The Florentine Deception (29 page)

I took a deep breath and stretched my arms upward, then reached down to scratch an itch on my thigh through my moist nylon climbing pants. As I dug my fingernail into the material I noticed a crinkling sound, the sound of a plastic wrapper, and I remembered Potter's glow sticks. The things had been sitting there the entire time, my leg numbed to their presence the same way one learns to ignore a ring or a pair of glasses over time.

Electrified by the renewed prospect of an escape, I shot to my feet, unzipped the zipper, and ripped one of the sticks from the pocket along the front of my leg. The plastic stick bent with a crack as the glass ampoule holding one of the stick's two chemicals fractured, releasing its contents to mix with the other compound in the stick's interior. A moment of shaking mixed the reactants together, generating a surprisingly bright green iridescence.

I had to find Potter, to see if he was still alive and see if I could help. After a minute of searching I found his body along the right edge of the bowl, partially hidden by a pair of short stalagmites. His head was twisted at a grotesque angle, his legs and arms unnaturally splayed like that of a carelessly dropped puppet. Potter didn't deserve any of this and I'd caused it. I was the reason he was dead. My eyes welled with tears. I closed them and cursed.

I had to climb out; rope or not, I wasn't going to die here, alone in the darkness. I was going to get out and make Khalimmy pay. I wiped my eyes dry with my forearm and returned to the wall.

I replayed our hours-earlier rappel of the wall in my mind's eye, trying to recall its topography to come up with a general plan of attack. My best shot was generally up and to the right—that was where I'd seen the most promising holds on my way down. Of course, this route would take me over the stalagmites and away from the safety of the pool, but what other option did I have? I scoured the face for a good starting point, and found a reasonable hold that resembled the interior of a small cup of yogurt, mid-wall, about a foot above my head. I clenched the glow stick firmly between my teeth then slotted the fingers of my left hand into the pocket. The hold was solid, so I lifted my right foot from the floor and directed my gaze to the base of the wall to locate a foothold.

While the area above my head was sufficiently illuminated from the stick, its green glow only radiated down as far as my knees, leaving my feet shrouded in darkness. Undeterred, I dropped back to the narrow floor at the bowl's edge and removed the second stick from my pocket. I cracked the ampoule and after a moment of vigorous shaking, loosened the laces of my right climbing shoe and inserted the stick between the alternating cords. It did the trick; a quick sweep of my foot highlighted a chain of charcoal briquette-sized stones embedded in the wall's base, a foot from the floor. Again I reached up for the yogurt cup, then, guided by the illumination of the second stick, placed my feet on the briquette protrusions.

Feet firmly planted, I shifted my attention back above my head. The greenish glow highlighted a triplet of closely spaced, thimble-sized holes. Maddeningly, the trio lay inches from my outstretched fingertips; to reach them, I'd need a foothold at least a foot above the briquettes, yet the green glow revealed only smooth, vertical rock. It would have to be enough. I raised my right foot and smeared it against the slab, actively applying pressure much like a masseur might press his palm against a tensed muscle. Under my leg's pressure, the climbing shoe's rubber dug into the rock's minute grooves and held fast, giving me enough height to reach the three dime-sized holes. I slotted my three middle fingers into the thimbles, and, with a look downward, was able to drag both feet up onto a wide, quarter-inch-deep ledge.

I breathed a breath of relief and focused on the dull ache in my arm and the growing burning of my fingers' tendons. Slowly and methodically I ascended the route, up and right, up and right, lightly testing each new hold before committing my weight. I wasn't a religious person, but I considered that I might have to reevaluate my beliefs if I survived; the holds were almost too good—well spaced, deep and positive.

Thirty feet up, I cranked my right bicep tight to pull my body into the rock and reached up, left, for what looked to be the lower, semicircular rim of a natural jug. My fingertips just barely rounded its lip, but it wasn't enough; my hand didn't have enough contact surface area to hold on, and my engorged right bicep, now supporting virtually all of my body weight, burned painfully.

I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply through my nose, and wriggled the pad of my left index finger a hair farther around the rim until, unexpectedly, it caught a little divot along the lip's interior. Anything—an increase in perspiration, a poorly planned shift in balance, or an inadvertent twitch, would compromise the friction bonding my skin to the rock and send me careening down into the water, or worse, into a sharp stalagmite. I needed a better foothold to improve my grip. I craned my neck and scanned the porous wall by my feet for potentials until my eyes locked onto a pocket the size of an eggshell near my left knee. With glacial slowness I raised my left leg until the tip of my foot hovered in front of its target, then carefully inserted the toe of my climbing shoe into the cavity. That gave me the extra reach I needed. I dug my left hand deep into the jug and breathed a sigh of relief. For the moment, I was free of imminent danger.

After two minutes of alternating grips and shaking out my arms, the burning in my arms abated. Against my better judgment, I gazed down to gauge my progress—the light from my shoe's glow stick was dwindling prematurely and now penetrated just inches below my footholds. Probably better that I couldn't judge my true height, but I'd need to reach the top soon. At least my teeth-clenched glow stick was still burning bright.

I scanned the area above my head—a cue ball-sized pocket sat a few feet up at ten o'clock; at two o'clock, a shallow, sloping shelf rose diagonally up and into the darkness. I liked shelves, even narrow ones, so long as they angled upward. I extended my right hand and slid it up and right along the two-inch-deep outcropping for a grip. Nothing solid, but nothing to sneeze at either. I tightened my fingers on the ridge and adjusted my feet. Hand over hand, I worked my body up the diagonal shelf, two feet, then four feet, then six. And hold after hold, the shelf improved, offering an almost rain gutter-like rail to ascend.

After a blissful twelve feet, the shelf disappeared into the face, ending at a pair of large gouged pocks. I was getting close. I could feel it. Perhaps it was the cave's acoustics or maybe subtle changes in the air currents, or something subconscious. I worked my hands into the higher of the two natural scars, feeling the increasing burn in my forearms, then rose up and scanned the wall's face. The glow stick dangling from my mouth illuminated a scene that was at the same time terrifying and gruesome. I was just four feet from the top, from surviving the horror of the last few hours. Yet, between my hands and the ledge above, not a single pocket, shelf, or nub graced the smooth wall—I'd reached a dead end. Dead in more than one way. Linda's limp, lifeless arm dangled sickeningly over the edge, her body wedged between the two stalagmites above. My mouth opened in an involuntary gasp, and before I could shut it, the glow stick slipped from my teeth, bounced off my foot, and careened into the darkness below.

Chapter 48

My limited options had, in an instant, been reduced to one. With no light to direct my hands, any attempt to retrace my way downward would be a death sentence. And the featureless wall above was not an option. My choice, therefore, was to either let go (and pray I'd land somewhere in the pool) and then attempt the climb again with just a single, dim glow stick, or make one last go at it.

“Sorry, Linda,” I murmured.

I closed my eyes tight and like an apparition, the outline of Linda's arm glowed in an afterimage on my retinas. Without shifting the angle of my head, I edged my feet higher, then, with both feet smeared high against the wall, I launched up through the darkness toward Linda's iridescent, outstretched arm. Just as my body reached its apex, my fingers clamped around Linda's wrist and her tendons and muscles groaned sickeningly under my full hundred-and-sixty-five-pound load. Linda's body jerked forward, the friction of her corpse against the rough rocks above battling against gravity's pull on my body. I threw my right hand around her forearm, then used my stomach muscles to steady my swinging feet and draw them in up against the smooth cliff wall. The shoe's rubber gripped; all I needed was just a second of friction, enough to throw my right hand up to the ledge above. I hiked my feet higher, released the grip of my right hand, drew my body up high with my left bicep, and lunged.

Linda's body jerked forward under the increased tug just as my right hand hit its mark and locked onto an uneven volcanic outcropping atop the ledge. I realized I was holding my breath, so I inhaled, and then pulled myself up and onto the ledge.

My entire frame shook as I collapsed on the floor next to Linda.

“Why?” I screamed, tears streaming from my eyes. “What have I done?” My body convulsed in sobs.

“I'm so sorry, Linda,” I stammered. “Potter … I've been the cause of so much death.” I shook my head. “So much. I'm so sorry.”

I lay there in the dimming green light, weeping, my mind numbed by guilt. And then, when the tears refused to flow further, I rose and gently lifted Linda's body and drew it away from the edge.

“Why couldn't it have been me?” I asked, my eyes welling again with tears. “I'm so sorry.”

I leaned in to kiss her forehead.

And then I felt her breath.

Chapter 49

“Linda?” I pleaded. “Linda, can you hear me?”

Nothing.

I leaned in closer, placing my face just a fraction of an inch from her nose, and felt it again, shallow and slow. But how? How could she have survived? Agonizingly, I directed my gaze down at her blood-soaked shirt, at the bullet hole. The slug had entered just over her left breast—through her shirt pocket—and traveled directly into her chest.

I ripped the dimming glow stick from my shoe and clamped it between my teeth, then carefully unfastened Linda's top two buttons and peeled away the blood-soaked fabric. The bullet had penetrated Linda's chest four inches below her clavicle, its entrance hole pooled with coagulating blood. But why hadn't it killed her? A shot like that from less than five feet away?

Then it dawned on me.

Her backup battery pack!

I hurriedly unbuttoned Linda's breast pocket and withdrew the trio of batteries. There it was—a dime-sized hole punched through the tape, midway between the rightmost two batteries. The pack hadn't stopped the bullet but had slowed it. Just enough.

I needed to get her medical attention immediately, but I had to stabilize her first. There was nothing I could do about her chest wound other than to keep her still, so I shifted my gaze down to her right knee. Tourniquets were only called for if there was uncontrolled bleeding, and while her knee was pretty mangled, the blood had stopped flowing.

There was nothing more I could do.

“Linda,” I squeezed her hand gently, “if you can hear me, just hang on. And if you need some motivation, just remember that margarita I owe you. If nothing else, hang on for that margarita. Just for a few more hours. I'm going to bring help.”

I kissed her forehead and headed for the entrance.

Resting on my hands and knees, just hidden from view, I surveyed the dimly lit cavern from within the tube, listened for any movement. Nothing. It was empty. Khalimmy was gone.

I shimmied through the shaft's remaining few feet, then stood up and ran to the mouth of the cave. As I reached the entrance, the intense afternoon light blinded me and I staggered back reflexively into the darkness.

“Steven!” I yelled.

Nothing.

“Goddammit, where the hell are you? Crouch, it's Alex!”

I cupped my hands over the top of my eyes and stepped from the cavern and into the full daylight, squinting painfully up and down the canyon. Was he still alive?

“Or dead?” I mumbled. “God help you Khalimmy, if you even touched a hair on him. God help you.”

“Steven,” I screamed again.

“Alex?” The voice was faint and distant but unmistakable. “
Auuughh
,” he groaned.

“Where are you?” I yelled.

“Over here.” He was upstream.

“I'm coming,” I responded.

I carefully picked my way through and over the nearest group of boulders, then yelled again, “Where are you?”

“I'm not exactly sure,” he groaned. “I'm injured.”

“Just take it easy,” I said. I worked my way up the canyon and scrambled onto the top of a boulder the size of a VW Bug.

“Marco,” I yelled.

“Polo,” he replied feebly. His voice seemed to project from a narrow crevasse separating two massive boulders, each easily fifteen feet tall.

“I'll be right there,” I said. Steven groaned more persistently while I worked my way up a series of pockets to the top of the nearer boulder and to the edge of the fissure. I cupped my hands and yelled down, “Marco.”

“Polo,” he sputtered from the shadows below.

“Thank God,” I said. “Are you okay?”

“I've got a broken leg.” I could hear him wince.

“Do you have your phone?” I asked. “We're going to need a helicopter.”

“Yeah, but I can't get a signal.”

“One second, I'll see if I can find a safe way down.”

I backed off from the edge and worked my way down the back side of the boulder and to the edge of the creek. Then I waded upstream through the shallow water until I reached the nearer of the two boulders.

“Marco,” I yelled.

“Polo.” His voice was louder. I rounded the first boulder and shimmied several feet through a narrow, water-smoothed gap into a darkened grotto. I could just hear his breathing over the trickling stream outside.