His patience and nerve were beginning to wear thin when he finally found it. He shivered as he walked down the deserted corridor, feeling the drop in temperature and also feeling that his search was nearly over.
The lamps were still lit, not having been doused because of the celebration, the lame lamplighter now lying drunk in the main hall. But although still alight, the oil was nearly used, and the lighting was dim, some of the lamps along the corridor guttering and casting a moving shadow across the wall. Dean found the corridor as eerie as Jak had done before, an atmosphere chilling the air more than the cooling pipes. The fact that, as he turned the final corner, he could see that there was no place to hide made the corridor even chillier for the young Cawdor.
Dean lost the drunken gait, his footfalls now kept as quiet as possible and his posture changing. He walked now on the balls of his feet, his balance thrown slightly forward, springing on each step. He quieted his breathing until he could almost hear the blood flowing in his veins.
The metal door ahead loomed large in his vision. Dean looked over his shoulder, and paused midstride. There was no sound behind him, and he could see nothing. He looked ahead at the patchwork metal door and took a deep breath.
Stepping up to it, Dean reached out a hand, fingertips extended. His fingers touched the cold metal, pushing gently.
He didn’t expect the door to yield, but to his surprise it swung open on well-oiled hinges, belying its looks.
The room inside was well lit. And empty. The door swung right back to the wall, confirming this.
It was all too easy. Dean stood on the threshold, wavering for one moment, and then he was in.
Dean advanced to the middle of the room, keeping alert for any sound or movement other than his own. It was only when he was certain that he was alone in the room that he allowed himself to relax enough to take in his surroundings.
The room was lit by a number of lamps suspended from a beam across the ceiling. They were in a line, laid out to cast their light directly down on a workbench that occupied the center of the room. It was a scientist’s bench, with retorts and tubes fashioned from junk. A closed book stood on one corner.
Looking around the room, Dean could see that there was little else inside apart from a table that had not only been scrubbed clean down to the wood grain, but also had leather restraints for ankles and wrists. Just seeing it made Dean shiver with a barely restrained fear. His thoughts turned to the stories of predark whitecoats that Doc had told him.
There were two other doors, one leading off each side of the room. The far wall, opposite the door he had entered, was a blank wall of concrete.
Dean went to the door on the left. It was wood, with a bar lock that worked from his side. Listening up against it, he could hear faint sounds of breathing, sighs of sleep. Carefully, with infinite care lest he cause a sound, Dean removed the bar from its brackets, placed it against the wall, then opened the door. The room was in darkness, broken by a beam of light that streaked across the floor from the open door. Dean stepped into the room and saw that there were five sets of bunk beds. Eight of the ten beds were occupied by small children. Without disturbing them, Dean could see that they all were blond, but not if they were male or female. One thing for sure, though: he was certain that if he could have looked, he would have seen that they all had blue eyes.
Unwilling to awaken them and cause a disturbance that would alert anyone to his presence, Dean crept out of the room, shutting the door carefully and quietly behind him before replacing the bar.
So now for the other door. Dean shook his head to clear it, to focus his mind as he crossed the workroom floor. Why was Jenna producing little blond children? For he was sure that the baron’s wife was behind this. Come to that, how was she doing it? He paused by the workbench and examined some of the tubes standing on the pitted and scarred surface. He tentatively sniffed at the chemicals in the tubes, and hurriedly looked away, nose wrinkled and eyes smarting at the tart and acrid fumes.