by Marc Cameron
Cutter had calculated he’d need about forty-five seconds to traverse the 100 plus feet once he reached the tunnel, but that hadn’t taken into account having to spend so much energy keeping himself off the top. His stupidity with the light had just added another eight seconds – an eternity when you’re running out of air.
Buoyancy semi-controlled, he fell into a kick-kick-adjust-plane-downward-repeat rhythm.
His heartbeat throbbed in his ears. Still less than eighty beats per minute. Slow, he thought, considering the effort he had to make to keep from shredding himself on the rough ceiling – not to mention the relatively high probability of dying alone.
Had he been in a pool or a lake, Cutter could have traveled half again as fast for the first dozen yards, maybe even the entire hundred feet, but he had no way of knowing if he would hit a wall at the other end – and be forced to turn around and swim all the way back on the same breath. If Horning’s map was right, a round-trip would be a little over two hundred feet – a little less than half the world record for underwater swimming. But records were set under ideal conditions.
Cutter pushed the possibility of a lonely death out of his mind and concentrated on his rhythm.
Seconds ticked by. His heart raced faster now, drumming in his ears until he could hardly hear himself think. His lungs screamed for fresh air. His throat tightened, begging to expel the carbon dioxide in his lungs, and the remainder of his oxygen along with it. To breathe was suicide, but his body was sending signals that it no longer cared about such logic.
He blew out a tiny cloud of bubbles, hearing them burble past his ears, a compromise with his lungs. Exhaling helped some with his buoyancy control, but cold and fatigue had cost him more than he’d thought.
There was no way he could make it back if he had to turn around.
Panic fell away at the realization. He sped up, eager to get to the end, one way or another. But the tunnel went on and on and on. The impulse to breathe was overwhelming, disrupting his kick cycle, impairing his ability to swim in a straight line, overriding all other thought.
The light flickered in his hand, went dark, then flicked back on again. Cutter kept kicking, but brought the baggie close to his face. As he suspected, the plastic bag had torn, probably when he’d dropped it or tried to grab it. Maybe it hadn’t been watertight from the beginning. It didn’t matter now. The headlamp was flooding.
Two more kicks and the light stopped working completely; the blackness closed in around him.
Swimming blind now, Cutter struggled to stay oriented. The whooshing squeal of his pulse echoed in his head. His shoulder struck the wall hard, jolting him with bone-numbing pain. There was surely a cloud of blood there, but he couldn’t see it. He pushed away, as if fending off an attack. The movement pushed him upward, slamming him into the arched roof. Tooth-like outcroppings ripped at his shirt, gouged his flesh. Bubbles from his own escaping breath burbled past his ears as he careened upward again, a torpedo stuck in a closed tube.
Chapter 52
Donita Willets had recognized Childers and Dollarhyde while they were still sliding down their ropes. Light from the headlamps created long shadows, but there was no mistaking the cruelty on their faces. It was not enough for men like this to kill her by sealing off the mine.
They wanted to watch her die.
She cowered behind the support pillar farthest from the mouth of the Great Hall. Her back to the black pool, she’d run as far as she could. Levi hadn’t left her with a gun, but she had the knife on her belt. She would not make it easy for them.
The men turned off their lights. Maybe they had night vision. Or one of those devices that looked for heat. She pulled her arms tight against her body. It was over if that was the case. She choked back a sob. It was over anyway, no matter what they had.
Something cracked against the wall behind her, splashing into the pool. Instinctively, she inched around the stone pillar, away from the sound. Another snap echoed in the darkness, then another, this one clacking off the rock inches from her head. She drew a quick breath, caught herself in mid-yelp, but it was too late. They’d heard her.
Now it was over.
Mumbled voices buzzed by the far pillar like angry wasps. They were close now, where the Great Hall narrowed to become the smaller beetle’s head. Scornful laughter cut the darkness – and then quiet. Nothing but dripping water, the periodic clatter of rocks – and her own terrified breathing.
Then a strange hissing sound filled the cavern. It stopped, letting the dripping water and falling rocks take over for a time, before starting up again. At first she thought it was closer, behind her maybe – or to her right, or her left. The hissing sound grew louder, coming from everywhere at once. She’d been to Arizona, Texas, the places with snakes. If this was that, then there were hundreds of them, filling the Great Hall.
Ssssssshhhhhhhhh. Like a sinister rain.
It stopped.
“Donita!” a voice said, sneering. Childers. “You and me, we have some things to talk about.”
The ssshhhhhh started again.
“Levi sends his regards, by the way… at least I think that’s what he was boohooing about right before I blew his brains all over the wall.”
Donita’s knees buckled at the revelation.
“Anyway,” Childers sneered. “Your dude’s not coming to rescue you, so you can put that shit out of your pretty little mind.”
A sob caught hard in Donita’s throat. Hopelessness washed over her.
Sssshhhhhhhh.
“You’re Indian,” Childers said. “Ever seen one of these before at your powwows or whatever you guys do up here? I guess it’s some kind of witch doctor bone rattle. We got it from one of your buddies, next to a rotten skeleton.” He chuckled. “The guy who had it before me thought it was cursed.”
A voice yelled down from the portal above, echoing around the Great Hall. She recognized it as Harold Grimsson. “She down there? Somebody tell me what’s going on! Kill the little bitch and get out!”
If Childers heard the orders, he ignored them – for the time being.
Donita couldn’t see from her vantage point behind the stone column, but she imagined him shaking a Raven rattle.
Sssshhhhhhh.
The horrible hiss threatened to swallow her whole. Tears ran down her cheeks. She wanted to plug her ears but was afraid to move.
“I don’t know,” Childers went on. “Maybe this thing is cursed. Hey, maybe the old bones we found it with belong to one of your Indian relatives. Maybe I should bury it down here with you. Put it under the earth again where it belongs.”
Sssshhhhhh.
“You know what, though? This ugly old bone rattle is worth a buttload of cash. I think I’ll just hang on to it for now. I don’t believe in curses anyhow. Do you, Donita?”
Ssssshhhhh.
“What do you say? Ready to get this over with? If I remember right, you’re not too hard to look at. It could be me on top of you instead of a ton of rock. At least one of us would enjoy—”
A voice pierced the darkness to Donita’s left, somewhere near one of the other pillars.
“Now!”
It was Dollarhyde. He’d worked his way around while Childers talked.
“Took you long enough,” Childers said.
Both men flicked on their headlamps, flooding the room with light but momentarily blinding them in the process.
“Come on, Donita,” Childers said, menacingly, darker than the mine had ever been. “This is getting boring. Let’s spice things up!”
“I see her,” Dollarhyde said. “She’s—”
An ungodly croaking sound filled the Great Hall, bouncing off the roof and walls. Water erupted from the black pool, like the tail of a great fish breaching the surface. Another deep croak rose from the blackness, followed by more splashing.
Adrenaline spent, Donita slumped behind her rock, numb. One way or another, she was about to die, either at the hands of these two men or this creature
from beneath the mountain rising from the inky water.
She mustered the energy for a blood-curdling scream. Dollarhyde’s scream put hers to shame.
Headlamp beams went crazy, bouncing this way and that as the men scrambled away from the dark form that emerged from the black pool. Dollarhyde screamed again – backpedaling into one of the stone columns, bouncing off to stagger toward Childers and firing wildly into the water.
Chapter 53
Thirty seconds earlier
Cutter dropped the useless headlamp and rolled onto his back. Facing a ceiling of stone fangs that he could not see, he hauled himself along, hand over hand, rock to rock. The thin Mechanix gloves protected his hands at first, but he bashed his forehead twice, nearly knocking himself out, before he learned to keep his arms relatively straight and his hips arched. In effect, he crawled across the top of the tunnel, creating the necessary distance to avoid ripping off his nose on a hanging crag.
Not quite two minutes into the dive now, the edges of his mind began to fray.
He could see perfectly now in the crystalline-green water. Grumpy swam beside him, younger, like when Arliss was a boy. Ethan was there too. No longer alone, Cutter decided to give in, to breathe. He wanted to talk to his grandfather again. To let go and stop the crushing pain in his chest. The cold water could have him.
Grumpy pointed a finger, silently chiding him. He’d have no talk of quitting. Ethan dolphin-kicked alongside, challenged him to a race – like the old days. And then Barb, his last wife, was there, her shoulder brushing his. She was always an excellent swimmer. Flowing hair enveloped her face in the water, long, like before the chemo. And her smile… she looked so much like Mim…
Mim.
Cutter pulled harder. The gloves were in tatters now, and he shredded his knuckles on the knife edges of rock, grabbing, hauling…
And then there was no more rock above him, only a column of water. He felt his lungs expanding, and the sensation of floating upward. He kicked, feebly at first, then harder as he realized he’d made it.
Light shimmered above him. People. Danger. The closer he got to the surface, the more his lungs expanded and the faster he rose. He knew he should slow, for safety’s sake, but he had to have air. Caution was worthless if he drowned. He broke the surface like a missile, shooting out of the water almost to his waist. A long, croaking breath filled his lungs with sweet, wonderful air.
More light. Screams. Echoes.
Cutter inhaled deeply, feeling his vision clear with each lungful of air. He blinked, trying to get his bearings amid the chaos. Pistol shots boomed off the rock walls, slapped the water around him, forcing him to dive again, back into his airless tomb. Oblivious to the cold now, all he could think about was air. He needed to breathe.
Underwater, he kicked his way to the far edge of the pool, fifteen or twenty feet away from where he’d first surfaced. A stone outcrop no larger than his head offered momentary cover from the searching lights. He allowed himself two quick, shivering breaths, before reverting to slower combat breathing, abbreviating the cycles because of his hypoxia. In for a three-count, out for a three-count. Water drained from his ears. His pulse began to slow enough that he could discern voices.
“Holy shit!” It was Slick’s voice – from the gunfight on the mountain. “What was that? A falling rock?”
“That wasn’t no rock!” another voice said.
Tough Guy, the rifleman. Cutter had robbed him of the long gun, but he’d proven himself plenty handy with the pistol.
Cutter blinked, moved slowly to wipe the excess water out of his eyes. Both men wore climbing harnesses. Headlamps illuminated their faces, the beams playing this way and that, crossing each other, then stopping to study some spot before moving to another. So far, Cutter remained in the shadows.
The girl he assumed to be Donita Willets wasn’t so lucky. Cutter could see her clearly from his vantage point. Tough Guy sent a round slamming into the stone column where she was hiding, sending her scurrying around it for cover. If she went too far, she’d expose herself on the other side.
She screamed again.
“Would you just shut up!” Tough Guy barked. He held something in his hand. The bone rattle. “Who else is down here?”
Something boiled in the black water to Cutter’s right. He heard a noise he couldn’t place. Tough Guy jumped at the sound. He dropped the rattle and spun toward it, using two hands to fire a couple of snap shots from his Glock into the middle of the pool.
Behind Tough Guy, Slick stooped to grab something from the ground. He spun on his heels, the light from his headlamp bouncing and bobbing on the far wall as he hauled ass back to his rope – bone rattle in hand.
Pressing against the rock deck, Cutter used the diversion to push himself up and out of the water. He’d intended to draw his Colt as soon as he was up, but cold and fatigue cramped his muscles. He stumbled forward on numb feet for the cover of a stone column – and almost made it.
“Hey there,” Tough Guy said, his light settling on Cutter, still three feet from the rock support. “Got some friends in the water, do you?” The Glock was aimed directly at Cutter’s chest. He had the advantage and he knew it.
Water drained from Cutter’s clothes. His Xtratufs were full. Running would be a joke. He raised his hands to shoulder level, opening and closing his fists to get the blood flowing. He kept his voice low, soothing, trying not to look like too much of a threat, which wasn’t hard considering he looked more like a drowned rat than a deputy US marshal.
“Only me.”
“Bullshit!” Tough Guy snapped. The pistol remained rock steady. “Dollarhyde, cover the pond,” he said, so focused on Cutter he wasn’t aware that Dollarhyde was halfway up the rope. Cutter spoke again, drawing Tough Guy’s attention back to him. If he felt suddenly isolated, he might go ahead and shoot. And Cutter needed a second or two longer to get the circulation back in his hands.
“I… s-swear.” He didn’t have to affect the chatter. “It’s only me.”
Tough Guy’s headlamp bobbed slightly as he nodded to the Colt Python. “Mighty big pistola you got on your belt there, sport.”
“For bears,” Cutter said. He made a fist, held it, then opened his hand slowly.
“Bears?” Tough Guy tilted his head to the side, studying Cutter’s face. “I know you,” he said, anger welling up with each word. “You’re the son of a bitch that shot my rifle.”
Grumpy had taught both his grandsons the art and science of gun fighting, long before Cutter had joined the Army or come aboard with the Marshals Service. Speed and accuracy both counted, Grumpy always said, but neither were worth a damn by themselves. “You might have the skill to shoot the nuts off a fruit fly at a hundred paces while sighting over your shoulder with a dental mirror,” Grumpy would say, “but if you can’t do it fast, that kind of pinpoint accuracy is worthless.” It might not win many trophies, but exceptional speed with decent accuracy was far superior to decent speed with exceptional accuracy.
Tough Guy’s face darkened. The Glock rose a hair.
Action was faster than reaction, but Cutter would have to draw, acquire his target, and fire. Tough Guy simply had to squeeze the trigger. Cutter relaxed his hands, letting them sag a couple of inches. He took a fluttering breath, which Tough Guy took for fear.
They stood a dozen yards apart. An easy shot if Cutter hadn’t just been submerged for two minutes in muscle-cramping water.
Cutter picked a spot on the man’s chest. Took another breath. Settling himself. Hearing Grumpy’s no-bullshit voice in his ear.
Demonstrating with his shot timer, Grumpy started every range day the same. “A BEEP will be your signal to fire. When you hear the B, I want your gun hand dropping to that holster – the gun should be out and shooting your target by the EEP.”
Water splashed again to Cutter’s right—
“B…”
Cutter’s hand dropped to the Colt. Muscle memory acquiring the same grip his fingers had fo
rmed thousands of times. The pistol cleared his holster at the same moment Tough Guy’s eyes flicked toward the splash—
“…EEP.”
Cutter shot him twice. The first round went low as the Colt was still coming up, slamming into his pelvis. The second punched a neat hole just left of center mass.
Cutter felt like his shots were on target, but he didn’t stand and wait for a postmortem. He sprang for the cover of the support column as soon as he’d fired his second round.
Tough Guy cried out, the kind of bellowing roar a man made when mortally wounded. He was dead on his feet, but not yet out of the fight. Firing twice as he fell, he put two rounds into the rock directly beside Cutter’s face, spraying his eyes with razor-like fragments of granite.
Cutter ducked behind the column, touched his cheek, felt blood. He couldn’t open his left eye at all. The vision in his right was dim, blurry.
He heard Tough Guy fall, his pistol clattering to the rock with its distinctive polymer Glock rattle.
“Cutter!” It was Lori Maycomb’s voice. Through the haze, he could see she was leading Donita Willets.
“Dollarhyde made it up to that ledge,” Willets said.
“Tough Guy?” Cutter said, more than half blind now.
“You mean Dallas Childers?” Lori said. “You got him. He’s down. Seriously, we have got to go now! When Dollarhyde makes it out, they’ll blow the ledge. The whole place is coming down on top of us.”
Chapter 54
Lola Teariki stooped to study a boot print that had crushed a mushroom underfoot. Streaks of bright red oozed from the flattened remnants of the bone-white fungus.
“This looks like blood,” she said.
Detective Van Dyke worked a flank position, slightly ahead of Teariki a few yards to the side of the presumed trail. Her sidearm was out, where Lola’s remained in its holster. Van Dyke took her eyes off the shadows ahead long enough to glance at the track.
“It’s called bleeding tooth,” she said.
“Tooth?”
“A kind of fungus that grows around here,” Van Dyke said.
