by D P Lyle
DOUBLE
BLIND
D.P. Lyle
DOUBLE BLIND
Published by Reputation Books www.reputationbooksonline.com
Copyright © 2002 by D. P. Lyle All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in manner whatever without written permission from Reputation Books, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact publisher at [email protected].
Book design by Lisa Abellera
eBook design by Mary C. Moore
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidences are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-In Publication Data (TK)
ISBN-10: 0-9740222-1-7 (paperback)
ISBN-13: 978-0-9740222-1-5
ISBN-10: 0-9740222-4-1 (e-book)
ISBN-13: 978-0-9740222-4-6
Reputation Books Edition: July 2014
Acknowledgements
This book would not have been possible without the help of many trusted friends. The members of my writing group: Roger, Ticky, Vicki, Anna, Darwin, Christi, and Cheryl. The always excellent advice from my fellow Fictionaires. My designated readers: Aunt Nancy, Janny, Jimmy, Bobbie, Hawk, Sparky, Tootie, Roxy, and Mikey, who read every draft under duress. Miss Megan who helped with the totally awesome rave culture speak. And of course, Nan and our feline “kids,” Missy, Peanut and Bennie.
Contents
∙ Chapter 01 ∙ Chapter 02 ∙ Chapter 03 ∙ Chapter 04 ∙ Chapter 05 ∙ Chapter 06 ∙ Chapter 07 ∙ Chapter 08 ∙ Chapter 09 ∙ Chapter 10 ∙ Chapter 11 ∙ Chapter 12 ∙ Chapter 13 ∙ Chapter 14 ∙ Chapter 15 ∙ Chapter 16 ∙ Chapter 17 ∙ Chapter 18 ∙ Chapter 19 ∙ Chapter 20 ∙ Chapter 21 ∙ Chapter 22 ∙ Chapter 23 ∙ Chapter 24 ∙ Chapter 25 ∙ Chapter 26 ∙ Chapter 27 ∙ Chapter 28 ∙ Chapter 29 ∙ Chapter 30 ∙ Chapter 31 ∙ Chapter 32 ∙ Chapter 33 ∙ Chapter 34 ∙ Chapter 35 ∙ Chapter 36 ∙ Chapter 37 ∙ Chapter 38 ∙ Chapter 39 ∙ Chapter 40 ∙ Chapter 41 ∙ Chapter 42 ∙ Chapter 43 ∙ Chapter 44 ∙ Chapter 45 ∙ Chapter 46 ∙ Chapter 47 ∙ Chapter 48 ∙ Chapter 49 ∙ Chapter 50 ∙ Chapter 51 ∙ Chapter 52 ∙ Chapter 53 ∙ Chapter 54 ∙ Chapter 55 ∙ Chapter 56 ∙
∙ About the Author
It is easy to go down into Hell; night and day, the gates of dark Death stand aside; but to climb back again, to retrace one’s steps to the upper air-there’s the rub, the task.
The Aeneid Virgil
Chapter 1
Satisfied, he placed the journal on the floor beside his cot and eyed the objects that lay beside him on the gray wool blanket. This is it, he thought. The moment he had planned for two months.
He picked up the syringe, held it to the light, and gently rotated it between two fingers, examining the amber liquid inside. Despite the snow and the cold February wind that lashed at the exterior of the cinder block building, it felt warm inside. A trickle of sweat eased down his neck. He laid the syringe aside, planted his elbows on his knees, rocked forward, and buried his sweat-slicked face in his equally damp hands. He swallowed hard, attempting to suppress the uneasy feeling that wound around his gut.
No, this wasn’t the time for self-doubt. He had thought this through, every contingency considered.
The air seemed thick and sweet and his heart thumped almost audibly as he stretched the rubber surgical tubing tightly around his arm. Three pumps of his fist and a thick purple vein swelled in the soft recess of his elbow. After a quick swipe with an alcohol swab, he felt only a slight sting as the beveled needle slid beneath his skin and popped into the distended vessel. He released the tourniquet and smoothly depressed the syringe’s plunger, sweeping the sallow liquid forward. A warm, paresthetic tingling crept up his arm and into his chest. He yanked the needle free, placed a dry cotton ball over the puncture site, and folded his arm across his chest.
Closing his eyes, he lay back on his cot, unsure what to expect. Breathing slowly and deeply, he willed himself to relax. His heartbeat, if a little stronger than usual, remained steady. A vague twinge of nausea rose in his gut and a fine patina of cold sweat frosted his skin. These sensations slowly receded and he felt his anxiety slip away.
It was five minutes before the first wave of fever and shaking chills racked him. His lips, his hands, and then his entire body shook and a new, stronger wave of nausea gripped him. An acidic burning swelled in his chest and pushed upward into his throat. Sweat poured from every pore, his breath a series of ragged gasps, and his heart fluttered an irregular rhythm.
Just as the fear that he might die swelled within him, the fever and chills began to dissipate. He laid there, his sweat-soaked shirt pasted to his skin. Exhaustion pressed him into the cot’s thin mattress. Thank God that’s over, he thought.
Then, the second wave struck.
He endured four more episodes of burning fevers and icy chills, gripping nausea and soaking sweats, each mercifully milder than the previous one, until finally they abated and fatigue pulled him into a deep exhausted sleep.
Chapter 2
The rider urged his horse forward, up a slight rise in the valley floor. Reaching the higher vantage point, he tugged at the reins, bringing the high-spirited roan to a halt.
Spring had barely taken its first breath and the soil remained firm, with patches of ice and snow in the sheltered dips of the terrain, relics of last week’s storm. Islands of gray brown grass, mangled by months of harsh weather, displayed the slightest hint of green. April, a transition month in the Colorado mountains, seemed always unpredictable. Above him, the peaks of the San Juans retained a jealous hold on their snowcaps and the air was heavy with the promise of even more snow.
The horse pawed at the frozen turf and tested the air with flaring nostrils, each breath exhaled in a white mist. The rider gently caressed the sweat-matted hair of its neck, attempting to calm the animal. Its head jerked against the reins as if anxious to continue the chase.
The rider looked westward, where the sun had dipped behind the ragged peaks, and now only faintly brightened the hammered pewter clouds that canopied the deep valley. Fat snowflakes flew by his face and the cold northerly wind bit at his cheeks. Night would come quickly. It always did in this valley, especially on early spring days like this. It was as if the same gravity that pulled the snowmelt from the peaks into graceful waterfalls, tugged the clouds downward, muting the sun’s glow, deepening the shadows.
Only an hour of decent light left, the man thought.
He lifted his hat and ran his fingers through his thick blonde hair, then reseated the Stetson with a tug. Standing high in the stirrups, he scanned the rolling meadow before him.
He called on all his hunting skills. Skills honed by years of tracking deer, elk, bear. He knew their habits and strengths and weaknesses. He knew, even before they did, which evasive measures they would employ and what maneuvers he must make to bring them into his cross hairs. After many years and hundreds of hunts, these skills came naturally, without conscious effort.
But, a man was a different kind of animal.
A man, unarmed and running for his life, should be easier prey. No God-given speed or strength or camouflage or animal instincts to aid his escape. Driven by panic, he would run and run, believing speed a better ally than stealth, not understanding that nature’s own patterns and colors would provide concealment if he would only seek them out, melt into them.
Of course, the same man could be thoughtful, clever. Devise methods of escape that the hunter might not consider. It was this possibility that made this hunt uniquely exciting.
Eyes working methodically, sliding back and forth, he searched for movement. A shape or color that lifted itself from the greens and browns and grays of the background. His gaze traveled higher, up the sloping meadow, toward a grove of aspens huddled at the foot of the mountain.
There. Struggling up a slope, slipping on the cold wet grass and patches of snow, his prey lurched and stumbled forward, winding his way through the trees. Stripped of their leaves by winter, the aspens offered little cover, but if he made it higher, into the thick spruces and pines, he would be harder to track.
He yanked off one glove, slipped two fingers into his mouth, and blew out a sharp whistle, which echoed across the valley. The other two riders that flanked him pulled their steeds to a stop. With a wave of his hand, he directed them to close on the fleeing man.
Spurring his horse forward, avoiding the deeper snowdrifts, favoring drier, firmer ground, he quickly reached the cluster of aspens. He guided the roan through the thin, white barked trees, which stood stiffly like a regiment of matchstick soldiers, until he reached the shadowy spruces.
The other two men rode up.
“Where’d he go?” one of them asked.
The blonde man nodded toward the thick darkness of the evergreen forest that climbed the slope before them. “In there,” he said. Even above the raspy breathing of the horses, he could hear the scraping of brush and scrambling footsteps. “We’ll go on foot from here.”
“He can’t have gotten far,” the third man said.
“He got this far,” the other man said. He eyed the blonde man. “He’s faster than we figured.”
The blonde man dismounted and pulled a rifle from the long scabbard that hung from his saddle. “He can’t outrun this.” He cranked the lever on his Winchester, seating a shell in the firing chamber. "You two flank him to the west. Drive him toward the waterfall. Whatever happens, don't let him make it to the mines. He gets in there, we'll play hell flushing him out."
*
Exhaustion chewed at his leg muscles and the cold mountain air tore into his lungs. Thickly scented spruce branches clutched at his clothes, slapped against his chest and face, and shredded his hands as he pushed them from his path.
He had no idea where he was going except higher into the mountain, away from his pursuers. He was amazed he had eluded them long enough the reach the forest. Or was that their plan all along? Herd him into the trees where no one would see what happened? No one would see anyway. He was miles from town. And no one would miss him, come looking for him.
Maybe he should stop. Give up. Let them finish this. Yet, the survival instinct is strong and can’t be denied. Even in someone like him, whose life expectancy could likely be measured in minutes.
His boot came down on a rock and rolled over it, turning his ankle sharply inward. Pain knifed up his leg and he stumbled, but managed to remain upright. Ignoring the fiery discomfort that now accompanied each step, he continued his push up the steep hillside.
The thick layer of soft pine needles that covered the forest floor and the calf-deep collections of snow that settled in the shallow depressions of the uneven terrain sapped the energy from his aching legs. Outrunning his pursuers seemed less likely with each stride.
He knew there were hundreds of mines in these hills. He had never actually seen or been inside one, but had heard stories of people getting lost for hours, days, forever. Right now, he would welcome being lost.
He scrambled over a massive snow-frosted boulder but slipped and tumbled from its rounded crest, landing hard on his back against a thick, scaly barked pine. Air burst from his lungs. He rolled away from the tree and struggled to his feet, sucking air, trying to ignore the knife-like pain that ripped along his ribs. A crow screeched from the branches above him.
He staggered between two trees and into a small clearing. Before him, large, feathery snowflakes swirled on the wind, seeming reluctant to fall to the ground.
He clutched his damaged ribs as he took several deep breaths and then crossed the clearing and continued upward. Through the trees, he caught a glimpse of a mine. Its black mouth yawned open, waiting. Head down, legs trembling with fatigue, he plowed toward it. His knees buckled and he fell to all fours, but pushed himself up and, with the determination that only fear can generate, pressed forward.
His boots, unable to secure a firm hold, slipped on the icy rocks, loose gravel, and damp pine needles. Like his childhood nightmares, where he struggled against unseen restraints to escape from some horrible, faceless creature of the night, it seemed that the faster he moved the less distance he covered and the more deeply he descended into the depths of panic.
If he only had a gun. Maybe he could ambush them. Get one or even two of them. Better his odds.
Again his legs wobbled and he nearly fell, but clutched a tree trunk and steadied himself. He gulped air and wiped sweat from his face with the sleeve of his shirt. Don’t stop, he told himself. One more push, against the loose soil, against the hill, against gravity and he would find the protective depths of the mine.
The tree bark beside his head exploded. The crack of the rifle reached his ears. Another crack and a searing pain ripped through his chest. Blood, his blood, peppered the tree before him. Then, three quick pop-pop-pops, followed by the hiss of one bullet by his head and two more explosions of bark.
He looked up.
Near the mine, two men leveled rifles at him. Whether he jumped or fell or simply collapsed, he couldn’t be sure, but he found himself on hands and feet crawling into the trees to his right. A volley of rifle fire snapped tree branches and pinged off rocks. He dug the toes of his hiking boots into the soil, rose to his feet, and ran. Fatigue and exhaustion evaporated in an adrenaline-fed race for his life.
He pushed aside spruce and pine branches as he hurtled forward, neither knowing nor caring where he was going so long as it was away from the gunmen. Taking the easiest path, he descended diagonally across the slope’s fall line, allowing gravity to aid his flight.
Hot pain bored through his right chest and increased with each breath. The warmth of his own blood saturated the front of his shirt and a fine red mist escaped his lips with each rattling exhalation.
He stumbled, fell forward, rolled to his feet, and continued running. His heart leaped against his chest as though trying to urge him forward. Needle encrusted spruce fingers whipped against his face. One slapped across his open eye, causing him to spin around, yelp with pain.
Still, he ran.
The forest began to thin and the ground became more rocky and strewn with loose pebbles and weathered pinecones. He could hear the roar of rushing water, echoing through the trees. Above him, the crow continued its scolding, seeming to follow his every move and caw to his pursuers, “Here he is.”
He burst from the trees and came face to face with the rushing, swirling waters of Crystal Falls. Skidding on his heels, he slid to a stop, his racing heart kicking into an even higher gear.
Crystal Falls, a local landmark and tourist attraction, tumbled down a deep gash in the rocky mountain, plunging in a series of stair step cataracts more than a 1000 feet from the vast snow fields above before taking a final 100-foot leap into a misty cauldron that would become Gold Creek. It was this final segment that faced him.
The burning pain in his chest spread to his back and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He reached beneath his shirt and felt the small, round entry wound just beneath his right collarbone. Sliding his hand over his shoulder, through the hot sticky blood that matted the flannel to his back, his fingers just reached the upper edge of the ragged exit wound. He knew instantly the bullet had passed through his lung, through his entire chest. He wiped his bloody hand on his pant leg.
A fit of coughing doubled him over. Blood peppered the rocks and the tops of his boots. He clutched his chest until the paroxysm subsided.
He looked up the slope, and then down, frantically searching for an escape route. He turned back toward the trees. Among the shadows,
he could see the forms of the two men closing fast.
Just above him, the waterfall crashed into and cascaded over a rocky ledge before reforming into the thick ribbon that plunged downward. Along the ledge, three large ice encrusted rocks nosed through the cataract, each ten feet apart, each bearded by fifteen-foot long stalactites of ice. Maybe he could use the rocks to cross the fall.
He scrambled up the hill along the edge carved by centuries of snow melt. When he reached the ledge, his escape route looked less inviting. The rocks were domed and slicked with ice. The graceful beards of ice he had seen from below now looked like cold, hard fangs. The force of the water’s impact vibrated the ground beneath his feet; its cold spray lacquered his face.
This isn’t possible, he thought. He would have to leap over ten feet of churning water to an icy dome-shaped rock and not slip off. Then, repeat that feat three more times to reach the other side.
Another wave of coughing gripped him. He leaned his hands on his knees, bracing himself against the fiery pain, and expelled long strands of crimson mucous.
“There he is.”
He turned toward the voice. The three men stood below him. One raised his rifle and directed the muzzle toward him.
Without hesitation, without further internal debate on the wisdom of such a move, he took one step and leaped. He seemed to float in slow motion over the roaring water, arms flapping, legs churning against nothing but air, as if by these efforts he could somehow extend his flight. He slammed into the first boulder. His fingers and the toes of his boots clawed the hard ice, but could not prevent his slide over the face of the rock and down the tapering stalactite. Just when he thought he would plunge into the icy water below, one toe caught in a crevice in the ice. He hugged the giant icicle and dug his aching fingers into its unforgiving coldness.
He looked up. An un-scalable cylinder of ice. Right and left offered no escape, only columns of rampaging water. Downward, his only apparent option, a 100-foot drop into a frigid pool and sure death.
