
Above, there were scraping sounds as the barrel was put back into place.
Romero wanted to scream.
He picked up the basket and examined its contents. Bread, cheese, sliced carrots, two apples… and a book. It was a tattered blue hardback without a dustcover. The title on its spine read, D. H. Lawrence: Selected Stories. There was a bookmark at a story called "The Woman Who Rode Away." The pages in that section of the book had been so repeatedly turned that the upper corners were almost worn through.
The blows to Romero's head made him feel as if a spike had been driven into it. Breathing more rapidly, dizzier than ever, he went back to the chamber. He put the basket on the table, then sat on the cot and felt so weak that he wanted to lie down, but he told himself that he had to look at the story. One thing you could say for certain about John, he wasn't whimsical. The story was important.
Romero opened the book. For a harrowing moment, his vision doubled. He strained to focus his eyes, and as quickly as the problem had occurred, it went away, his vision again clear. But he knew what was happening. I've got a concussion.
I need to get to a hospital.
Damn it, concentrate.
"The Woman Who Rode Away."
The story was set in Mexico. It was about a woman married to a wealthy industrialist who owned bountiful silver mines in the Sierra Madre. She had a healthy son and daughter. Her husband adored her. She had every comfort she could imagine. But she couldn't stop feeling smothered, as if she was another of her husband's possessions, as if he and her children owned her. Each day, she spent more and more time staring longingly at the mountains. What's up there? she wondered.