Chapter 4 - Behind the Wine Racks
"You touch that door and I will have your badge by morning!" Charles bellowed, lunging toward the porch steps, only to be firmly caught and pushed back by Deputy Harris's outstretched arm.
"Sir, back up! Do not interfere with an active investigation!"
Eleanor looked like she was going to faint. She retreated into the shadows of the grand foyer, her manicured fingers clawing at her silk lapels, her eyes darting wildly toward the long gravel driveway as if expecting an army of corporate lawyers to drop from the sky.
The paramedic tried to push me back onto the stretcher. "Ma'am, you are losing blood. You need to sit down."
"Give me two minutes," I told her, my voice steely. I held the thick gauze pad tightly against my split hairline, ignoring the sickening, rhythmic throb that pulsed through my temples, and walked back up the stone steps into the house.
Deputy Miller led the way across the foyer's imported Italian tile, his heavy service boots clicking sharply against the stone. Harris followed, hauling a heavy steel pry bar. They stopped in front of the ornate wrought-iron door tucked beneath the sweeping dual staircase.
It wasn't a standard interior door. The frame was reinforced industrial steel, retrofitted into the antique architecture, secured with a commercial grade deadbolt and a digital keycode box blinking with an ominous red LED.
"Mr. Sterling," Miller said, looking back at Charles, who stood trembling with rage on the front steps. "Open it."
"Go to hell," Charles spat, his aristocratic veneer completely stripped away. "Get a warrant."
Miller didn't hesitate. "I have exigent circumstances following a violent felony assault on the premises and a direct report of an ongoing threat inside the structure. Harris, breach it."
Harris wedged the wedge of the Halligan bar between the steel frame and the lock. With a grunt of exertion, he levered his entire body weight against the bar. The metal groaned, screeching in violent protest, before the frame popped with a loud crack. A second heave, and the deadbolt tore free from the masonry, the heavy iron door swinging inward with a low, unoiled squeal.
A wave of air rolled out of the darkness.
It didn't smell like fine French oak, aging cork, or fermenting grapes.
It smelled like stale dampness, chemical bleach, and copper.
Miller drew his sidearm, flicking on his weapon-mounted tactical light. The bright, concentrated beam punched through the gloom, illuminating a steep flight of narrow wooden steps leading down into an unlit cavern.
"Sheriff's Department! Anyone down here?" Miller's shout echoed hollowly down into the subterranean dark.
Silence answered.
"Stay behind me, Mrs. Sterling," Miller warned, beginning his descent, his boots careful on the slick, steep treads.
I followed, gripping the cold handrail. My vision swirled slightly from the concussion, the darkness amplifying the throbbing in my skull, but nothing on earth could have kept me at the top of those stairs.
At the bottom, the beam of light swept across rows of floor-to-ceiling wooden wine racks, dusty bottles of Cabernet and Merlot resting in quiet formation. It looked like an ordinary, high-end Napa wine cellar.
"Nothing here, Sarge," Harris murmured, shining his flashlight along the brick perimeter. "Just booze."
"Look closer," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
My flashlight beam caught the concrete floor. The center aisle between the wine racks was coated in a fine layer of dust—except for a wide, distinct pair of drag marks scraping through the grime toward the far corner, near a towering twelve-foot mahogany storage cabinet.
Miller noticed it at the same time. He gestured for Harris to cover the left flank. He approached the cabinet, reached out, and pulled on the brass handle.
It didn't swing open like a wardrobe.
The entire cabinet slid outward on heavy, greased steel tracks embedded in the foundation, revealing a thick, soundproofed steel blast door recessed into the bedrock behind it.
The door had a small, reinforced acrylic viewing port at eye level.
Miller stepped up to the glass, shining his weapon light into the darkness beyond.
I watched the color drain instantly from the veteran sergeant’s face. His jaw went slack, his weapon lowering slightly as he took an involuntary step backward, his breath catching in his throat.
"Harris," Miller said, his voice completely flat, deadened by pure shock. "Call the Sheriff. Call the State Police. Call everybody."
I pushed forward, ignoring Miller’s outstretched arm, and pressed my face against the cold, thick glass.
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Inside the tiny, windowless concrete vault, illuminated by a single flickering fluorescent strip, sat an unmade cot, a chemical toilet, and a small wooden desk. Scattered across the desk were hundreds of handwritten pages and legal folders labeled with a name that had been officially pronounced dead three years ago.
Rebecca Sterling. Adrian’s first wife.
