'All right!" Deborah said suddenly. "Let's throw ourselves at Spencer Wingate's mercy, for better or for worse."
"You're sure? I don't want to feel as if I've talked you into this."
"I'm not sure of anything other than the fact that I'm still exercising my free will." Deborah stuck out her hand and Joanna decisively slapped it. "Onward and upward," Deborah added with a crooked smile.
THE WOMEN RETURNED INTO THE HEATING TUNNELS WITH the unspoken concern that they could run into their pursuers at any moment. But they reached the branch to the living quarters without incident other than noticing that the flashlight beam was noticeably dimmer.
Approximately a hundred yards beyond the fork they encountered another. On this occasion there was no cornerstone to direct them.
"Gripes!" Deborah complained. She shined the failing light into both tunnels. "Have any ideas?"
"I'd say we go left. We know that the village is between the detached housing and the farm, so the village would have to be to the right."
Deborah looked at Joanna with puzzlement. "You're impressing me again. Where has this resourcefulness come from?"
"From my traditional Houstonian upbringing that you've so shamelessly berated."
"Yeah, right!" Deborah said scornfully.
After another five minutes of walking the women came to a series of bifurcations all in a row.
"I'd guess each of these tunnels are going to individual houses," Deborah said.
"That would be my guess as well," Joanna added.
"Do you have any strong feeling which we try first?"
"I don't," Joanna said. "Although it makes some sense to take them in order."
The first basement the women peered into after opening a simple paneled door clearly wasn't Spencer's since it had been renovated to some degree. Both women clearly remembered Spencer's basement from when they'd accompanied him down to his wine cellar. Backtracking, they took the next tunnel. This one terminated in a crude, rough-hewn oak door.
"This looks more promising," Deborah said. She shook the flashlight to encourage the brightness of the beam. She'd had to do it occasionally over the previous few minutes.
She handed the light to Joanna before giving the door a push.
It scraped on its granite threshold. Instead of just pushing, Deborah tried lifting the door first. It then opened with minimal sound. Deborah took the light back, and after giving it a shake, shined the faltering beam into the basement beyond. The dim light revealed the wine cellar door with its lock still hanging unclasped.
"This is it," Deborah said. "Let's do it!"
The women navigated the muddy floor to reach the basement steps. Up they climbed with Deborah in the lead. At the top of the stairs they hesitated. A crack of light showed under the door.
"I'm thinking we have to play this by ear," Deborah whispered.
"We don't have any choice," Joanna said. "We don't know whether he's even awake. Do you have any idea of the time?"
"Not really," Deborah said. "I suppose around one."
"Well, a light is on. I suppose that suggests he's still awake. Let's just try not to scare him too much. He might have an alarm that he could push."
"Good point," Deborah said.
Deborah listened through the door before turning the door handle slowly, and cracking it open. When there was no untoward response, she slowly pushed it open, revealing progressively more of the kitchen.
"I hear classical music," Joanna said.
"Me, too," Deborah said.
The women ventured out into the darkened kitchen. The light they'd seen beneath the cellar door was coming from the chandelier in the dining room. As quietly as they could they moved down the hallway toward the living room and the music. With a view of the foyer directly ahead, they 'could see that the corps of toy cavalry soldiers Spencer had knocked off the console table the evening before in his drunkenness had been carefully replaced.
Deborah was in the lead with Joanna directly at her heels. Both women were intent on the living room, which opened up to the left off the hall and where they expected Spencer to be. By happenstance Joanna glanced to the right as they passed a dark, intersecting corridor leading to a study. There in the distance was Spencer Wingate, sitting at his desk in a puddle of light from a library lamp. He was facing away from the women, studying blueprints.
Joanna tapped on Deborah's shoulder. When Deborah turned, Joanna frantically pointed toward Spencer's hunched figure.
Deborah looked at Joanna and silently mouthed the question, "What should we do?"
Joanna shrugged her shoulders. She had no idea, but then thought it best if they called out to the man. She gestured by touching her mouth and then pointing toward Spencer.
Deborah nodded. She cleared her throat. "Dr. Wingate!" she called, but her voice was tentative, and it blended seamlessly with the chorus of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony emanating from the living room.
"Dr. Wingate!" Joanna called more decisively and loud enough to compete with the music.
Spencer's head popped up and shot around. For a moment his tanned face blanched, and he stood up so quickly his desk chair tipped over with a crash.
"We don't mean to frighten you," Deborah called out quickly. "We were hoping we could have a word with you."
Spencer recovered rapidly. He smiled with relief when he recognized the women, then waved for them to join him as he bent down to right his desk chair.
The women started for the room. Both were acutely sensitive to Spencer's reaction to their presence, which so far was auspicious. His initial fear had changed to surprise with a hint of reassuring delight. As they approached, he slicked back his silvered hair and adjusted his velvet smoking jacket. But as the women came into the light his expression changed to puzzlement.
"What happened to you two?" Before the women could respond he asked: "How did you get in here?"
Joanna started to explain about coming in through the basement while Deborah launched into a capsule of their evening.
Spencer raised his hands. "Hold up! One at a time. But first, do either of you need anything? You look terrible."
For the first time since the ordeal started, the women looked at themselves and at each other. Their appearance brought expressions of embarrassment to their faces. Deborah had fared the worst with her minidress torn and tattered and abrasions on her thighs and shins from the lip of the iron lung. One of her dangling earrings was gone and her tiny heart necklace had lost all its rhinestones. Her hands were black from the elevator cable grease, and her hair was a tangled mess.
Joanna still had on the doctor's coat, which had protected her clothes to a large degree. But the coat itself was a soiled mess, particularly from crawling prostrate on the barn floor. A few stalks of hay protruded from the pockets.
Deborah and Joanna then exchanged one of their knowing glances. The combination of their appearances and anxieties brought forth a fit of laughter which took them by surprise and a moment to recover. Even Spencer found himself smiling.
"I wish I knew exactly what you women are laughing at," Spencer said.
"It's a combination," Deborah managed. "But probably mostly tension."
"I think it's mostly relief," Joanna said. "We were hoping you'd be here and unsure if you'd mind if we dropped by."
"I'm pleased you came by," Spencer said. "What can I get you?"
"Now that you ask, I could use a blanket," Deborah said. "I'm freezing."
"How about some hot coffee?" Spencer said. "I could make it for you in a moment. Even something stronger if you'd like. I could also get you a sweater or a sweatshirt."