Tunnels 01, Tunnels

a careful arrangement of primitive little clay heads with clumsy features. Against the fourth wall stood a workbench, on which his computer sat, with a half-consumed candy bar in front of it.
    As Will surveyed the scene, the only thing that seemed out of place was a wheelbarrow filled with dirt and small rocks by the door to the garden.
    "I wonder what that's doing in here," he said.
    Rebecca shrugged.
    "It's funny... I saw him taking a load out to the Common," Will went on.
    "When was that?" Rebecca asked, frowning thoughtfully.
    "It was a couple of weeks ago... in the middle of the night. I suppose he could have brought this in for analysis or something." He reached into the wheelbarrow, took some of the loose soil into his palm, and examined it closely, rolling it around with his index finger. Then he held it up to his nose and breathed in deeply. "High clay content," he pronounced and sunk both hands deep into the soil, lifting out two large fistfuls, which he squeezed and then released, sprinkling them slowly back into the barrow. He turned to Rebecca with a quizzical expression.
    "What?" she said impatiently.
    "I was just wondering where this could have come from," he said. "It's..."
    "What are you talking about? He's obviously not here, and none of this is going to help us find him!" Rebecca said with such unnecessary vehemence that Will was left speechless. "Come on, let's go back upstairs," she urged him. Not waiting for Will to respond, she stomped up the wooden steps, leaving him alone in the cellar.
    "Women!" Will muttered, echoing a sentiment his father often imparted to him. "Never know where you are with them!" Rebecca in particular had always been a total mystery to Will -- he couldn't decide whether she said the things she did on a whim, or if there was really something much deeper and more complex going on inside that well-groomed head of hers, something he couldn't even begin to understand.
    Whatever it was, it was no use worrying about that now, not when there were other, more important things to consider. He blew dismissively and rubbed his hands together to get the soil off, then stood motionless in the center of the room until his inquisitiveness got the better of him. He went over to the bench, flicking casually through the papers on top of it. There were photocopied articles about Highfield, pictures of old houses in faded sepia tones, and ragged sections of maps. One of these caught his eye -- comments had been scribbled on it in pencil. He recognized his father's spidery handwriting.
    Martineau Square
    -- the key? Ventilation for what? Will read, frowning as he traced the network of lines drawn in pencil through the houses on each side of the square. "What was he up to?" he asked himself out loud.
    Peering under the bench, he found his father's briefcase and emptied out its contents, mostly magazines and newspapers, onto the floor. In a side pocket of the briefcase, he found some loose change in a small brown paper bag and a clutch of empty chocolate bar wrappers. Then, crouching down, he began to check through the archive boxes stored under the bench, sliding each one out and flicking through its contents.
    His search was cut short by his sister's insistence that he come and eat his supper before it got too cold. But before returning upstairs, he made a short detour over to the back door to check the coats hanging there. His father's hard hat and overalls were gone.
    Back up in the hallway, he passed a cacophony of applause and laughter from behind the closed living room door as he went into the kitchen.
    The two of them ate in silence until Will looked up at Rebecca. She had a fork in one hand and a pencil in the other as she did her math homework.
    "Rebecca, have you seen Dad's hard hat or his overalls?" he asked.
    "No, he always keeps them in the cellar. Why?"
    "Well, they're not there," Will said.
    "Maybe he left them at a dig somewhere."
    "Another dig? No -- he would've told me about it. Besides, when would he have had the chance to go off and do that? He was always here or at the museum -- he never went anywhere else, did he? Not without telling me...," Will trailed off as Rebecca watched him intently.
    "I know that look. You've thought of something, haven't you?" she said suspiciously.
    "No, it's nothing," he replied. "Really."

     

11

    The next day, Will awoke early and, wanting to forget about his father's disappearance, donned his work clothes and ran energetically downstairs,