“Be careful, Michael, please,” Kimberly cautioned.
“Careful is my middle name,” Michael grinned. He gave her a cheerful wave as he lowered himself over the edge.
Michael inched his way down the rope ladder. It swung away from the sides of the shaft precariously each time he transferred his weight to a lower rung, and he swayed to and fro in the aperture like a human bob on the pendulum inside the case of a mammoth grandfather’s clock. As he reached the end of each arc, his body bumped into wooden planks that lined the mine shaft’s vertical walls.
It was much cooler inside the shaft than on the desert floor. The only light came from the relatively small opening at the top, and the deeper he descended, the more difficult it became for him to see. His eyes had difficulty adjusting to the darkness after being in the blinding light of the summer sun, and he went down the ladder almost entirely by feel.
About thirty feet below the surface, Michael smelled the unmistakable putrid miasma of rotting flesh. He turned a knob on the regulator attached to his waist strap, and the facepiece filled with air from the cylinder attached to his back. He was glad he’d thought of renting the SCBA. He knew that, without clean air to breathe, he would soon become too sick to his stomach to function. The effluvium emanating from decaying bodies, if that’s what the stench turned out to be, might even cause him to pass out.
The shaft was deeper than the length of the rope ladder. If it were not for a five-foot-high mound of plastic trash bags, Michael would have had to drop from the bottom of the ladder to the floor—a distance of about ten feet—and then wonder how he was going to get back up. He stepped on the stacked bags gingerly. Although they were mushy and partially gave way under his feet, he decided to take a chance and let loose of the ladder. Too late, he discovered that walking on the heap was like trying to jump rope on a waterbed. After two steps he lost his footing and fell. The heel of one of his shoes caught on a bag, ripping it wide open. A trail of gore and muck and hair oozed out, but it was too dark in the mine for Michael to notice.
With some effort, he got back on his feet, brushed himself off, turned on the lantern, and looked around. He was in a chamber about fifteen feet wide by twenty feet long and seven feet high. Six-by-six timbers spaced at irregular intervals shored up a ceiling made of one-by-twelve wooden planks. More planks lined three of the walls, except for two portals that accessed tunnels leading off in opposite directions. The fourth wall was solid rock, or possibly caliche. Except for the pile of plastic bags, a small wooden bench, a pickax with a broken handle, an old tire, and an assortment of empty whiskey bottles, the chamber was entirely empty.
He called Kimberly on the two-way radio. “I’m at the bottom of the shaft. I made it down here okay.”
Kimberly wiped the sweat from her brow. “I’m certainly glad to hear that. Well, was Soozie telling the truth? Did you find any bodies?”
“I don’t know yet. There’s a big pile of trash bags down here. A hundred, maybe even a hundred fifty of them. They’re stuffed with something that stinks like hell. I haven’t opened any of the bags yet to see what’s inside. I want to take pictures first, before I disturb anything. Would you send the camera down?”
“Of course. I’ll put it in the bucket.” There was silence for several minutes, then Kimberly came back on the air. “I’m lowering the camera now.”
Michael had to crawl back on the mound to reach the pail. After photographing everything in the room, he untied the knot on one of the bags. A horrific fetid odor burst forth, so overpowering not even the flow of air into the face mask kept the repugnant fetor from seeping around the seal and reaching his nostrils. He adjusted the regulator to increase the positive pressure in the face mask.
“Ohmygod, Kimberly, ohmygod,” he yelped into the walkie-talkie. “I don’t believe this.”
“What is it, Michael?” she screamed into the radio. “What did you find?”
“I’ll tell you when I get back up. I’m too nauseated to talk right now. I have to get back up there before I vomit into my face mask.”
MYRA HAD CRIED herself to sleep the night before. She got out of bed early in the morning, after only a few hours of troubled slumber. She showered, dressed, put on a pair of dark sunglasses to mask the bleariness in her eyes, and headed for the Gold Crest, two hours before she was due for work.
There, she breakfasted in the Montezuma Room coffee shop—cheese blintzes with black cherry sauce and sour cream—but left most of the food on her plate, concentrating instead on several cups of coffee. After stamping the check with her comp stamp and leaving a tip for the waitress, she took the escalator upstairs to the executive suite, told the receptionist she didn’t want to be disturbed, and closeted herself in her office.
Once Myra was alone, tears again poured forth. She felt utterly miserable and wailed silently. Where did I go wrong? I love Michael with all of my heart, and I thought he loved me the same way. I believed Kimberly was my friend. Why would Michael forsake his wedding vows, why would he and Kimberly have an affair? Are they in love, or is their attraction to each other based only on lust?
Maybe I wasn’t spending enough time with Michael. Maybe he was spending too much time with Kimberly. He’s so handsome and intelligent, she’s so beautiful and outgoing. It’s no wonder they fell for each other.
Should I fight to try to save our marriage, or should I just let Michael go? Myra was having second thoughts about her display of anger at Kimberly’s house. She told them it was okay with her, since they’d been screwing anyway, to just keep it up. She’d even encouraged—no, she’d demanded that Michael spend the night with Kimberly. That was a mistake, something she’d blurted out in haste and anger and now regretted.
Did Michael actually stay at Kimberly’s house last night, or did he have the decency to leave and check into a hotel room somewhere? Myra was sorely tempted to pick up the telephone and call Michael at the Times to ask him. Once, she even had the instrument in her hand. At the last minute, she lost her nerve and replaced the handset in its cradle.
Both Michael and Kimberly had protested their innocence. Maybe she should have listened to their explanation. What harm could it have done? She could always tell when Michael was lying to her. Strangely, when he said he and Kimberly hadn’t done anything wrong, he seemed to be telling the truth. Still, he was being evasive about something. If he wasn’t sleeping with Kimberly, why was he in her bedroom, completely unclothed except for that asinine towel? No, they had to have been making love—else why would his neck have been covered with hickeys?
The more Myra pondered, the more ambivalent she became. She knew she wasn’t going to be able to concentrate on her work and decided she might as well go home. Maybe she could get back to the condo before Michael came to pick up his clothes. She would try to talk to him calmly, without displaying emotion. Perhaps they would be able to patch things up. Other marriages had survived adultery. Hers could, too.
Myra told the receptionist she wasn’t feeling well and was going to take the rest of the day off. When she returned to the condo she went directly to the bedroom and checked Michael’s closet. To her dismay, she discovered he had already been there and taken some of his clothes.
For an hour or so Myra puttered around the house—running a load of laundry through the washer and dryer, vacuuming the carpets, cleaning the refrigerator. Finally, her angst became unbearable, and she picked up the phone and dialed the Times.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kaplan hasn’t come in yet today,” the operator informed her. “May I take a message for him?”
“No, no message. I’ll speak with Kimberly Cohen instead.”
“Miss Cohen didn’t come in, either. She may be with Mr. Kaplan—she’s his assistant, you know.”
Myra gritted her teeth. “Yes, I know. Thank you. I’ll try later.”
She slammed the receiver down, raised it again, and dialed Michael’s cellular number. After the second ring, she heard his voice. “Hello, this is Michael Kaplan
. I’m not available right now; you’ve reached my voice mailbox. Please leave a message at the beep and I’ll return your call as soon as possible.” Myra hung up without leaving a message.
Becoming increasingly frustrated, Myra tried Kimberly’s house—she was going to hang up if either of them answered—but, Kimberly’s voice mailbox picked up. Again, Myra put the phone down without saying a word.
Why was she so anxious to talk with Michael when she had no idea what she would say to him? The lack of sleep was beginning to affect her judgment, she realized. Perhaps she’d feel better after a nap. Myra closed the drapes, removed her outer garments, took a tranquilizer to help her drift off, and lay on top of the bedspread.
Twelve
KIMBERLY WAITED IMPATIENTLY above the mine shaft entrance. It seemed a lifetime ago when Michael called her on the walkie-talkie and said he was climbing back up to the surface. Finally, his head popped out of the pit like a prairie dog peering from its burrow. His face was red and he was gagging and gasping for breath. Kimberly grabbed Michael’s arm to steady him as he maneuvered off the rope ladder. As soon as he was clear of the abyss, she helped him remove the breathing apparatus.
Without saying a word, Michael motioned for Kimberly to follow him. He crawled through the hole in the fence and staggered uncertainly to the Jeep. When he reached the vehicle, he climbed inside, started the engine, and turned on the air conditioner. After pointing the air conditioner vents toward his face, he sat motionless in the driver’s seat, as if all strength had drained from his body. Before getting in on the passenger side, Kimberly removed two bottles of chilled mineral water from the ice chest. She opened the bottles and handed one to Michael.
“What did you find down there?” she asked. “Was Soozie right? Were there bodies at the bottom of the shaft?”
Michael downed the entire half-liter of water in one large swig. He took his time in answering Kimberly’s question. When he finally spoke it was with great deliberation, as if it took immense effort to utter the words. “Yes. Soozie’s story was true. There were bodies down there, all right. More than a hundred of them—too many to count. Rotting, decaying, stinking, putrescent, maggot-infested carcasses—each one stuffed into a plastic trash bag.”
Kimberly gasped in horror. No wonder Michael was nauseated. She reached for his cellular phone and turned it on. “I’ll call Mark Caruso at Metro homicide and tell him what you found. He’ll probably want us stay here until he arrives. While we’re waiting, you call Geller and tell him the story. He may want you to dictate it over the phone to a stenographer, so it can make the late edition.”
Michael took the phone from her hands and turned it off. “There’s no need to make either of those calls. They aren’t human corpses, they’re dead animals. Dogs, mostly, and some cats. Even what appears to be the remains of a monkey.”
Kimberly’s face contorted in puzzlement. “Dead animals? Why would anyone dump dead animals down an old mine shaft?”
Michael shook his head. “I don’t know, Kimberly. I don’t have the slightest idea why Soozie insisted that I come out and find them. If there’s a news story here, for the life of me I can’t figure out what it is.”
“Maybe the animals were stolen by vivisectionists and used for medical experiments, then dumped here to hide the crime. Or, perhaps they were victims of a satanic ritual of some sort,” Kimberly speculated. “There might be a story here after all, Michael. As long as we’ve gone this far, we might as well check a bit further.”
“I suppose we can, if that’s what you really want to do,” Michael conceded, without enthusiasm. “I removed the identification tags from several of the dogs. They’re in the pail—the tags, that is, not the dogs. The pail’s still down at the bottom of the shaft. I’ll pull it up before we go. When we get back to town we can call the dogs’ owners. Perhaps they can shed some light on how their pets died and ended up here.”
“I’ll bet Soozie knows exactly what happened to the animals, and who did it. I wonder why she didn’t just come right out and tell you in the first place.”
Michael shrugged his shoulders disgustedly. “Who knows? Who cares? I’m not going to ask her. You can, if you want to. I don’t want any further contact with the woman. As I said before, Soozie’s a mental case. She has a split personality. At times, she’s the quintessential professional woman, the epitome of a yuppie. But in the blink of an eye, she changes, like Jekyll and Hyde. Her behavior becomes totally bizarre—I can certainly attest to that—and, apparently, she has outrageous delusions. I can’t imagine how she knew the animals were dumped here. From the way she talked, I’m sure she believes they’re human corpses. I doubt if anyone could convince her otherwise.
“I was very angry with Soozie last night, because of what she did to me. Now, I realize the poor woman is desperately in need of help. She’s dangerous, but I really don’t think she’s accountable for her actions.”
Kimberly did not buy Michael’s rationalization, and she was less than sympathetic. “Although I’ve never met Soozie, from what you’ve told me about her, I think she knows exactly what she does and says and wants at all times. We just haven’t figured out her motives yet. If you want to feel sorry for her or forgive her for taking advantage of you, that’s your prerogative. I can’t. To me, she sounds like nothing more nor less than a clever, calculating, manipulating, horny bitch.”
Michael chose not to argue the point. “I guess we might as well load everything in the Jeep and head back to Vegas. Oh, damn! I’m going to have to go back down into the mine. I left your camera down there.” He opened the car door and started to step out.
Kimberly grabbed Michael’s arm. “Forget it. The camera wasn’t that expensive. I can buy another.” Actually, the camera was worth over four hundred dollars, but Kimberly didn’t want Michael to go back into the mine.
“Maybe so, but we’ll need the pictures. I’ll go down, put the camera in the bucket, and come right back up. Won’t take me ten minutes.”
Michael again outfitted himself with the breathing apparatus and hard hat. This time, he descended the ladder rapidly. This time, he was more cautious when he stepped off the bottom rung onto the heap of dead animals.
The camera was exactly where Michael remembered leaving it, on the ancient wooden bench. He bent over to pick it up, but, as he reached out, a large brown rat hopped onto the bench and sat between him and the camera, its beady black eyes staring directly into his, its long yellow teeth bared.
Michael jumped back in surprise and fell against one of the wooden walls. Weakened by decades of dry rot, the planks disintegrated under the sudden pressure, and he crashed through them into a chamber that had been concealed by the planking. The rat scurried into one of the tunnels, off to parts unknown.
Michael tried to stand, but he’d twisted his ankle and was unable to get to his feet. On hands and knees, he crawled back to the main chamber and retrieved the lantern he dropped during his fall. He realized he was not going to be able to reach the bottom rung of the ladder without help and pushed the talk button on the walkie-talkie.
“Kimberly, can you hear me?” he asked plaintively.
“Yes, Michael, I can hear you fine,” she responded. “Are you okay? What was all the noise down there?” Her voice was filled with apprehension.
“That was me. A rat startled me and I fell. I twisted my ankle. Don’t worry—it’s not serious. I’ll be fine. I will need some help to get out of here, though. I can stand, but I can’t walk on solid ground, let alone stand on the pile of dead animals so I can reach the ladder. Use my cell phone and call 9-1-1. Tell the operator to send a rescue team with a sling and a winch. They can lower the sling to me, I can sit in it, and they can haul me up. Damn, this is embarrassing,” he groused.
“I’m on my way to the car,” Kimberly assured him. “Stay by the radio. I’ll let you know how soon someone will be able to get here.”
“Wait a sec—” Michael interjected. “I’m running out of air. I sho
uld have changed tanks before I came back down. They only hold enough air for about half an hour. Before you make the call to 9-1-1, pull up the pail—the camera and dog tags are inside—and send another cylinder of compressed air down to me. Without it, I’m going to get very sick because of the smell down here.”
Kimberly did as Michael directed, then ran to the Jeep. A few minutes later she was back on the walkie-talkie. “Michael, the battery’s dead on your cellular. Did you bring a spare?” she asked hopefully.
Michael grimaced. “No, I didn’t. I usually charge the battery every night, but last night … well, as you know, I was at your house and the charger was at home on my dresser. You’ll have to drive to the nearest phone. I guess that’ll be at one of the casinos in Jean.”
“That will take too long, Michael. I’m coming down to help you. You brought two of the breathing gizmos. I’ll put the other one on and be right down.” Her voice was firm with determination.
Michael tried to argue with Kimberly, to tell her it was much too dangerous for both of them to be down in the mine with no one standing watch on top, that if anything happened they would both be stuck at the bottom of the mine shaft and might never get out. But she had already turned off the walkie-talkie and was strapping on the gear.
Blue Goodness (Michael Kaplan Mysteries) Page 10
