Don't Cry for Me

by Sharon Sala

  When he saw the footprint beside it, he froze. The muscles in his chest began to tighten, then he straightened up and turned toward the nursery, his face expressionless as he waited for Buell’s return. At that moment he was a very dangerous man.

  Buell saw Lonnie waiting by the truck and wished he would go back into the office. The man got on his last nerve.

  He sauntered by Lonnie without meeting his gaze and slid the flats into the truck, then turned right into the blow Lonnie launched and dropped like a felled ox. Before he could get up, Lonnie was kicking him—in the ribs, in the face, in the balls—anywhere he could land a blow.

  Buell was screaming like a girl with his hands cupped over his groin, willing to take the kicks anywhere else but in his balls again.

  It was Davis who hobbled out and pulled Lonnie off.

  “Stop, boss!” Davis yelled. “Stop! You’re gonna kill him. Whatever he did, you don’t wanna kill him. He’s your family.”

  Spit was glistening from the corner of Lonnie’s lips. His eyes were wild, the pupils dilated to the point that they appeared to be black.

  “There’s no Farrell blood running in that pissant’s veins!” He turned back to Buell. “It’s your fault.” Then he pointed at Buell, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re the fucking poacher they’ve been looking for. You knew it. You knew it, and yet you still brought the law into my house and pulled it down around us. If you’d been half the man you should be, you would have walked out of here and turned yourself in without ruining my setup.”

  Davis gawked. Even the others who’d begun gathering on Buell’s behalf started backing away.

  “Fuck,” Buell moaned. “Somebody help me up.”

  Lonnie’s hand slid toward the gun in his pocket, and then he remembered where he was and closed his eyes, shuddering over and over as he struggled to maintain control. Once he could breathe without shaking, he opened his eyes. There was no one left at the truck except him and Buell. He kicked him once more, then walked away and disappeared into the office.

  At that point Buell passed out.

  Lonnie walked back out of the office and yelled at the top of his voice for someone to get over there. A half dozen men came running. He pointed at Buell.

  “Get him out of my sight.”

  “What do you want us to do with him, boss?” one of the men asked.

  “Drag him into the back of the cavern. I don’t want to see him every time I come out.”

  They dragged Buell Smith’s body behind the office while Mountain Mushrooms continued to come undone.

  * * *

  Sometime later Buell regained consciousness. He crawled to the back of the office on his hands and knees, then braced himself against the wall and slowly dragged his battered body into a standing position. Everything hurt, and the world kept tilting on its axis, but he finally managed to take that first step. Once he did, he couldn’t get to his truck fast enough, expecting, with every step, to get a bullet in the back.

  When he finally got behind the wheel and jammed the key into the ignition, he was shaking. It took all his concentration to start the engine and put the truck in gear. The moment it started to roll, he stomped the accelerator and just hung on. Instead of getting out at the gates to open them, he drove through them, hitting them square in the middle, shattering the chain and the lock. The gates buckled on impact, and then one got caught on the front of Buell’s bumper as he sped through the opening. He dragged it down the road until it finally fell off into the ditch.

  He cried all the way home.

  * * *

  Mariah had no idea whether the puppy had quit howling or she had just gotten so far away that she could no longer hear him, but it didn’t matter. She kept putting one foot in front of the other until she was standing at the open mouth of the cave with the worst part of the journey still ahead of her. She paused long enough to get a flashlight out of the pack and shift her rifle to the other hand, and then she walked inside. Before it had seemed dark and threatening, but now it was simply the road that would get her to Quinn.

  Small bats hanging from the ceiling began to stir as she swept the flashlight ahead of her. Rats scurried out of her way into the shadows, but there was no hesitation in her step. The earth inside the mountain smelled different, and it took her a while to realize that the ground she was walking on had never seen the light of day. Whatever had managed to exist in the mountain’s belly had done so without benefit of the sun. She was scared, as scared as she’d ever been in her life, that when she got to the end of this tunnel Quinn wouldn’t be there, or that the tunnel would come to an impenetrable end before she found him. She’d banked every hope she had on this tunnel connecting to the mine.

  Every hundred yards or so she shot a spray of neon-yellow paint from the can onto the wall. Even though she had yet to come to any other passage, she was playing it safe.

  When she suddenly walked through a wall of webs, her scream was instinctive. The flashlight went flying as she began swiping at the webs, certain she crawling with spiders. The webs easily brushed away as she scrambled to pick up the flashlight and check her clothing just to make sure.

  “Oh, my God, oh, my God,” she kept muttering as she swung the flashlight in a high arc, making sure there weren’t any giant spiders lurking overhead. Then she gritted her teeth and moved on.

  Soon after she began to hear the voices again, and her hopes rose. This was it! This was what she’d been hearing all along. Even though the tunnel was becoming narrower and the ceiling lower, she moved faster, the sounds she’d been hearing muted now by the thunder of her heartbeat.

  One second she was on her feet and striding forward, and the next she caught a glimpse of something shiny in the narrow beam of light. Before she could stop, she stepped off into a wall of racing water.

  Her scream was swallowed up by the roar of the rapids as she struggled to find solid ground. The weight of the backpack was pulling her down, and the rifle was caught underneath a ledge beneath the surface.

  Help me, Lord.

  And just like that there was solid rock beneath her feet as she struggled to stand, balancing the heavy backpack against the rush of the water’s power. Coughing and spitting, she made her way through the chest-high torrent and then out on the other side. It was with some surprise that she realized the flashlight was still in her hand as she crawled out onto her hands and knees. Within seconds she felt a new spurt of panic. There was no longer headroom to stand upright. The possibility of getting trapped in this tunnel was almost enough to make her turn back, but then Quinn’s face slid through her mind, and just like that she was grounded.

  Readjusting the pack, she started forward slowly, crouching. Within minutes her leg began to pain her, and then the muscles started to burn. The stress of her crouched position was taxing her weakened muscles.

  On top of everything else, her sodden clothes were beginning to chafe, and her hair was matted to her head and face. She could feel the mud beneath her nails drying and hardening like little bits of cement. Her eyes were burning and her skin had begun to itch, but she kept on moving until all of a sudden her low-ceilinged tunnel turned into a crawl space. When the backpack began catching along the top of the tunnel, she pulled out all the extra ammo and put it in the pocket of her pants, then began redistributing the weight.

  When she started hearing the voices again, instead of hope, she felt overwhelming despair, because they were no longer ahead of her. They were behind her. And the only way that made sense was to accept that it had never been voices she was hearing. It had been the sound of the water, spilling through the mountain and rolling along the rocks down into the natural spring that fed the waterfall down by the cave.

  Swift tears gave way to a flood of disappointment, morphing into a defeat she hadn’t felt since the day she’d been turned out onto the streets by the welfare system. If there were no voices, then there was no reason to believe Quinn was anywhere in the mountain, alive or dead.


  She cried until her head was throbbing and she was verging on throwing up, and then rage kicked in. She still believed in Quinn. He thought the drug operation was in the old mine, and this might still be a way to get to it. She’d come this far. She wasn’t going back until she knew for sure. She cursed God for ever letting her be born, for sending her back from Afghanistan in such a mess, for taking away the only thing she’d ever loved. Then, somewhere between hiccups and despair, she began to scream.

  “Damn it! Where are You, God? If You aren’t going to help me out of this mess, then You can kiss my muddy ass!”

  With her head throbbing and her throat raw from screaming, she got up on her hands and knees and promptly hit the top of her head on a rock. The warm rush of blood rolling down from her hairline made her madder. She lowered her head, channeled her pain into anger and began scooting the backpack in front of her as she went.

  Within another fifty yards the tunnel began to widen again, and the ceiling began to lift until she was actually able to stand upright. Every muscle in her body was screaming. She was so weak she was shaking, but she had to believe she’d made it through the worst. She dropped the coil of climbing rope off the side of the backpack and left it lying against the wall. It kept coming undone and was hindering rather than helping her.

  Trying to gauge how far she’d come against how long she’d been in here, she looked down at her watch. It had stopped. So much for shock- and waterproof.

  Accepting that she had no idea of time or distance, she found it was also freeing to know that such things no longer mattered. She was going all the way to the end, and wherever it came out was where she would be.

  She took a deep breath, and as she did, she suddenly realized that the air smelled different here. The odd odors of the earth’s belly were being mixed with something new—something that seemed faintly familiar. A few yards farther and it suddenly dawned on her that she could see shapes and shadows without aiming the flashlight.

  Sweet Lord, there was light up ahead! It was time to get serious. She turned off her flashlight and slipped it into the pack, then flipped the safety off on her rifle. She had no idea if it would even fire after being dragged through the water, but it felt good in her hand.

  She began walking, staying close to the wall as the natural passage gave way to a tunnel with sagging timbers shoring up the sides and ceiling. Dolly’s grandfather had been right! The cave did come out on the other side of the mountain, but through a man-made mine shaft, not by nature’s hand.

  She was hearing voices again, and this time there was no mistaking them for anything else. She heard a sudden burst of laughter, the clink of metal against metal, a sharp word from one man to another.

  Wherever she was, she was no longer alone, and she was uncertain how to proceed. If there really was a drug operation in this mine, she was in serious danger.

  For a soldier, the first order of business on entering new territory was to reconnoiter. She eased the heavy backpack onto the ground and slowly moved forward. Once she passed the next set of support beams, she would be too near the lights to remain undetected. She dropped down as close to the wall as she could get and began crawling along the floor.

  With her eyes drawn by the light, the first thing she saw was a room that had been built inside the tunnel. Her gaze went to the men in masks and white suits, and then to the scales and the bricks of what had to be uncut cocaine, and she knew the sheriff’s guess had been right. There was a full-blown drug business in place inside the old mine.

  Then she blinked and realized something was lying between her and the room, shoved up against the wall—in the darkest part of the tunnel. She blinked until her eyes readjusted to the darkness. That was when she realized it was a man’s body, and she could see the side of his face.

  Her heart slammed against her rib cage. Even though his features were unrecognizable, the dark green ranger jacket was not. It was Quinn! She’d actually found him, but she had the sinking feeling that she was too late. Swept by a fresh wave of despair, the urge to stand up and start shooting was strong. But she hadn’t come all this way only to blow her one chance to save him. She had to be sure he was really gone.

  Still on her belly, she crawled closer until she could reach out and touch the top of his head. His hair was stiff and matted, and the amount of blood and swelling on his face was beyond horrific. She could only imagine what he’d suffered before he’d died, and the hate that swept through her erased the last vestiges of fear. She moved her fingers along the side of his face and down toward his neck to confirm the absence of his pulse, and as she did, shock was replaced with an unspeakable joy. Instead of the cold, lifeless body she’d expected to feel, his skin was warm. And then she found a pulse! But, oh, God, how to get him out?

  His hands and feet were bound, and there was duct tape on his mouth. Wishing the bastards to hell and back for what they’d done, she slipped the hunting knife out of her boot and was about to cut him loose when a large door at the far end of the drug room swung inward and an angry man appeared in the doorway.

  Shit!

  She flattened herself against the wall, struggling with full-blown panic. Retreat was not in her vocabulary, but she couldn’t do Quinn any good if they found her before she had a chance to cut him free. Moving as fast as she dared, she scooted backward until she was out of sight, then ran back to where she’d left the backpack, picked it up and ran all the way out of the tunnel and into the natural passage, where she propped the pack up against the wall. After making sure she was still unobserved, she crept back toward the lab to listen.

  * * *

  Lonnie was feeling the pressure. It was getting dark, and he wanted this last shipment packed and ready to go the moment the helicopters landed.

  Buell had surprised him with his daring little escape, but Lonnie wasn’t about to chase the man up and down the mountain.

  He wanted to believe Buell was running—running from both the cops and the park service—but he couldn’t be sure. The fat-ass had already surprised him once with that unexpected dose of morality. Despite that, he couldn’t really imagine Buell going to the cops and turning himself in, but there was too much on the line to ignore the possibility.

  He headed inside to check on the progress of the coke and was immediately unhappy with what he was seeing.

  “Davis! Work faster! I have two choppers on the way, and you’re nowhere near ready.”

  “Well, we will be if we don’t have any more interruptions,” Davis said, glaring pointedly at the gun-shaped bulge in Lonnie’s pocket, then scooting behind his worktable, anxious to put something between himself and his boss.

  That whack job had already shot him once, and he was going to be lucky if he didn’t lose some toes. The man was a bona fide psycho.

  Lonnie ignored Davis’s attitude as he stormed back out of the room.

  Mariah heard bits and pieces of the conversation, then waited until the crisis had passed before easing her way back along the shaft to Quinn’s body. She had no way of knowing if he was cognizant. Her biggest fear was that if she cut him loose he would lash out in confusion, but she had to chance it. It was why she’d come.

  Once more she eased the knife out of her boot, and this time she proceeded to cut the ropes from his wrists and ankles. He rolled slightly, but she caught him before he went facedown, and then held her breath as she slowly eased him onto his back.

  The fact that his arms were limp at his sides and he’d made no move to take the duct tape off his mouth was both good news and bad. Good news that he hadn’t alerted them by a groan. Bad news that he might have so much brain damage he would never wake up again.

  But she’d found him, and if they had a chance in hell of living through this, it was up to her to make it happen. Still on her belly, she slipped her hands beneath his armpits, tightened her grip and pulled.

  He didn’t budge. Between his deadweight and the fact that she had no room to angle her body for leverage, it seemed an impo
ssible task. Getting a firmer grip, she pulled again, until her arms were trembling and her muscles felt like they were tearing. Using nothing but her upper body strength, she finally felt him move. It was only a couple of inches, but it was a start.

  Little by little she continued to inch him backward, away from the light, farther into the passageway, deeper into the dark.

  * * *

  Jake Doolen pulled up in front of the sheriff’s office. “Cyrus, you and Avery stay in the truck with the dogs. I won’t be long.”

  He entered the office and went straight to the dispatcher behind the front desk.

  “Is Marlow in?”

  “Hello, Jake. Marlow’s in, but he’s pretty busy.”

  “I won’t be long,” Jake said, and strode past the desk and down the hall to the sheriff’s office. He knocked once and walked in, wasting no time on manners.

  “Damn it, Marlow, you and I both know Quinn Walker is likely in Farrell’s mine. Whether he’s alive or dead is another story, but I don’t see how you can sit behind that desk and wait when you know his life is at stake.”

  Marlow stood. “I don’t know anything for sure, only a whole lot of maybes, and in the eyes of the law, maybes don’t cut it. What do you know that I don’t?”

  “I had my dogs at the site where they found Quinn’s Jeep. They didn’t pick up his scent anywhere within three miles in any direction, which tells me he never left that Jeep on foot. But when I took them back to the mine entrance where Dolly said he was the evening before, they had themselves a royal fit. My Zeus don’t bay like that for old spoor. Quinn Walker was there within the last twenty-four hours, and I’m saying he never left the property.”

  Marlow knew in his gut Jake was right, but his hands were tied.

  “I’ve been on the phone half the afternoon with three different judges, and not a one of them will sign a search warrant to get me into that mine. Not even with three deaths on my hands. One missing ranger isn’t going to up the ante for them.”