Forbidden Entry (36 page)

Danny swiped his hand away. “You better keep an eye on him. Come on, we gotta get this stuff unloaded.” He pulled a box from the floor of the quad, shoved it under one arm and handed another one to Daryl before moving a section of the fencing aside. “Bring him over here,” he demanded curtly.

“Come on, bro, get it together.” Daryl reached down, dragged Sean to his feet and pushed him towards the mine opening, where Sean teetered dangerously on the edge. It took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to jump up and race to his side. Danny leaned over and yelled into the opening, “Catch!” then dropped the boxes. Then he climbed down into the hole and reached up to grab Sean's arm, shouting, “Put your foot on the ladder, dude!” Working together, the Hinkles managed to pull him down and then all three of them disappeared from sight. I had never felt so utterly helpless.

The snow was coming down heavier now and for another few minutes, I laid on the ground, shivering from dread as much as the cold. What kind of drug had they given Sean? Had they been seriously discussing the possibility that he might die? I waited another few minutes to see if they'd return, then cautiously rose to my feet. The knowledge that Sean was in grave danger made my heart shrivel in horror. Stiff from the cold, I ran to the edge of the mine opening and peeked down. I couldn't see anything, but could hear the hum of what might be a generator operating below. A peculiar odor wafted up the shaft along with the echo of masculine laughter. What was the right decision? Storm down the ladder and try to rescue my baby brother or run for help? Torn, I crouched in the fierce wind for another minute before deciding it would be sheer insanity for me to play the hero. No. Not this time. I had no idea what I'd be getting myself into if I followed him down the mineshaft. I took a few deep breaths of the icy air. I must not panic and do something stupid. Call! Call for help. I sprinted further up the hill, pulled off one glove, dug out my phone and dialed 911. Nothing. I wiped the snow off the screen and my heart sank. CALL FAILED. I dialed again. Nothing. I must be in one of the dead zones. Now what? I turned and charged downhill in the blinding snow, slipping and sliding, gasping for breath, trying to suppress the sobs rising in my throat. I had to get to the Jeep. I had to get help.

I figured I was about half way down when I saw the skull rock, barely visible in the blowing snow. And then my toe struck something. I pitched forward, my phone flying from my icy fingers. I landed hard and crashed into a rock or tree stump. I could actually hear the sickening crack of my arm breaking. For I don't know how long, I lay there in a daze and then pushed to my knees. I'd never had a broken bone before. I expected to feel pain, and perhaps it was the adrenalin or the freezing cold or both, but strangely all I felt was numbness. It was more disturbing to me that I'd lost my phone. Groping on the ground, I searched around for it, but with more than an inch of snow already accumulated I knew I was wasting valuable time. Forget the phone! Get to the Jeep!

I tucked my left hand into my pocket for support and continued downward, moving a little slower now, finally feeling the dull throbbing in my arm. What a boneheaded move that was, O'Dell! The bare outline of the open gate brought a measure of relief, but it was short-lived. Fear coiled around my heart when the dreaded sound of more quads met my ears.
Get to the Jeep!
With nowhere to hide, I made a mad dash towards the trees, fumbling for my keys. Behind me, the whining drone grew to a deafening roar and then deadly silence before the thud of footsteps. “We got ourselves a trespasser!” came a triumphant shout. I pushed myself as hard as I could, but the footsteps were now directly behind me. All the air rushed from my lungs when powerful arms wrapped around me.

“Take your hands off me!” I screamed, struggling mightily, jabbing my attacker in the ribs with my right elbow, struggling and kicking until we both went down. I face-planted on the snowy ground. Pinned down, his added weight on top of me generated a searing pain in my broken arm so intense it brought tears to my eyes.
Don't pass out!

Grunting and panting with exertion, the man wrestled me onto my back and straddled me. Gasping, I looked up into the face of a young guy probably around my age. The futility of my dire situation came home to me when a second man appeared and stared down at me with a malevolent grin. “Well, lookee who we got here.” He reached down and whipped my stocking cap off. “You should've stayed gone!” I squinted up through the blowing snow, almost certain I was seeing my stalker's face for the first time without the kerchief. He was actually not bad-looking. A pity he had such menacing dark eyes.

The first guy rolled off, grabbed my injured arm and yanked me to my feet. “Come on. We're goin' for a little ride,” he announced, tightening his grip. Nauseated from the blinding pain, I swayed dizzily trying to gather my wits. And then I remembered the gun in my jacket pocket. Everything seemed surreal, like a scene from a movie, like it was happening to someone else. I needed to keep a cool head. Perhaps a show of bravado would put them off balance.

“A lot of people, including the sheriff, know I'm here, so I'm not going anywhere with you two freaks,” I replied firmly, sliding my right hand into my pocket. But just as my finger curled around the trigger, he jerked my arm and slammed me against the quad.

“You're lying! Get in!” he shouted through gritted teeth.

My stalker jumped behind the wheel and revved the engine. It was now or never. There was no time to pull out my weapon and take steady aim like I was accustomed to doing at the shooting range. There wasn't even time to pull it out of my pocket, so I just turned and fired a round through my jacket. His face a frozen mask of dumbfounded rage, my attacker released me and lurched backwards.

“She shot me!” he shrieked, clutching his thigh. “The bitch shot me!” He slumped into the snow, moaning. Inanely, I marveled at how red his blood looked against the pristine white snow. I turned towards my stalker, but before I could fire off another round, he leaped from behind the wheel and knocked me to the ground again. I lost my grip on the trigger. In a frantic fight for my life, I bit, clawed and kicked. Teeth bared, his face contorted in rage, he punched me in the jaw, then followed up with a vicious bare-knuckled blow to my temple and a second to my left eye. A kaleidoscope of stars exploded in my head. And then he had his cold hands around my throat, squeezing hard. Desperate for air, I fought valiantly to remain conscious, only vaguely aware that another vehicle had arrived. My vision already blurred, the landscape began to spiral in a circle. I knew I was going to die, but I was too weakened to fight him off. Black. Everything was going black.

But then I heard a masculine voice shout, “Stop it, you fool!” and my stalker released his hold. “Get him out of here!”

I gulped in deep breaths of the blessed cold air and tried to move, but the combination of searing pain in my arm, jaw and head was so severe, I felt myself losing consciousness.

“Drink this,” said the kindly voice, cradling my head. I swallowed the hot liquid gratefully. He stroked my hair. “Don't worry. I won't let you suffer.”

What? What did that mean? My ears were ringing so loud I couldn't quite recognize the voice. It sounded familiar. Who was it? I strained to open my eyes, but my lids felt massive. It didn't matter. I was saved. I welcomed the blissful peace washing over me, the ebbing of pain. On some level I was aware of being carried by someone and lying on something soft and being warm again. I had the sense of being in a different place, a strange place, a hazy awareness of movement, of a lightness of being. Euphoric beyond anything I had ever experienced. I was flying now, soaring high above brilliantly colored hills that shone like jewels, deep valleys and shining streams among a flock of black ravens. I had wings! How cool was this? I wouldn't have minded staying there forever, but then, the dream was interrupted by the sound of new voices, this time muffled and far away as if spoken from another room. I tried to understand, but the words made no sense. Was I hallucinating? I simply could not put a cogent thought together, so I gave up and faded into a comforting, velvety soft abyss.

Time. I was aware of the passage of time. Again, I struggled to open my eyes and when I finally managed to crack them open a slit, I fought to understand where I was. I wasn't outside in the snow anymore. I was lying in a small, dimly lit room made of rock. Rock walls. Rock ceiling. Where was I? How had I gotten here? I couldn't seem to differentiate between the mishmash of distorted memories, dreams and reality. Why did I feel so woozy and disoriented? I slept again for an indeterminate amount of time and when I awoke again my mind felt clearer.

My insides trembled as the memories of my attack came rushing back full force and the dim recollection of someone coming to my rescue. Sean? What had happened to Sean? I heard the rustle of clothing and, instinctively sensing danger, closed my eyes again. I turned my head slightly at the sound of footsteps passing by my head and peered through half open lids. Golden light poured through an arched doorway illuminating a man's silhouette. I remained perfectly still, feigning unconsciousness, but almost gasped aloud when he stepped into the next room and the light struck his face. My rescuer was none other than Burton Carr.

CHAPTER

32

Shockwaves coursed throughout my body when it dawned on me where I was. For confirmation, I reached out and felt the cool rock wall. So, this was the interior of the old Thunderbolt Mine. I was lying on a blanket. Rolling onto my side, I pushed myself to a sitting position, noting with alarm that I no longer had my coat, which meant no gun and no car keys. Had they found my cell phone? I stayed motionless for a while trying to clear the fogginess from my head.

My arm throbbed dully along with my head. I waited for another wave of dizziness to diminish, gently massaging my sore jaw and temple before slowly rising to my feet. I held onto the rock wall for support, then tiptoed to the doorway and paused, listening. I could hear voices, movement and faint music. I wrinkled my nose at the sharp, distasteful odor. What was that? Warily, I peeked around the corner into a massive chamber and as my gaze swept from right to left and back again, it took a few seconds to absorb what I was seeing. Spellbound, I gaped at the stacks of storage containers, cardboard boxes, plastic buckets, gallon containers of chemicals, detergents, plastic bags and gloves, cans, tubes, packing materials, bottles, pans, cooking materials. Holy cow! My hunch had been right. I'd hit the mother lode all right, but it wasn't gold. Spread out before me were all the ingredients needed to produce large quantities of black market synthetic drugs. In fact, it looked like a veritable supermarket for the mass production of street drugs. This was it. The mountain's hidden secret and the motivation for the deaths of four innocent people who'd ventured too close to the truth—a homegrown drug cartel. I eased back around the corner, breathing heavily, trying to stave off my growing panic. I was now a witness as well. In the murky light, I frantically searched the room looking for an exit. Nothing. Nothing but solid rock. How was I going to get out of here alive? It was difficult for me to imagine that Burton Carr was the unscrupulous brainchild of such a vast operation. He seemed so passive, so compassionate. He could have easily stood by while my stalker strangled me…and then suddenly the words whispered in my ear right before I'd blacked out reverberated in my ears.
Don't worry. I won't let you suffer.
The hot drink! Grimly, I realized he'd drugged me. So that's what it meant to ‘trip out.' I'd definitely been given some sort of psychedelic drug along with a painkiller. What had he given me and why had he spared me? Why bring me here? I dug deep inside, mining for inner strength, battling the overwhelming fear crushing my heart. Please God! I needed the courage to find Sean and somehow execute our escape. I stifled the sobs building in my throat when I thought about my beloved Tally, my parents, cherished friends and my precious cats waiting for my return. I had so much to live for.
Don't give up!

Footsteps coming my way. Pulse galloping erratically, I hastened back to my original spot, lay down and closed my eyes. Heavy steps crunched near my head. Someone was standing over me. It took a herculean effort to keep my breathing shallow and my eyes closed. A kick to my left shoulder sending spasms of pain sizzling through me, but I remained limp. “Stupid bitch is still out.”

I recognized Danny Hinkle's grating voice. I dared not move a muscle or blink.

“What are we gonna do with her?” It took extraordinary willpower not to react when I recognized the voice of my would-be killer.

“I dunno. I'm sure Darren has a plan. He'll figure out what to do. He always does.”

I tensed. Darren? Where had I heard that name before?

“What about her shit-for-brains brother?”

“The dude's of no use to us now. He's a goner anyway. Come on.”

My heart thundered like a thousand drums pounding in my head. Where was Sean? What had they done with him? Again, I waited, my stomach constricted into a hard, cold ball for their footsteps to fade away and then with no workable plan in mind, I stealthily made my way across the immense chamber only to realize that there were tributary tunnels leading off in all directions. I had no clue as to which one would lead to freedom. I flinched violently when a harsh voice from somewhere to my right boomed, “I've had it with you screw-ups!” I ducked behind a stack of boxes and ever so carefully peered around the corner. Inside an alcove, the Hinkles and my stalker stood watching a tall, slender, nice-looking man wearing a white shirt and dark tie, pace back and forth behind a paper-strewn desk. He raked a hand through thick, light-brown hair and turned to face them, his eyes flaming with anger. “You assured me that she was gone!”

“Sorry, Mr. Pomeroy. We chased her clear to the freeway this time, but she keeps coming back,” my stalker complained, glowering.

“I'm out of patience with all of you. I can't afford any more mistakes.”

“It wouldn't be a problem if Burton hadn't interfered,” the younger guy retorted, folding his arms defensively.

“I am surrounded by inferiors!” he railed, throwing his hands up. “So you don't think her being found strangled would have raised any red flags?”

Following a brief silence, Danny Hinkle helpfully suggested, “Why not have Burton devise another accident? His ideas worked out great for all the other ones.” His pleasant conversational tone chilled me.

“It's not that simple,” the man fumed, resuming his lion-like pacing behind the desk. “Too many people know she's been out here asking questions. No one is going to believe another accidental death so soon after those two kids.”

“All anyone will know is she came out here looking for her brother, took a header down one of the shafts and broke her neck,” Danny chimed in, appearing mightily pleased. “Problem solved!”

Hearing them ruthlessly discussing my death in such blasé terms had me close to hyperventilating. More aware than ever of my predicament, I felt like a cat teetering on the edge of its ninth life.
Keep it together
, I warned myself, trying to control the waves of panic slapping at my sensibilities.

The man stopped pacing and pinned the three men with a glacial stare. “There are a host of reasons why I'm in charge and you're not,” he said succinctly. “Now get out of my sight, all of you! I need to think.”

I stood stone-still as the three men trooped by and then heard him shout after them, “And tell that spineless brother of mine to get in here!”

As I waited in the shadows with bated breath, the magnitude of his statement slowly sunk in. OMG! Darren Pomeroy was Burton Carr's stepbrother, the prominent Phoenix attorney and, by his own admission, apparently the head honcho of the illegal drug trafficking operation.

Moments later, Burton Carr strode across the room with a look of steadfast resignation on his face. Involuntarily, I shrank back as far as I could into the shadows, but my slight shift of weight moved one of the boxes. He paused and glanced in my direction. Intense fear clawed at my senses when our eyes locked. I know my heart didn't really stop, but it sure felt like it. This was it. I was dead.

He ran one forefinger across his mustache and then vertically along his lips in an almost imperceptible movement, then continued towards the makeshift office. It took my panicked brain several seconds to realize he was signaling me to be quiet. A couple of long, deep breaths helped restore a modicum of calm. Positive I'd been granted at least a temporary reprieve, I checked to make sure the other three men weren't around, and then edged a look around the corner again.

“Sit down! We need to talk,” Darren commanded in a brusque tone, pointing to a white, plastic chair.

“Don't patronize me. I'm not one of your underlings,” Burton shot back, setting his stance. “And stop undermining me in front of the others.”

“It's your own fault. That woman is dangerous. Your stupid decision to bring her here has created an unnecessary crisis. So,” he said, rubbing his palms together, “your job tonight will be to arrange an unfortunate accident for Miss O'Dell. A very tragic accident.” He steepled his fingers together and rolled his eyes upward in a cynical display of thoughtful consideration. “What about this option? She slipped and fell into one of the rock crushers.” His self-congratulatory smile was positively diabolical. “Or perhaps she fell down one of the vertical shafts? You're the expert on death. I'm sure you'll come up with something creative.”

Overwhelmed with a staggering sense of danger, I knew I should be running for my life, but could not pull myself away from the drama unfolding before me. Eyes ablaze with hatred, Burton set his jaw and stated quietly, “It's over, Darren. No more killing.”

Darren placed both palms on the desk and leaned forward, his expression deadly. “It's a little late in the game for you to suddenly grow a pair.”

“She was nice to me,” he said, ignoring the insult. “She showed me a little respect, which is something you've never done.”

His stepbrother's eyes narrowed to slits. “You simpering weasel. Don't ever think that you can defy me, or I'll make sure everyone knows what you did.”

“You don't scare me anymore. I'm at peace with myself now.”

“Tell that to the judge and see how far it gets you,” came his mocking rejoinder. “I can hear you pleading now. Your honor, I didn't physically kill those innocent people, someone else actually carried out the deed. All I did was devise the methods to make it look like an accident. You think any jury is going to believe that? Especially when they find out you murdered your poor, dear mother.”

Burton glared at him. “She begged me to help end her misery and I found a way to do it humanely.” He shook his head sadly, continuing in a placid tone, “You are cruel and coldhearted. You don't possess an ounce of decency. Gabriel shared that information in confidence and you betrayed it. You've tortured me with it for three years, but not anymore.”

“You've been well-paid, little brother.”

As I stood listening to Burton's calm narration, the strangest feeling flowed over me. My mind raced back to last Friday night. I was almost a hundred percent sure these were the two men I'd overhead arguing in the parking lot of the Rattlesnake Saloon. The leaden apprehension in my gut convinced me that I was hearing more than an exchange of words.
He wanted me to overhear this conversation.
I was witnessing his confession.

“We're not brothers and I'm finished doing your dirty work.”

“You're finished all right,” Darren jeered. “You won't last a week in prison.”

Burton shoved both hands in his coat pockets. “I will never go to prison.” His words had a ring of serene finality about them. “But you will.” I inhaled a startled breath when he pulled his service revolver from his pocket and aimed it squarely at Darren, who at first appeared taken aback before his lips curled in sardonic amusement.

“You pasty-faced momma's boy. You don't have the guts to look me in the eye and…” The remainder of his sentence was aborted when Burton fired three times, aiming his shots strategically. One shot to the right shoulder, one shot to each thigh. Screaming with astonished rage, Darren collapsed to the floor writhing in pain. When the Hinkles and my stalker raced into the big room, Burton turned and fired in their direction. They scattered like frightened cats. Then he calmly emptied the remaining bullets into his hand and laid the gun on the desk. Ignoring the stream of expletives pouring from Darren's lips, he announced softly, “The sheriff is on his way. Rot in hell.” With a smile of supreme satisfaction, he turned, made brief eye contact with me, and then vanished into the tunnel.