Tyrannosaur Canyon (29 page)

20

SALLY CLIMBED UP the unstable pile of rocks, the match clenched between her teeth, seeking out footholds and handholds. With every step she could feel the rocks shifting underneath her, some dislodging and tumbling to the bottom. The whole pile seemed to creak and move.

Her breathing came so hard that it put the match out.

She felt in the box-one match left. She decided to save it.

"I'm coming!" the hoarse voice echoed down through the tunnels, maniacally distorted. Sally kept climbing, moving upward by feel, more stones raiding down. Then she heard, above her, a deep groan of shifting wood and rock, followed by a cascade of pebbles. Another step, another creaking shift. It was about to go. But she had no choice.

She reached up, fumbled for a handhold, tested it, drew herself up. Another handhold, another foothold. She moved with the utmost care, easing her weight from one foothold to the next.

"Sally, where are youuu?"

She could hear him splashing through the tunnel. She drew herself up farther and grasped a length of beam above her. Leaning her weight on it, she tested it. It groaned and shifted slightly, but seemed to hold. She paused, trying not to think of what it would be like to be buried alive, then she lifted herself up. Another groan, a flurry of falling pebbles, and she was up and over it. Above, her hands encountered a tangle of splintered wood and broken rock.

She would have to light the last match.

It scraped against the side of the box and flared to life. Above, she could see the dark hole she had to go into. She held the matchbox over the flame until it

caught fire, casting a much brighter light into the dark space, but it was still not enough to see where it went.

With one hand holding the burning box, she hoisted herself over the next shifting beam. In a moment she was standing on a precarious ledge just inside the dark opening. By the dying light of the burning matchbox she saw the hole ended in a broad, half-moon crack going off at a shallow angle of about thirty degrees. The crack looked just wide enough to fit in.

There was a sudden crash below her as a large rock from the ceiling fell to the ground. The flame went out.

"There you are!"

The beam of a flashlight lanced through the darkness, scouring the rock pile below her. She reached up, grabbed a handhold, and hoisted herself up. The flashlight beam was probing all around now. She climbed quickly, even recklessly, scrabbling upward toward the two damp faces of stone and crawling into the broad fissure. The crack went up at a shallow angle and it was wide enough so that she could wedge herself in it and move up by wriggling and inching. She had no more matches, no way to see where she was going, no way to know if the crack went anywhere. She crawled on, pushing herself upward with her hands and knees. For a moment she was seized by the claustrophobic panic of being pressed on both sides by stone. She paused, regulated her breathing, mastered her fear, and resumed.

"I'm coming to get youuuu!"

The voice came from directly below. She continued crawling with a growing sense of dread that the crack was narrowing. Soon it was so narrow she had to force her way deeper in, pushing with her feet and knees, exhaling some air from her lungs to fit through. With another surge of panic she understood that this had become a one-way journey-she would not be able to turn around. Without the leverage of being able to push with her feet she could never back out.

"I know you're up there, bitch!"

She heard the rattle of falling rocks as he began to climb the rockfall. She drew up her feet, twisted her torso, and was able to get her arm loose and slide it in front of her, to feel her way forward. The crack didn't seem to narrow farther, and if anything it felt like it might even get wider. If she could push herself past this narrow section, the crack might lead to another tunnel.

She exhaled and, using her feet as a brace, forced herself deeper in, her shirt pocket tearing, the buttons ripping off. She felt ahead. Another push, another exhale to make herself thinner. She paused, taking shallow breaths. It was like being pressed to death. She heard the sound of more rocks falling below her as he climbed.

She braced herself, and with a mighty push shoved herself deeper into the crack. The terror of being squeezed in the darkness was almost overwhelming. Water dripped down and ran over her face. Now she knew she could never back out. It would have been better to be shot than to die in this crack. If she could just push past this constriction, the crack might widen again. She braced, pushed again, her clothes tearing with the effort. Another push-and she felt forward with her hand. The crack narrowed sharply to something less than an inch wide. She felt wildly, moving her hand back and forth, looking for a wider place-but there was none. She felt again, almost crazed with terror, but there could be no doubt: the crack narrowed to a few inches all along its length, with many smaller cracks radiating out. Back and forth she swept her hands, probing and feeling- but it was no use.

Sally felt an unspeakable terror bubbling up, beyond her ability to control. She tried to wriggle back out, struggling violently, hardly able to breathe. But she had no leverage; her arms were not strong enough to force herself back. She was wedged in. There was no going forward. And there was no going back.

21

TOM TRIED EVERYTHING to break the lock on the grate. He bashed it with boulders, rammed it with a log, but it was useless. The faint sounds from inside the mine had ceased, and he felt the silence would drive him mad. Anything could be happening to her-a minute might mean the difference between life and death. He had shouted, screamed in the grate, trying to draw off the kidnapper-to no avail.

He stepped outside, trying to think of what to do. The moon was just starting to rise above the fir trees along the ridgeline above him. He controlled his breathing and tried to think. He had explored some of these mines years ago, and he recalled there were others in the area. Perhaps they connected; gold mines often had several entrances.

He hiked up to the top of the ridge and gazed down the other side. Bingo. About two hundred yards below stood another shaft house, at approximately the same level as the other, with a long streak of tailings below it.

Surely they would connect.

He ran down the hill, sliding and leaping boulders, and in a moment had reached it. Pulling out his gun, he kicked down the door and went inside, shining the light around. There was another mine opening, and this one had no metal grate sealing it. He ventured inside and probed the beam down a long, level tunnel. A feeling of urgency almost choked him now. He jogged down the tunnel, and at the first fork stopped to listen. A minute ticked by, then two. He felt he was going mad.

Suddenly he heard it: the faint echo of a yell. The two mines connected.

He dashed down the tunnel the sound had come from and ran on, his light disclosing a series of air shafts on the left-hand side. He turned a corner and his flashlight revealed two other tunnels, one going up, the other down. He stopped

to listen, waiting, his impatience soaring-and then came another distorted shout.

The voice of the man again. Angry.

Tom ran down the left-hand shaft, sometimes having to duck because of a low ceiling. More sounds came echoing down the tunnel from ahead, still faint but getting clearer.

The tunnel made a few sharp turns and came to a central chamber, with four tunnels going off in various directions. He skidded to a stop, breathing heavily, and shined his light around, revealing some old railroad ties, a wrecked ore cart, a pile of rusty chain, hemp ropes chewed by rats. He would have to wait for another sound before he could proceed.

Silence. He felt he would go mad. Make a sound, dammit, any sound.

And then it came: a faint cry.

In a flash he ran down the tunnel from which it issued, which dead-ended in a vertical shaft surrounded by a railing. The pit was too deep for his light to reach the bottom. There was no way down-no ladders or ropes.

He examined the rough edges of the shaft, and decided to go for it. He tore off his Italian dress shoes and socks and tossed them over the edge, counting the time it took for them to hit the bottom. One and a half seconds: thirty-two feet.

Sticking the gun back in his belt and holding the Maglite between his teeth, he grasped a rail and let himself over the edge, gripping the bare rock with his feet. Slowly, his heart pounding his chest, he crept down the shaft.

Another foot down, another handhold. He lost his footing and for a terrifying moment felt he would fall. The sharp rocks cut into his toes. He climbed down with maddening slowness, and finally, with a sense of relief, felt solid ground. He shined the light around, collected his shoes and socks, and put them back on. He was in yet another mining tunnel going straight back into the mountain. He listened. All was silent.

He jogged down the tunnel, stopped after a hundred yards to listen again. The flashlight was getting feeble-the batteries, which had been none too good to begin with, were dying. He went on, stopped, listened. Coming from behind him he heard what sounded like a muffled shout. He shut off his light, holding his breath. It was a voice, still coming from distance, but much clearer than before. He could just make out the words.

I know you 're up there. Come down or I shoot.

Tom listened, his heart pounding.

You hear me?

He felt a rush of relief that fairly staggered him on his feet. Sally was alive-

and evidently free. He listened intently, trying to locate the direction of the voice.

You're dead, bitch.

The words filled him with a rage so sudden that he lost his breath for a moment. He moved another twenty feet, walking back and forth, trying to get a fix. The sound seemed to be coming from below, as if through the very rock. But that was impossible. Some ten feet to his left he could see a web of cracks in the stone floor of the tunnel, where it had sagged and broken. He knelt, held his hand over one of the cracks. Cool air flowed out. He put his ear to the crack.

There was the sudden crack! of a large-caliber gun, followed by a scream-a scream so close to his ear he jumped.

22

WILLER AND HERNANDEZ sped northward on Highway 84, the lights of Espanola

receding in the distance, the empty blackness of the desert wilderness mounting in front of them. It was almost
midnight
and Wilier was beside himself that a half-wit like Biler had managed to waste so many precious hours of their time.

Wilier slid a butt out of his shirt pocket and inserted it between his lips. He wasn't supposed to smoke in the squad car but he was long beyond the point of caring.

"Broadbent could be over
Cumbres
Pass
by now," said Hernandez.

Wilier sucked in a lungful. "Not possible. They've logged all the vehicles coming over the pass and Biler's wasn't one of them. It hasn't gone through the roadblock south of Espanola either."

"He could've ditched the car in some back lot in Espanola and gone to ground in a motel."

"He could've, but he didn't." Wilier gave the car a little more pedal. The speedometer inched up from 110 to 120, the car rocking back and forth, the darkness rushing past.

"So what do you think he did?"

"I think he went to that so-called monastery, Christ in the Desert, to see that monk. Which is where we're going."

"What makes you think that?"

Wilier sucked again. Usually he appreciated Hernandez's persistent questions- they helped him think things through-but this time he felt only irritation. "I don't know why I think it but I think it," he snapped. "Broadbent and his wife are mixed up in it, the monk's in on it, and there's a third party out there-the killer -
 
who's also up to his ass in it. They've found something in those canyons and they're locked in a life or death struggle over it. Whatever it is, it's big-so hie that Broadbent blew off the police and stole a truck over it. I mean, Jesus, Hernandez, you got to ask yourself what's so important that a guy like that would risk ten years in Santa Fe Correctional. Here's a guy who's already got everything."

"Yeah."

"Even if Broadbent's not at the monastery, I want to have a little chat with that so-called monk."

23

TOM RECOGNIZED, W!TH a freezing sense of disbelief, that the scream came from Sally. He pressed his mouth to the crack. "Sally!"

A gasp. "Tom?"

"Sally! What's happening? Are you all right?"

"My God, Tom! It's you-" She could hardly speak. "I'm stuck. He's shooting at me." Another sobbing gasp.

"Sally, I'm here, it's okay." Tom shone the feeble light down and was shocked to see Sally's face wedged in the crack not two feet below him.

Another boom! from the gun, and Tom heard the zing and rattle of a bullet in the rocks beneath.

"He's shooting into the crack, but he can't see me. Tom, I'm trapped-!"

"I'm going to get you out of here." He shone the light around. The rock was fractured already and it would just be a matter of breaking up and prying out the pieces. He cast around with the light, shining it up and down the tunnel, looking for a tool. In one corner was a pile of rotting crates and ropes.

"I'll be right back."

Another shot.

Tom ran to the pile, threw off a rotten coil of rope, searched through a heap of rotting sacks of burlap. Underneath was a broken piece of miner's hand-steel. He grabbed it, ran back.

"Tom!"

"I'm here. I'm going to get you out."

Another shot. Sally screamed. "I'm hit! He hit me!"

"My God, where-?"

"In the leg. Oh, my God, get me out."

"Close your eyes."