Read Online Dark Series, The Color of Seven and The Color of Dusk (Books We Love Special Edition) by Gail Roughton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gail Roughton
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you act like you know what you’re doing, she drove to the main entrance of Rose Arbor and rode slowly down the narrow lanes.
When she judged she was as out-of-sight as possible from Riverside Drive, she parked and got out, heading back toward the banks of the Ocmulgee and the Devlin mausoleum.
She glanced around. No one , thank God. And hopefully this close to dark, little possibility of anyone else showing up . She stood in front of the door and consider ed her attack. There was no padlock to file through. There was no lock panel, so there was no lock to pick. There was no friggin’ handle. There was only the smooth seam of the door and a line of concrete against the marble. Shit. Just shit.
She stared thoughtfully. On close r inspection, the line of concrete wasn’t so smooth. It was crumbling in spots. And with a tap here and there, and a nudge or two using the file as a chisel, it would crumble a lot more. She looked around again. Still alone. She pulled the hammer out of her bag and tapped carefully up and down the length of the door. A few crumbs of dust fell to the ground and she resisted the urge to tap harder, repeating her series of soft blows. A few more crumbs fell down and she pulled out the file and ran it up and down the length of the door. Particles fell to the ground with a shower of dust.
She bit back the surge of excitement, put her shoulder against the edge of the door, and pushed. She pushed harder, and then harder still. It gave the smallest fraction. She stopped and looked around yet again. Yeah, she was still the only insane person in the cemetery attempting to break into a hundred year old mausoleum. She took a deep breath, bit down on her lower lip, and shoved, almost falling through the door as it swung open.
She braced her hand against the side of one of the marble walls and straightened up to face the shadows. A lmost but n ot yet twilight, the interior of the crypt was thick with darkness. She reached in the bag and located the flashlight by feel, pulled it out and turned it on.
Training the beam on the wall opposite her, she ran it over the books that stood, thick and crowded, on the shelves running from the floor to the roof. Next to the shelves stood a chest of drawers. On its top sat a silver brush and comb and a small silver picture frame. She walked to it and trained the flashlight on the picture. Chloe Devlin. Wh at a surprise. Not. She turned the flash on the next wall, moving at right angles. A small wall table with a decanter, flanked by crystal goblets. The structure was big, unusually so for its purported purpose. She’d known that, but she hadn’t expected such economy of design. Or any furnishings. A mausoleum designed for use. And not for any use such structures were intended, either.
She turned slowly , looking for the one furnishing that should be here. The light played along the shadows of the far wall. There it was. M ausoleums were intended to hold coffins. But not open coffins, wherein reposed bodies that could teach the embalmers of the Egyptian pharaohs a thing or two.
She moved closer. So. The old legends were wrong. Either that or, more likely, they were like Paul Everett’s fabrications of the night before, skillful blends of fact and fiction.
He lay, not on his back with his arms crossed, but on his side, his hand curled under his cheek, an open book beside him, for all the world as though he’d fallen asleep. She ran the light over the interior again and saw shelves not seen on first glance, full of small modern conveniences of life. A battery radio and clock. Books, books and more books. Beside the coffin, a camping lantern.
She walked to him , hesitated, and stretched her hand out, placing her fingers lightly on his neck. No pulse point. She moved her hand in front of his nostrils. No breath, not even a faint one.
She turned the light on her watch. Quarter to seven on an early October evening, before the change back from Daylight Savings Time.
When she judged she was as out-of-sight as possible from Riverside Drive, she parked and got out, heading back toward the banks of the Ocmulgee and the Devlin mausoleum.
She glanced around. No one , thank God. And hopefully this close to dark, little possibility of anyone else showing up . She stood in front of the door and consider ed her attack. There was no padlock to file through. There was no lock panel, so there was no lock to pick. There was no friggin’ handle. There was only the smooth seam of the door and a line of concrete against the marble. Shit. Just shit.
She stared thoughtfully. On close r inspection, the line of concrete wasn’t so smooth. It was crumbling in spots. And with a tap here and there, and a nudge or two using the file as a chisel, it would crumble a lot more. She looked around again. Still alone. She pulled the hammer out of her bag and tapped carefully up and down the length of the door. A few crumbs of dust fell to the ground and she resisted the urge to tap harder, repeating her series of soft blows. A few more crumbs fell down and she pulled out the file and ran it up and down the length of the door. Particles fell to the ground with a shower of dust.
She bit back the surge of excitement, put her shoulder against the edge of the door, and pushed. She pushed harder, and then harder still. It gave the smallest fraction. She stopped and looked around yet again. Yeah, she was still the only insane person in the cemetery attempting to break into a hundred year old mausoleum. She took a deep breath, bit down on her lower lip, and shoved, almost falling through the door as it swung open.
She braced her hand against the side of one of the marble walls and straightened up to face the shadows. A lmost but n ot yet twilight, the interior of the crypt was thick with darkness. She reached in the bag and located the flashlight by feel, pulled it out and turned it on.
Training the beam on the wall opposite her, she ran it over the books that stood, thick and crowded, on the shelves running from the floor to the roof. Next to the shelves stood a chest of drawers. On its top sat a silver brush and comb and a small silver picture frame. She walked to it and trained the flashlight on the picture. Chloe Devlin. Wh at a surprise. Not. She turned the flash on the next wall, moving at right angles. A small wall table with a decanter, flanked by crystal goblets. The structure was big, unusually so for its purported purpose. She’d known that, but she hadn’t expected such economy of design. Or any furnishings. A mausoleum designed for use. And not for any use such structures were intended, either.
She turned slowly , looking for the one furnishing that should be here. The light played along the shadows of the far wall. There it was. M ausoleums were intended to hold coffins. But not open coffins, wherein reposed bodies that could teach the embalmers of the Egyptian pharaohs a thing or two.
She moved closer. So. The old legends were wrong. Either that or, more likely, they were like Paul Everett’s fabrications of the night before, skillful blends of fact and fiction.
He lay, not on his back with his arms crossed, but on his side, his hand curled under his cheek, an open book beside him, for all the world as though he’d fallen asleep. She ran the light over the interior again and saw shelves not seen on first glance, full of small modern conveniences of life. A battery radio and clock. Books, books and more books. Beside the coffin, a camping lantern.
She walked to him , hesitated, and stretched her hand out, placing her fingers lightly on his neck. No pulse point. She moved her hand in front of his nostrils. No breath, not even a faint one.
She turned the light on her watch. Quarter to seven on an early October evening, before the change back from Daylight Savings Time.
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