“Yes,” Brian said. “Unless, like Tim said, a couple hundred feet of the shaft were blocked.” He rose and moved the light beam up to the top of the rubble, then across to the far corner. “We can dig a crawl hole up there for fifteen or twenty feet and see what happens.”
“Is that safe?” Chris asked.
Brian smiled. “We’ll soon find out. What do you think, Tim?”
Tim shrugged. “It’s okay with me. I reckon that’s what you’re payin’ me for.”
Brian moved to the left wall of the shaft and climbed partway up the slope. He braced himself and started shoveling, tossing the rubble across the shaft. More rock and dirt tumbled down from above, filling the cavity as quickly as he emptied it. He kept shoveling, working steadily for ten minutes at what appeared to be a hopeless task.
He finally backed away and wiped a sleeve across his face. “Okay, Tim, your turn.”
Tim climbed the slope and resumed the digging. Chris gave Brian a questioning look.
He smiled. “Sooner or later, it’ll quit refilling. Somewhere above the shaft there has to be a ceiling of hard rock. Once that loose rubble falls away from it, we’ll make some progress.”
Chris watched for another five minutes, then picked up one of the big flashlights. “I think I’ll do some exploring.”
“Don’t go too far,” Brian suggested.
She laughed. “I’ll leave some bread crumbs to mark my trail.” She switched on the light and headed off along the ore-car tracks. She remembered that a fairly large shaft had angled off to the left about a hundred yards back from the cave-in.
She walked between the tracks, occasionally turning the light beam on the gray rock between the support timbers. The color and texture of the ore didn’t look very promising in this part of the mine. Tomorrow she would start collecting samples and tagging them with their locations.
When she reached the branching shaft, she stacked three small rocks in the middle of the opening so she would be sure to recognize it when she returned in the opposite direction. The importance of marking the return trail was a lesson she had learned the hard way in the five-hundred-foot deep caves of West Virginia many years ago. She had spent five hours stumbling through dark tunnels trying to find her way out—most of the time in a state of mild panic.
The shaft sloped gently downward, and within the first two hundred feet it narrowed considerably. The timbers appeared to be much older than those in the main shaft. They were joined in a simple post-and-lintel arrangement rather than the more modern fitted couplings.
Chris smelled the dampness before she saw any evidence of it. Then she noticed the glistening overhead timbers and the slow trickle of moisture down the sides. She passed five or six small side shafts, but there was no need to mark them. None of them were braced and timbered.
There were puddles now, some of them an inch or two deep. She paused and looked closely at the timbers, wondering about dry rot. They seemed to be solid.
Five minutes later, the shaft suddenly emptied into a cavernous stope. The huge chamber was a hundred yards long and almost as wide, the floor sloping downward into a lake that covered the entire far end of the room. Chris moved a few feet to the side, then turned her light upward.
The ceiling was too high and the darkness too great for the flashlight beam to reach the top. She could see only the shadowy tips of stalagtites and the frail, cobweblike strands waving gently between them. She lowered the beam and moved cautiously down the sloping rock toward the edge of the lake.
There were three-foot-high tufas of calcium carbonate rising from the rocky floor, like masses of sandcastles on a beach. Evidently the lake was being fed from deep springs, and over the years the deposits from the mineralized water had formed the tufas. Ten feet from the edge of the lake, Chris stopped.
Strange sounds were coming from somewhere around the lake. There were soft gurglings, like the sounds of several people snoring softly. Were they coming from the lake or from somewhere around the sides? She lifted the flashlight and moved the beam back and forth across the surface of the water. In several places bubbles were rising, forming frothy little patches in the midst of the slime. Chris gazed at them for a minute and then felt something touch the toe of her boot. She quickly stepped back and turned the flashlight downward.
A milky-white spider the size of a tarantula scuttled off to the right and disappeared into a crack. A scorpionlike creature ten inches long, also milk-white, moved ponderously toward the same crack, then hovered over the opening as if waiting for the spider to reappear.
Chris stared at the creature, seeing now that it was much fatter than a scorpion and that the four legs were more like those of a lizard. Instead of pincers in front, the creature had two armlike limbs that it was now using to probe into the crack. Chris edged to her left and moved closer to the water’s edge.
Where did all these strange things come from? Was it the high lead content of the surrounding ore? Lead poisoning was known to cause extreme changes in genetic structure. But she had been in lead mines before without encountering such strange and improbable beasts. Could it be radioactive uranium?
She scanned the edge of the water with the flashlight, seeing nothing more than a few pale white minnows darting back and forth. She lifted the light again, moving it around the water’s edge as far as she could see. She could still hear the rhythmic chorus of gurgling coming from somewhere around the lake. A hundred feet to her right and extending partially into the water was a dark mass that could be rocks or more of the tufa sandcastles. Within it there seemed to be tiny orange specks reflecting the beam of her flashlight. She held the light on the dark object and moved cautiously toward it, glancing downward occasionally to be sure she didn’t step on any giant scorpions or spiders. Then she caught her breath and stopped.
The tiny orange dots were moving! Or were they? She was still sixty feet away from the mass, and she held the light steady, watching, still not certain if the dots were moving or not. Could they be something like fireflies? Or some kind of insects moving over a large rock? Suddenly she realized that she was a little frightened, and her heart was pounding in her chest. She took a deep breath and moved the light higher up on the shore.
She was aware of other noises now. A faint scraping sound was coming from the shore of the lake behind her; then there was a quick rustling, like something hurrying across the rocks only a few feet away. There were soft ticks, and clicks, and even the dripping of water into the lake from somewhere above. She swung the flashlight around until she spotted the mine shaft where she had entered the cavern; she moved hastily toward it.
Halfway up the slope, her boot caught on a soft mound and she stumbled forward. Her left knee struck the rocky floor, but she caught herself so she would not fall all the way back down. She quickly swung the flashlight around and came to her feet, backing away.
At first the mound appeared to be nothing more than a lump of mud. Then she saw a small triangle of bright orange on one corner of it. She moved forward and nudged the lump with her boot, toppling it over. Then she stared, not quite believing what she saw.
It was a backpack. It was almost completely covered with mud, but there was no mistaking the two shoulder straps attached to the back of it. She knelt and flopped it over again. It was small, what was usually called a day pack, with only one compartment on the back. The top of the compartment had been torn open, part of the zipper still dangling from the side. Chris felt inside the compartment, but there was nothing more than mud.
She looked back at the lake, considering washing the thing off in the water, but she didn’t think she could bring herself to go down there again. She picked up the pack and banged it on the rocks, shaking loose as much of the mud as she could. Then, holding it by one of the shoulder straps, she rose and headed for the shaft again.
How long could it have been down there? she wondered as she made her way back through the damp shaft. As far as she knew, backpacks of that type had not been on the m
arket more than ten or fifteen years.
When she came to one of the deeper puddles, she dropped the pack into the water and sloshed it around a few times, rinsing off most of the heaviest mud. Then she banged it against a timber to shake off the water. Except for a dark amber stain along one side, the pack was almost clean again. It was made of bright orange nylon, with two padded shoulder straps. The manufacturer’s emblem on the lower left corner said Sierra Designs. The zipper was shattered, and part of the back was torn. Other than that, the pack looked almost new. Chris gave it a final shake and headed up to the main shaft.
Fifteen minutes later, when she arrived at the caved-in section, there was no one in sight. A single lantern was burning, and the pick was resting against a side timber, but on the slope of rabble there was only a hole about two feet in diameter.
“Brian?” she called out. She climbed up the slope and peered into the hole. The tunnel was only about twelve feet long, and there was light at the other end. “Brian!” she shouted. “Tim!”
Brian’s head suddenly appeared at the other end, blocking out the light. “Come on through, Chris. It’s safe.”
She squeezed herself into the hole and crawled through, dragging the pack behind her. When she reached the other side, Brian helped her back on her feet.
There were two lanterns resting on the floor and both Brian and Tim had grim looks on their faces. “Look at that,” Brian said, nodding toward the other side of the shaft.
Chris looked and caught her breath. “Oh, my God,” she breathed softly.
Two human skeletons were stretched out on the ground, both of them in a small area that had been cleared of rubble. A hand and a leg were missing from one of them. The other’s ribcage had been completely crushed. The empty eye sockets were staring vacantly at the ceiling, and both jaws were hanging open.
“Tim found them,” Brian said. “He saw a foot and one of the hands sticking up in the rubble. We uncovered the rest of them.”
Chris stared at the broken bodies, feeling a little sick. “Do you think they were trapped by the cave-in?”
Brian shrugged. “If they were, and if the cave-in was caused by a deliberate explosion, then it would be murder.”
“Good Lord,” Chris murmured.
Brian shook his head. “But I don’t think that’s what happened. There are no coins or keys or belt buckles anywhere around. And maggots and insects don’t eat metal.”
“There aren’t any tools either,” Tim said.
Brian nodded. “That’s right. If they had been trapped while they were working down here, they certainly would have had tools. And they could have dug their way out as easily as we dug our way in. Or they could have dug their way out with their hands. But there’s no evidence of anyone having thrown any dirt or rocks aside.”
“So what does it mean?” Chris asked.
Brian looked at the two skeletons again. “I think they were dead when the shaft caved in. That would also account for their bodies being partially covered with rubble.”
Chris shook her head. “I don’t understand. If they were already dead, how did they die?”
“I don’t know,” Brian answered. “One of them looks like he had his ribs crushed. The other one’s got eight or ten broken bones. But maybe that all happened when the shaft caved in.”
“How long do you think they’ve been here?” Chris asked.
“Since nineteen fifty-four,” Brian said. “Show her, Tim.”
Tim turned around and picked up a tangle of metal from the ground. When he held it up, Chris recognized the stainless steel parts. It was an artificial leg.
“Then you think these are the two Korean War veterans?” she said. “Hitchings and Thomas?”
“It seems probable. Blanchard mentioned that one of them lost his leg in Korea.”
Chris shook her head. What a terrible way for someone to die. For some reason, knowing who the two men might be made the whole thing even more horrifying. “But didn’t Mr. Blanchard say they died down in Arizona? In the Superstition Mountains?”
“Not really,” Brian answered. “He said they found their truck down there. But they never found their bodies. Apparently they never left Summit.”
“But how did their truck get down to Arizona?”
“I don’t know. But if these two skeletons belong to Hitchings and Thomas, the whole thing looks very suspicious. Like somebody drove their truck down to Arizona to throw the police off the track.”
Chris felt a chill go up her spine. The last thing she had expected to find was human skeletons in the Hatcher mine. Even more horrifying was the possibility that the men had been murdered.
“Where’d the pack come from?” Brian asked.
Chris had forgotten about the backpack. As quickly as Brian had pointed out the skeletons, she had set it down and moved across the mine shaft. She told Brian the whole story, then pointed out the strange amber stain on the side of the pack. “Do you think the pack could have belonged to Hitchings and Thomas?” she asked.
Brian lifted the pack and looked it over. “I doubt it. This looks brand new.” He touched the amber stain, then rubbed his fingers together. “This stuff is still sticky.”
Tim moved closer and ran his finger over the stain. “It sorta looks like that stuff we saw deeper in the shaft, Mr. Lockett.”
“Yes, it does.” Brian glanced at Chris. “Whatever this is, there seems to be a great deal of it farther down the shaft. Would you like to take a look and give us your expert opinion?”
“All right,” Chris said.
Brian picked up a lantern and they all moved deeper into the shaft. After about a hundred yards, Brian stopped and lifted the lantern above his head.
At the side of the shaft, and five feet above the floor, a broad ledge opened into a deep cave. The cavity appeared to be a natural formation. It was no more than two or three feet high, a broad gap between two giant pieces of rock. Across the ledge at the front, and running into the cave, were streaks of amber material similar to that on the backpack. The only difference was that here the material had dried to a deeper orange and was now like a hard crust.
“You have any idea what it could be?” Brian asked.
The material must have been a liquid at one time. It was smooth and streaked, as if it had flowed freely, or something had been dragged across it. Chris dug into it with a fingernail. Several thin layers flaked away. “It’s like resin,” she said. “Or pine pitch. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” She touched the place on the wall under the ledge where more of it seemed to have oozed down. “I don’t know,” she said. “But it certainly looks like the same thing that’s on the backpack.”
“Strange,” Brian said. He lowered the lantern, then looked at his watch. “Do you realize it’s after three o’clock? Tim and I have already eaten lunch. Aren’t you hungry?”
An hour ago, Chris had been starved. Now she wasn’t so sure she could get anything down. She smiled. “I guess so.”
“Why don’t you have a sandwich, and then we can take a quick look at what’s farther down this shaft. After that, I think we’d better go back to town and tell the sheriff about our skeletons.”
Chris nodded and took a last look into the low cave as Brian and Tim moved away. Was she hearing things, or was there a soft gurgling sound coming from somewhere in that dark hole?
Brian and Tim were halfway back to the cave-in when she finally started after them. She wondered if her hearing or her imagination were overly active. Or was it simply a matter of surface rainwater trickling down through the natural crevices? She finally smiled to herself, realizing that that was the most probable explanation.
7
Jason’s restaurant looked like a place where the prices were considerably higher than Mark felt he could afford right now. It was located in the pine-covered foothills overlooking Pineglen, a comfortable-looking lodge-type building with a discreet neon sign saying Jason’s and Cocktails. It was the kind of sign that suggested the ow
ners were not interested in attracting any riffraff. Considering the fact that he needed a shave and probably a shower, that was about what Mark felt like.
Except for the ones in Jason’s, he had talked to every bartender in Pineglen. He had also talked to gas station attendants, auto mechanics, market checkout girls and all of a dozen kids working in the three fast-food restaurants around town. None of them had seen Ken or anybody coming close to his description. Nor did the fire department, the state police or any of the hospitals within fifty miles of Pineglen have any reports of accidents, victims of amnesia, muggers or hit-and-run drivers. So he was batting zero, and all the evidence suggested that Ken Myer had evaporated into thin air or had been picked up by a flying saucer.
Mark pulled into a slot in the parking area next to the restaurant, turned off his lights and sat gazing at the place for two or three minutes. Trish had said they would be eating here tonight, but she hadn’t mentioned anything about when. He glanced at his watch; it was now a quarter after eight. They could have eaten and gone home.
Well, to hell with it, he thought. He swung out of the truck, slammed the door behind him and crossed through the pine trees to the restaurant’s big brass-fitted front doors. When he pulled one of them open, he was relieved to see that place was fairly dark inside. The maître d’ was wearing a ski sweater instead of a tux.
“May I help you, monsieur?”
“I’m just going to have a drink in the bar, thanks.”
“Very good, sir. Right through there.”
Mark smiled and followed the directions. He had never seen a French maître d’ wearing a ski sweater before. Classy.
The bar was all polished wood and red leather, with a big stone fireplace at the end. Mark walked through the noisy crowd and on back to the men’s room. There, with a few curious stares from the other customers, he cleaned himself up as best he could. He finger-combed his hair into place, pushed out the door and walked into the dining room. It was a little quieter than the bar, but the atmosphere was casual, crowded and candlelit.
The Boogens Page 7
