A Change in Altitude (18 page)

Lucas didn't seem to mind the question, though. “I was trying to get a picture of whoever—or whatever—is stealing stuff at the house my mom and D. J. are remodeling,” he said, turning in his chair to face her. “I set up this motion detector thingie so the camera would take a picture if anyone came into the room. But all I got were pictures of my mom and D. J. and workmen and stuff.”

“Are things still going missing?” Sharon asked. As mysteries went, this wasn't a big one, but it was curious.

Lucas nodded. “I've been keeping track. This week a fork, another earring, and a tin of snuff have disappeared.”

“Maybe your folks are just careless.” Alina stuffed the camera in her pack. “Those are all items that are easy to misplace.”

“I think the ghost is taking them,” he said.

“There are no such things as ghosts.” Cassie had apparently decided not to be left out of the conversation.

“Wait. I want to hear more about this ghost.” Amesbury moved over to join the two teenagers at the table. “I'm Chris Amesbury, director. I'm thinking of filming a television show in Eureka.”

“Hi.” Lucas shook the director's hand. “Uh, I'm Lucas Theriot. And this is Alina Franklin.”

Amesbury scarcely glanced at Alina. “Tell me about your ghost, Lucas.”

“My mom and her fiancé are fixing up this old house that used to belong to an old woman who had to go into a nursing home. But before she lived there, the house belonged to a man named McCutcheon. He was married to a woman named Adelaide, but she disappeared about 1966, and some people think her husband murdered her and buried her in the backyard and now she haunts the house.”

“Now, that is interesting.” Amesbury scribbled furiously in his notebook. “Have you seen the ghost?”

“No,” Lucas admitted. “But stuff keeps turning up missing. Little stuff like jewelry and doorknobs and bolts and stuff. Whatever it is, it managed to steal more stuff without tripping the camera we set up.”

“I still don't see what Adelaide would want with forks and single earrings,” Alina said. “You wouldn't think a ghost would need anything really.”

“This is her way of communicating,” Lucas said. “Of letting us know she's here.”

“I thought you were too sensible to believe in nonsense like this,” Cassie said.

“We-ell, yeah.” He grinned. “But wouldn't it be fun if it was true?”

“I'd still like to know what happened to Mrs. McCutcheon,” Alina said. “We looked at the courthouse, but we didn't really learn anything. She was here in 1965, and she wasn't here in 1966, but Mr. McCutcheon lived in the house another three years before he sold it to the Gilroys.”

“We checked the death records, too,” Lucas said. “She's not in there.”

“A murder mystery!” Amesbury said, and wrote more in his notebook.

Sharon glared at him. She wanted to tell him to mind his own business, but with Cassie encouraging him, she had to keep her mouth shut.

“What's this show you want to film in Eureka?” Lucas asked.

“I'm envisioning a documentary format that examines what happens when you bring young people from the city and put them in a small mountain town to interact with the local citizens and absorb the culture.”

Lucas frowned. “You mean, like a reality TV series.”

Amesbury clicked his pen three times. “Some people react badly to the words ‘reality TV.' I picture this production as being a cut above the ordinary. And I'll be looking for local talent to participate.” He grinned at Sharon. “Perhaps you'd like to audition for a role. You definitely have the looks to be a star.”

“No, thank you.” Sharon refrained from making a face. “Though I'm sure Cassie would be perfect for a role in the show.” Might as well score points with the boss while she was at it.

“Chris has already promised me a part.” Cassie didn't exactly preen, but she couldn't have looked any smugger.

“Oh, definitely,” Amesbury said. “I'll want to feature as many Eurekians as possible.”

Alina giggled. “Eurekians? That sounds so funny.”

Amesbury flushed. “What else would you call the people who live here?”

“I don't know.” She shrugged. “People who live in Eureka, I guess.”

“I don't think—”

But they never learned what he didn't think, because a loud siren's wail split the air. “What is that?” Sharon called over the din.

“Emergency siren.” Cassie headed for the door. “It's used to summon the volunteer firemen and EMTs.”

They all followed her to the door and out onto the sidewalk in front of the library. Cassie put up her hand as if she was hailing a taxi, and to Sharon's amusement, a car screeched to a halt at the curb. “Paul, what's going on?” Cassie addressed the driver.

“There's been an accident up at Lucky Lady Mine,” he said. “Word is people are trapped inside.”

“R
emind me why I ever wanted to be mayor?” Lucille asked Reggie as she gunned her Jeep up the steep grade leading to Lucky Lady Mine. The lawyer had shown up at Lacy's seconds after the emergency siren sounded, with the news that Bob Prescott and Gerald Pershing were trapped in one of the tunnels after an explosion.

Reg clenched his jaw and braced one hand against the dash as the Jeep jounced over deep ruts. “I thought they fixed this road when they reopened the mine.”

“They hauled three truckloads of road base up here and the first hard rain washed it all back down.” She steered the Jeep around a particularly deep gully. “There are a lot of reasons no one's ever developed the land up here, and access is one of them. And you didn't answer my question.”

“I didn't think you were serious. When you ran for mayor, I think you said something about wanting to give back to the town.”

“Well, I think I've given enough. Can I turn in my resignation now?”

“Not in the middle of a crisis. It wouldn't look good.”

“When are we ever not in a crisis these days?” She steered around a big boulder, then braked hard and brought the Jeep to a halt next to a sheriff's department cruiser. The crowd of men gathered at the mine entrance turned to stare as she stalked up to them, Reg hurrying after her. “What's the situation?” she asked.

“An explosion at the north end of the main shaft caused the midsection of the tunnel to collapse, blocking the entrance,” Charlie Frazier, head of the local Search and Rescue volunteers, said.

“But there's a back way out, right? An escape route?”

The men looked at her blankly.

She turned to Reg. “It was part of the new safety features Gerald was so insistent about installing. The features we paid for.”

“There's no escape route,” Charlie said.

A sick feeling swept over—one she'd experienced before. “But I saw it. It was on the engineers' drawings Gerald submitted to the town council.”

“Well, yeah, it was on the drawings,” Charlie said. “It just isn't in the mine.”

“Why not?”

The men exchanged glances. “We don't know why not. Maybe they hadn't gotten around to installing it yet.”

“Or maybe Gerald Pershing took the money we paid and put it in his own pocket. Where is he?” She looked around. “I want to personally strangle him.”

“He's trapped in the mine. At least, that's his car over there.” Charlie pointed to the silver Cadillac Gerald drove.

“There is some justice in the world,” Lucille said. “Who's in there with him?”

“Bob Prescott, we think.” Charlie nodded toward the battered pickup that was a familiar sight around town.

“What caused the explosion?” Reggie asked.

“We're not sure,” Charlie said. “Though we suspect dynamite.”

“They weren't using dynamite in the mine,” Lucille said.

“They weren't supposed to be,” Charlie agreed. “But you know, Bob's kind of old-fashioned. He's used dynamite before to blast away rock. Maybe he decided to use it again.”

She clenched her hands into fists. “If he's still alive, I'll strangle him, too. What are we doing to get them out?”

“Search and Rescue is trying to establish where they are in the mine, and a crew is on its way from Lake City to try to either clear the blockage in the tunnel or drill a new exit,” Charlie said. “That could take a couple of days or more.”

“Wait, could you repeat that for me?” a familiar voice called from the parking area.

Lucille turned and gaped at Maggie, who was struggling up the path to the mine entrance. “You shouldn't be up here in your condition,” she scolded. “Where's Rick?” One more man she'd have to give a piece of her mind. What did the publisher of the
Eureka Miner
mean, letting his pregnant reporter trek up the mountains like this?

“He's at the dentist . . . in Montrose. He had . . . an abscess.” She stopped next to Lucille, panting, one hand cradling her belly.

“You're not going to go into labor right here, are you?” Reg asked.

“At least if I do there are plenty of people here who are qualified to help.” She nodded toward the crew of EMTs. She switched on her tape recorder and extended it toward Lucille. “Madam Mayor, what's the situation?” she asked.

“Right now we don't know much,” Lucille said. “There may or may not have been an explosion, and Bob and Gerald may or may not be trapped in the mine. If they are trapped, we don't know if they're injured or not, and we don't know how long it will take to rescue them.”

The roar of an engine accelerating up the grade announced a new arrival. A black Escalade hove into view in a cloud of dust and parked haphazardly. Chris Amesbury, in an Indiana Jones hat and aviator sunglasses, stepped out of the driver's side, while Cassie Wynock, looking more than a little flushed and disheveled, slid out of the passenger seat.

“What are you two doing here?” Lucille asked.

“A mine tragedy is great drama,” the director said. “I couldn't stay away.”

“And what about you?” Lucille asked Cassie, who was straightening her skirt and smoothing her hair. “Don't you have a library to run?”

“Sharon is there. I came to show Chris the way.” She adjusted her sunglasses and looked around. “It doesn't look like much is going on up here.”

“All of you need to stay back.” Charlie ushered them some distance from the mine. “We don't know if there's more explosives in there or not.”

“Explosives?” Amesbury took out his notebook. “What kind of explosives?”

Everyone ignored him. “What were Bob and Gerald doing with explosives?” Maggie asked.

“We don't know,” Charlie said. “Maybe cutting a new tunnel the old-fashioned way.”

“More likely he had a stash of the stuff just in case,” Cassie said.

“Just in case of what?” Lucille asked.

“Just in case of the end of the world or the crash of civilization or invasion by foreigners or natural disaster—you name it, Bob was prepared for it.” Cassie shrugged. “He had a stash of supplies he said was hidden in a secret storage area in the mountains.”

“He was hiding things in the Lucky Lady?” Lucille asked. She'd thought Gerald had merely used his report of Bob storing things in the mine as an excuse to talk to her. She'd meant to ask Bob about the accusation, but it had slipped her mind. If the old man survived this disaster, she was going to kill him!

“It would be a good place—out of the weather, underground, hidden,” Charlie said. “He wouldn't have put the supplies in a tunnel where they were working, but in a more remote shaft. You know these old mines, they have tunnels running every which way underground.”

“A mine would make a good place to wait out dangerous times,” Reggie said. “A man with enough supplies could hold out a long time underground.”

“Then let's hope Bob and Gerald can reach some of those supplies, if it's going to take a few days to get them out,” Charlie said.

“This is perfect,” Amesbury said. “I must get a film crew out to capture this.”

“Mr. Amesbury, two men are buried alive in a mine,” Lucille said. “In no way is that perfect.”

“Not perfect for the men certainly. But it is perfect television. There's nothing like life-or-death real-life drama to pull in the ratings.” He pulled out his phone and frowned at the screen. “There's no signal? What kind of place doesn't have a signal?”

The kind of place where people—even people like Gerald Pershing—matter more than ratings,
Lucille thought. But she didn't bother saying so to Amesbury.

He turned away. “Cassie! We need to drive back to town. Pronto.”

Some other time it might have been amusing to see Cassie, who was so adept at ordering others to do her bidding, jump to wait on the imperious director. Maybe there is justice in this world, Lucille thought, as she turned back to confer with the rescue crew. If so, maybe it would help them get Bob and Gerald out of the mine alive. And then she'd give them both a lecture that would make them wish they were dead.

Bob woke coughing, his head pounding, muscles aching. He hadn't tied one on like this in a long time—not since Jacob Murphy's wake. But as his vision cleared and he was able to draw a clear breath, he remembered that the pain had nothing to do with alcohol. He was in the Lucky Lady Mine. He'd been arguing with Pershing (he and the man never seemed to have a civil conversation) when the roof had caved in.

With effort, he heaved to his knees and shoved aside a pile of loose rubble. The backpack he wore had protected him from the worst of the impact and his headlamp still worked, so that was something. In the dim glow he could make out a jumble of boulders and splintered timbers. The tunnel was blocked, though the passage he was in was mostly intact, littered with debris.

A groan from said debris near the wall indicated that Pershing was coming to. Bob crawled toward the sound until he encountered a shoe. He tugged at it and was rewarded with a louder groan. He worked his way up the body, shoving aside rocks and dirt, until he unearthed the Texan's face, gray as a statue with dust. “What happened?” Pershing croaked.

“The damn mine caved in, that's what happened.”

Pershing shoved himself into a sitting position, his back against the tunnel wall, and looked around them. “I remember now. It sounded like an explosion.”

“It was an explosion and it's your fault.” He pulled a bottle of water from his battered pack, drank half of it, then handed it to Pershing.

Pershing drained the water and sat holding the empty bottle. “My fault. How is it my fault?”

“You went and made the Tommyknockers mad.”

“The who?”

“You decide to go into mining and you don't bother finding out the first thing about it.” Bob coughed and spat. He was definitely getting too old for this. “The Tommyknockers are the spirits who live in the mine. They've been known to help a miner who gets into trouble; but rile them and there'll be hell to pay.”

“You're talking nonsense.” Gerald brushed dust from his clothing. “Do you have any more water?”

“If I did, why should I give it to you? You didn't even say thank you.”

“Forgive me for forgetting my drawing-room manners. Now, what do you really think happened, and what are we going to do about it?”

“I told you what happened—The 'knockers got fed up with your lying and cheating and decided to do something about it, and I was unlucky enough to get caught in the crossfire.” He took inventory of the pack: two sandwiches, another bottle of water, a pack of chewing tobacco, his phone, and a map of the mine. The phone was useless under all this rock. He'd save the sandwiches and water for later. He took a pinch of tobacco.

“There's no such thing as mine spirits,” Pershing said.

“How do you know?”

“I know because superstitions like that are nonsense.” He shoved himself to his feet, though he had to duck his head to avoid cracking it on the ceiling. Timbers groaned and a fresh shower of rubble rained down. Bob couldn't have timed it better himself. Beneath the dust, Pershing's face paled.

“If you'd spent as much time underground as I have,” Bob said, “you'd have more respect for the Tommyknockers. This world is full of things you can't explain with science.”

“There's a scientific explanation for everything, even if you're too ignorant to know it.” He sat back down. “We probably hit a pocket of methane. And a spark off the rocks ignited it.”

More likely a rat had chewed into the casing around the detonating cord Bob had stashed in his storage tunnel. He'd heard of something similar when he was working over near Leadville, back in the seventies. He should have wrapped it better. “You believe what you want to believe,” he said. “But I know what I know.”

“What are we going to do to get out of here?” Pershing asked.

“We wait.”

“For what?”

“When that crew of engineers you hired to put in the escape tunnel on those plans the council approved shows up, they'll dig us out.”

He wished he had a camera to record the sick look on Pershing's face. “Well, now, about that crew . . .” He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing, and a fine sheen of sweat shone on his forehead.

“There isn't one, is there?” Bob glared, though inside he was holding back a grin. He'd suspected for a while now that Pershing was concocting another swindle; nice to be proved right, though the circumstances were less than ideal.

“Um . . . no,” Pershing admitted.

“What were you going to tell me—that they'd canceled?”

“I was going to say they needed more drawings and a geological survey.”

Bob nodded. “I imagine that would cost a lot of money.”