by Renee Simons
He snapped a lathing strip in two and held one piece against either side of the can to raise it without adding his own prints to its surface. The top hadn’t been tightly secured, allowing him to pry it off with a fingertip beneath the edge. He slipped the cap onto a clean handkerchief draping his palm. The can was missing its spray nozzle. Were there other cans like this? He carried the carton to his vehicle.
Nick Forrest approached. "You confiscating them, Sheriff?"
"Until the contents have been examined."
“Don’t give ‘em a thought. They’re easily replaced.” Nick jerked his head to indicate the house behind him. "There's some more up on the porch."
Luc nodded. "I'll look at those also." They walked to the house. "What do you use the paint for?"
"To mark off where trenches have to be dug, or if we're laying foundations or setting footings. Also places where the roof and siding need attention."
On the porch, Luc made a visual examination of the dozen remaining cans, being careful not to touch any of them. One appeared to have come from the carton in the shed. Dust covered its top, although its neighbors were clean. The two cans had been switched. Why go to the trouble if not to hide the one he or she had used to graffiti the house? Perhaps because the vandal had lost the nozzle?
"Do your guys take these for personal use?"
Nick shrugged. "Maybe. I don't keep track. They're not worth the trouble."
"Who does the marking?"
"Anyone who needs to — me, my foreman, even Charlie over there." He pointed to the man sorting nails. "I usually let him do it once we've staked out the measurements. He's an apprentice so he does a lot of the scut work around here. But he likes marking and he's careful. Seems to be a detail oriented kind of guy."
Luc glanced at the man's beefy shoulders. "Would I know him?"
"I'll introduce you."
As they approached, he looked up at them. "I'm almost done here, boss."
"That's good. Stop for a minute. The sheriff, here, wants to say hello."
The man stood up and Luc held out his hand. "Luc Moreno."
"Charlie Gunn." He took Luc's hand, but the hard expression in his dark eyes telegraphed the message that he felt anything but friendly.
"You any relation to Mercedes?"
"She's my mother," the man said. A hint of arrogance crept into his tone.
Luc hid his surprise. He hadn't known she'd had children. "I don't remember having seen you around here."
Charlie squared his shoulders. "Been up north for a while. Just moved back."
More than a while, Luc guessed. During his three years as sheriff, he'd never seen the man. And neither Mercedes nor anyone else had ever mentioned him. Was he some deep, dark secret? The townspeople were big on secrets. Like the old mine no one could talk about. Not being able to let Callie in on the plans had certainly complicated their discussions about The Mansion. And a lot of other things as well. On sheer principle alone he didn't like keeping secrets; he found keeping them from her particularly unpleasant.
The irony of his own secret struck him. He'd told no one about his failing vision, first because he'd thought it was a temporary situation and later, because it didn't seem to be going away. He hadn't even gone to see Eddie Vega, as he'd promised himself he would.
He directed his attention back to Charlie Gunn, whose eyes now held a question. Luc knew the long silence had thrown the man off balance. Bueno. He'd been too cocky before.
"A few minutes ago, you indicated you saw Ms. Patterson heading south. Do you remember when that was?"
"Can't say as I do, exactly."
"That's okay. You don't have to tell me exactly."
Gunn seemed to consider the question for several moments, then said, "This morning. Early." He turned and pointed to the ridge behind them. "Before the sun come over the rim."
Nine or ten o'clock, Luc guessed. "On foot?"
Charlie's brow wrinkled briefly and his eyes narrowed. "On her bike."
"Anything else you remember?"
"Wasn't payin' too much attention."
For a detail-oriented guy, he had little to offer. Luc wondered just how much he was holding back. "Thanks for your help."
The man's face showed unmistakable relief, as if he knew he'd just passed a test. He needed looking into, and Luc would – while he was in Albuquerque. He stopped at the Mercantile to see what Elvira knew about the mail on Callie’s table.
“Sure, she was here this morning,” the Town Clerk said. “Got a bunch of her grandma’s journals in the mail. I think she was goin’ off to read.”
“Riding or walking?”
“Don’t know for sure, but I think she was on foot.” She shook her head. “I don’t remember hearing her bike.”
Luc nodded and headed for OMI and a return visit to Bryan and the Crime Lab.
* * *
"Grandma and Aunt Hatt will be so disappointed that I didn’t finish the house."
The voice echoed in the space around her and she thought, did I really hear that? Whose voice? Mine? Is that possible? Do dead people speak? Hear?
She lifted her right arm. It worked pretty well for that of a deceased person. She touched her temple. It felt like flesh, sticky with blood, and it throbbed like hell. Her head and left forearm hurt, as did several other places on her body, places she didn’t have to touch to know. As the fog receded from her brain, she touched the spots anyway, just to confirm the pain was real, that she was real and here — wherever here was.
She sat up. Her head spun and she waited for the dizziness to pass so her eyes could focus. Not that it mattered. In the deep, impenetrable darkness she could see nothing. Even so, she felt better when everything settled down, allowing her to adjust to the space around her and to the idea that somehow she’d managed to secure a small portion of it for herself.
How much time had elapsed between the moment when darkness had claimed her and the moment when she'd come around? She felt for a watch on her wrist but found nothing. The lack of reference points intensified her sense of being cut off from reality.
A weight rested against her back. What is that? she wondered. She felt the straps, reached around and touched a canvas bag. Of course. The backpack. It had survived the fall, perhaps even cushioning her landing. Gratefully, she slipped it off her aching shoulders. The dizziness returned and with it a compulsion to sleep. Like a child finding her favorite pillow, she rested her cheek on the lumpy surface and drifted off.
When she came around again, she knew time had passed by the dryness of her mouth and the rumble in her stomach. Normal, human feelings she hoped were good signs that she had come back from the vague world in which she’d floated for who knew how long. After several more such episodes she realized she would have to fight to maintain her grip on consciousness. She felt around inside the knapsack.
The diary had been crushed on impact. Her sandwich had survived, if somewhat flattened. Mashed was more accurate. Forget the aesthetics, she thought. Food is food. She would eat soon, but only a little and only if she felt the dizziness returning. Something warned her to make this measly nourishment last as long as possible.
Almost at the same moment, she remembered reading that a person would die of dehydration before dying of starvation. Her fingers closed around the Thermos. When she shook it the water sloshed and particles rattled, telling her the glass liner had shattered. Maybe she could filter the water through the bandanna around her neck. If so, she would make that, too, last as long as she could.
"My, but we’re rational, aren’t we?"
The words echoed in the silence but awoke no response from any creature living in this place. Apparently she was quite alone. Her calm acceptance surprised her. Although she'd never been one to resort to hysterics, she thought she could be forgiven if she chose this moment to succumb. She certainly had good reason.
"Well, maybe we’ll put off the emotional fireworks till later, also," she decided. "When we’ve lost all hope." Then she
could let loose and cry herself into the next world, wherever that turned out to be.
What she couldn't put off were questions about the man who'd attacked her. She remembered little beyond their struggle. A struggle that, to her chagrin, had been all too brief and totally ineffective. As for the man himself, she remembered only work boots with steel toes, a glimpse of denim jeans cuffed at the bottom and his voice speaking in an ominous whisper she had no shot at recognizing. He'd wanted her dead and would get his wish if she was unable to find a way out of this predicament.
Whose hatred had led to an unprovoked attack? Who knew where she was? Luc? Not Luc. She'd told him she was going into Albuquerque. Besides, she'd never seen him wear anything but his uniform. Well, almost never. A sliver of heat coursed through her at the memory of his muscular form outlined by the light from her bedroom window.
“Well, aren’t you the horny one?” Amazing that she could react to his image after what she’d just been through, she thought. “And if you don’t get out, that’s all you’ll have to keep you company.”
She summoned another picture of him — in his uniform. What did he wear on his feet? Cowboy boots with a sensible flat heel and rounded toes and no fancy stitching that she could remember. Never work boots. Sheesh, she thought, the things a person sees when they don't even notice they're looking….
More important than his wardrobe was an essential decency she'd sensed in him despite their differences or his warped idea of how their relationship should or should not proceed. She rubbed her aching jaw. He'd been hurt and had become super protective of himself and her. Such a man would never resort to violence. Not toward her.
Besides, he didn't have to get physical. He'd done an efficient job of verbally dispatching her. Of course, there was his opposition to the project and the fact that he'd failed to convince her of the wisdom of giving up. Would that failure have been reason enough? She didn't think so.
You don't want to think so, her familiar voice chided. True, she argued back, but it would be easy to focus on Luc simply because she had no one else to suspect. Still, there was someone — whoever had vandalized the house on three separate occasions. He could have spotted her, followed her and tried to rid himself, once and for all, of an irritant. Or even more dangerous, someone judged to be a threat.
Mercedes immediately came to mind. Was it possible she’d hired someone to eliminate the newcomer disrupting her well-ordered if decaying world?
Her head began to ache, but whether from the maddening questions or the battering her body had sustained she couldn't be sure. She shut off the thoughts and concentrated on orienting herself to the space around her.
As best as she could with the growing ache in her left arm, she inched forward on hands and knees, carefully feeling her way across the ground as she tried not to inhale musty particles of dust stirred by her movements.
Her foot struck something that skittered away and thunked against a hard surface. Continuing her snail-like progress, she followed the sound, finally touching the flashlight some instinct had driven her to hang on to and the rock wall against which it now rested.
The hard rubber casing had survived, and she felt the empty space where the lens had been. The bulb had remained in place. She pushed the switch. Of course, it didn't work. She hadn't really expected it to, she'd just hoped. In frustration, she shook the high-powered flashlight. Its beam snapped on, casting a wavering light over her surroundings.
Even more surprising than the survival of her flashlight were her surroundings. Directing the light upward toward the opening through which she'd fallen, she could see nothing except the roof of the underground chamber in which she now stood.
Further inspection disclosed a gap between a wall as smooth as ice and the rock shelf that formed a ceiling twenty feet or so above her head. Somehow, she'd slipped through and landed on the floor of the cave, although she had no idea how she'd managed to remain relatively unscathed.
She gazed around the area at panels of white contrasting with those of a darker grey stone embedded with gunmetal flakes of mica. She ran her hand over the surface, feeling the rough texture. Dark granules broke away and caught in the creases of her palm. By contrast, shiny metals ran like veins through the smoother white rock she thought might be quartz from its cool, glass-like feel. Sure enough, further examination revealed several crystal formations that proved her correct.
Chisel marks showed that someone had put enormous effort into revealing the beauty living within the dull grey stone. Her light skimmed the wall wherever the quartz had been exposed, giving a luminous, dreamlike quality to the chamber. Random patches of gold and silver colored metal shimmered dully, adding to the unreality.
"Where the hell am I?" she muttered.
She needed an answer as much as she needed a way out. Since exiting the way she'd entered seemed out of the question, she slipped on her knapsack to explore whatever lay ahead. A sudden sharp pain scorched its way from shoulder to fingers. Tender beneath the slightest touch, her forearm felt hot and swollen, and she thought she’d probably broken a bone. She slipped the arm through one of the shoulder straps and wore it like a sling as she set off.
She let her light lead her further into the tunnel, expecting that eventually, the artfully excavated passageway would revert to its more natural state. Instead, the glittering walls continued on, becoming more starkly white, like walls of ice laced with bands of silver and gold that seemed to grow wider and finally dominate. As she penetrated further she realized the tunnel had become more like a maze than a straight-through path.
"I'll never find my way back." Her gaze picked out several spider webs whose silky threads glittered in the pale light.
What was there to go back to? Like Alice, she'd tumbled down a rabbit hole and entered a wonderland. Unlike Alice's bizarre play land, this enchanted place would either lead her home by some path she had yet to discover or it would lead to her death.
"But not yet."
She pulled out the sandwich and broke off a corner, grateful for the peanut butter and jelly filling she hoped would provide a small burst of energy and control the trembling in her legs. With the help of the light that bounced off the ceiling and fell like illuminated rain, she had no trouble pouring clear water into the Thermos cap although she used only her right hand. As she sipped she realized just how thirsty she was and how good the drink tasted despite its metallic tinge.
The minuscule snack helped dissipate her morbid thoughts. "I have to keep going," she whispered. "Until I find the way out."
She glanced idly around the chamber. Was there some way to mark a path back to the mouth of the tunnel? In case she had no other choice but to try to make the impossible climb out? What if she found tools to hack out handholds or notches for her feet? Or something she could use for a ladder? How did the person who'd created this place get in and out? What if he'd left something behind? If she couldn't get back, nothing she found would be any of any use. So what harm would it do to make some scratch marks in the rock? Like Hansel and Gretel's bread crumbs.
Good grief. What was it about this place that recalled all these childhood fairy tales? And not even her favorites. She snorted. "Well, that makes sense." This was far from her favorite place to be.
She fished around in her backpack. She'd hung the key to the door connecting the tunnel and the house on a chain heavy with others. Would its tip be sharp enough to make a mark? She picked a dark spot on the wall and scratched. The point left a faint though discernible line in the grey stone.
Relieved, she sat down again. The momentary pause allowed all the bruised and throbbing places on her body to register their complaints, as if they were cranky children vying for her attention. "Don't bother me, I'm busy," she muttered. "I have to figure out where to make the scratches so I'll be able to find them later."
She settled on the place where the wall curved upward to form the ceiling vault. “Señor Miner” had left a band of untouched stone as a border that ran i
n a continuous ribbon for the length of the tunnel, following the twists and turns the passage took. She scratched a // in the rock, picked up her few belongings and moved on.
Every few feet she made another double slash mark, noticing other markings as she progressed. At first they seemed to be random and to resemble the tool marks she'd seen before. But as they continued they seemed to take on recognizable shapes until once again, she made out letters: d-o-b-l … e-s-q-u-i-n….
As before, what letters were decipherable had no meaning for her. She could only hope that the message pointed the way to safety. She thought she might be right until she found herself facing a blank wall. Her disappointment left her breathless and shaking. She dropped to the ground and leaned back.
She couldn't believe she'd come this far with no hope of going further. Tears of anger clouded her vision. She swiped at them with the back of her hand. She would not give up. There had to be some way out. She rose and stood close enough to the wall that she felt its cold surface against her face. Where was the message her desperation insisted the miner had left?
"I'm looking, Señor Miner." Her words bounced back at her. What had she missed? More scratch marks? Letters? Something. She squinted, straining for a clue.
Then she saw what she needed. The last six letters she'd deciphered, only this time, running in reverse. At the place where they ended she found a niche in the rock just wide enough to squeeze through. She removed her pack and held it over her head. Once again, pain shot from her left forearm down to her fingers and back up to her shoulder. Her breath caught in her throat and sweat filmed her upper lip.
She leaned against the rock wall until the spasm passed. Taking a deep breath, she slid along the wall, inching slowly into the waiting darkness, moving her feet cautiously in case the solid ground fell from beneath her. To her relief, the terra firma remained firm.
Once on the other side, she felt the space widen around her and turned on the light. "Holy…." she whispered, nearly speechless at the awesome sight of a chamber as brilliant as any presided over by the Sun King.
