The Broken Clock is Right Thrice: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective #4

Chapter 17 - Santa Claus-trophobia

"The difference between a belief in a deck of tarot cards and the belief in Santa Claus is that only one of them can physically make it down a chimney. The other one is Santa Claus."

~ Zandra, to a skeptical client

"Alas, how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished."

~ Francis Church, New York Sun newspaper, 1897, to Virginia, age 8

It's a shoe.

"A shoe?" Zandra says to herself.

Yes. A shoe. It's too clean to not have been removed from its foot recently.

I'll be damned.

Zandra scoops up the shoe and slides out from the cabinet. It's an otherwise unremarkable athletic shoe except for one feature.

That tread looks familiar.

Were the room still in its previous, unkempt state, Zandra could compare the shoe's aggressive tread with the imprint left on the bed. That's no longer an option, but the logic of finding a shoe in a hidden passageway explains itself.

Zandra pieces through what's left of the square. The light of the lamp catches the glint of something metallic. Bringing the lamp closer for inspection, her suspicion is confirmed. A metal latch strongly suggests the square was locked in place from the other side of the drywall.

Whoever it was left in a hurry as they latched the square into place, because they're missing a shoe. Obviously.

But how did the shoe get here? Is this what I think it is?

What waits farther into the space is beyond the reach of the lamp, but a probe with Zandra's arm confirms there's plenty of room behind where she found the shoe. Someone nimble could wiggle through.

It's a tunnel.

Zandra backs out of the cabinet.

"I need an extension cord. A long one. Longest one you have," Zandra says after dialing the front desk with the phone by her bed.

"Is everything alright with your room?" the voice on the other end says.

Zandra conjures an excuse without a second of hesitation. She says, "I dripped water all over the floors in here after getting out of the shower, so I need to walk around with the hair dryer."

"One of our cleaning staff could help you with that. Would you like us to send someone up?"

"Just send the cord," Zandra says.

"Of course."

Zandra keeps the ruse up after receiving an orange extension cord outside her door. She runs the hair dryer from an outlet by the sink. Meanwhile, the lamp connects to the extension cord. The cord measures 50 feet long, according to the tag.

I hope that's long enough.

With the lawnmower knife sheathed and the mask still wrapped to her face, Zandra twists her whole self beneath the sink and into the space beyond, the desk lamp leading the way.

A few feet in, there's no doubt about it. She's crawling into a tunnel. Judging by the sheet metal lining all sides of her body, someone built the passage with purpose.