Page 26 of Fire and Bones
I watched Hickey get to his very large feet. Lighted a path as he climbed up the treads.
“Shall we explore?” Hickey asked when topside.
“Once I’m done with this guy.” Hooking a thumb at the corpse with the popcorned innards.
Hickey nodded. “I’ll shed some of my gear and score some headlamps. Let me know when you’re ready.”
“Roger that.” I saluted.
Cringed inwardly, wishing I hadn’t.
While I’d finished with the fourth victim, a member of Hickey’s team had determined that the subcellar had been negligibly impacted by the fire. Some buckling of the staircase and warping of its banister. Significant smoke damage to the overhead timbers and support beams.
The guy hadn’t mentioned the smell.
While I was following Hickey down the steps, paranoically testing each, the stench almost made me gag. Rotten wood. Damp earth. The acrid reek of burning. The occasional glob of fire suppressant foam dripping onto my head did nothing to settle me. Or improve the look of the hair escaping my hard hat.
Nearing the last tread, I peeled my eyes from my boots and glanced up. My headlamp glinted off a pair of bare bulbs dangling by fuzzy dark cords. They were the old-fashioned clear glass kind and, despite the shroud of ash coating the outer surface of each, I could see the delicate filaments inside.
Hickey and I spread out at the bottom, groping the walls to locate a switch. I found one first, beside an opening in the east wall, embedded in an upright of dubious reliability.
I flipped the little lever, expecting nothing. To my surprise, one of the ancient bulbs fired to life. Not exactly the Vegas Luxor Lamp, but the amber glow provided sufficient illumination to allow a sense of our surroundings.
Hickey and I were in a room measuring approximately ten by ten. Low ceiling. Flagstone floor. Earthen walls.
Five barrels stood directly opposite the stairs we’d crept down, arranged in a semi-orderly row. We crossed to them.
Up close I could see that the barrels weren’t round, but oddly ovoid. Their wood was weathered, their iron banding rusty as hell. Each had a metal spigot down low and a round hole plugged with a wooden peg on top.
“Looks like oak.” Hickey ran a gloved finger through the layer of grime and soot darkening the nearest of the casks. “With brass taps.”
“What do you suppose they held? Hold?” I asked.
Hickey hiked both shoulders. Beats me.
The movement sent a shadow dancing across the brass triangle forming the barrel’s tap handle.
“Look at the spigot,” I said.
“You think it’s a spigot?” He leaned close. “It’s lettering.”
“Can you read it?”
Some serious squinting. Then, “Albany.”
“As in, the capital of New York?”
Hickey shrugged again, one shoulder this time.
“That’s underwhelming,” I said.
“You were hoping for what? Russian crude oil?”
“I don’t know. Whiskey? Wine? Maple syrup?”
“Could be anything. The house is old.”
“How old?” I asked, growing more intrigued.