by Dee Davis
He wiped the dust from his hands on his jeans and looked around. The passage was dark. No sign of Cara and Owen. Maybe they'd had more luck. He set off in the direction they'd gone. If he remembered correctly, the north tunnel wasn't more than a few hundred feet ahead.
He looked down at the length of iron in his hand. The candle was burning low. He stopped and reached into his pocket. Never one to take chances, he lit the new candle and pushed it onto the stub of the old one. The new wick flickered briefly in an unseen draft and then burned brightly, casting a cheerful glow on the cold damp walls as he passed. He wished it echoed his feelings, but he couldn't seem to shake the apprehension that settled over him like an icy blanket of snow.
A scream broke the dark silence of the tunnel. A woman's scream.
Cara.
Michael willed his feet to run, to move, but his terrified brain refused to release the brakes. The sound died almost as quickly as it had begun. One minute sending shivers of dread down his spine, and the next gone, as if the dark had swallowed it. Despite the chill of the tunnel, sweat beaded out across his forehead. He wiped a hand across it, trying to make sense of what he'd heard.
A light appeared in the tunnel, not far from where he seemed to be permanently rooted to the spot. "Michael, is that you?" The light swung upward and he recognized the voice as Owen's.
He tried to form a coherent sentence, but Cara's scream echoed over and over in his head. As the light began to move towards him, he finally found his voice. "Owen? What happened."
"It's Cara," came the answering reply.
His heart was beating so loudly it almost drowned out the words.
"I'm afraid she's had a fall." Owen materialized out of the dark, sliding to a stop in front of him. Blood darkened a cut along the side of his face, and another darker stain spread across the shoulder of his shirt. More blood, Michael's brain assessed.
"Is she…" He hesitated, afraid to finish the sentence.
"I don't know. We were in northwest three and there was a bit of a cave-in. We fell backward and…" He paused, ineffectually dabbing at his blood stained face with his handkerchief. His eyes met Michael's and the look there made Michael's stomach contract in fear. "I'm sorry, my boy, I tried to grab her, but…" Owen's eyes were full of regret. Tragic regret.
"Michael?"
He spun around at the sound of his brother's voice. "Patrick? Is that you?" The light at the far end of the tunnel was faint, but his brother's voice carried through the tunnel as if he were only a few feet away.
"Hang on, I'm coming. Is Owen with you?"
The name came out with a strange emphasis and the hair on Michael's neck rose. "Yes, he's here." He glanced back at Owen, surprised to catch the tail end of a flinch. He tried to pull his brain into gear, but found that all he could think of was the sound of Cara's scream and the pain etched on Owen's face. He'd seen that look before, when Owen had come to tell them about his mother.
"Michael?" Evidently the sound only carried one way. Patrick's light moved closer, bobbing up and down as though his brother was running.
"Don't move." Owen's words were not a question, but a command. Michael's brain cleared in an instant. "Turn around." The words were issued in a staccato bark Michael hardly recognized.
Slowly he turned around. "Owen? What's this all about?" He tried to keep his voice calm, but every inch of him was screaming for Cara.
Owen's derringer was pointed directly at his heart, his father's friend's eyes were narrowed and his face was shuttered with a cold mask Michael had never seen. "Throw your pistol over here." Owen gestured with his gun.
Michael slowly drew his six shooter from his jeans and threw it on the ground beside Owen. "I don't understand."
Owen picked up the Colt, pocketing his tiny derringer, and smiled ruefully. "And I'd hoped you never would, but I think your brother has nosed his way into the answers."
"What answers, Owen?" Keep him talking, Michael's brain urged.
Owen laughed and Michael shivered at the hatred and anger concealed in the sound. "Ah, dear boy, 'tis your mother who should be answering these questions, not me." Owen's eyes glittered in the candlelight, the blood marring his face adding a sinister cast.
"My mother? What in hell does she have to do with this?" Michael felt a growing chill of understanding.
"Michael?" Patrick skidded to a stop, his eyes moving quickly from his brother to Owen. "Where's Cara?" His voice was low and intense, his attention focused completely on Owen.
"At the bottom of a very long hole, I'm afraid. Such a lovely girl. Rather like your mother. Stubborn to the end. Always ready to believe the worst." Owen's voice had lost the edge of rationality.
"Where is she?" Michael's voice echoed through the tunnel.
Owen waved the gun. "I told you, Michael, she fell down. Way down." His laughter held the echo of a madman.
Patrick tried to inch around Michael, gun drawn.
"Drop it." Lucidity was back with frightening clarity.
Patrick stopped, but didn't drop the gun. Michael heard the hammer click into place.
Owen stood his ground, Michael's Colt pointed not at Patrick, but still at Michael. "Shoot me if you dare, little Patrick." There was a condescending note in his voice, almost as if he wanted Patrick to shoot. "But," he waved his other hand in the air in a theatrical gesture, "I'll kill Michael, even if you do manage to shoot me." Again, he let go with his tortured laugh.
Patrick met Michael's eyes and he shrugged, dropping the gun.
"Kick it over here," Owen barked.
Michael reached over with a booted foot and kicked the gun. It landed off to the right of Owen in the shadows of the tunnel.
"That's not exactly at my feet," Owen snarled, "but it will have to do. Now, move over there by the wall." He gestured to the left side of the tunnel, away from the gun.
Michael met Patrick's gaze and tried desperately to read the message there.
"I said, now." The hammer on the gun clicked into place, echoing through the stillness of the tunnel.
*****
Oh God, she was destined to spend eternity in the dark. First the cave-in and now… Cara paused trying to remember exactly what had happened. The rabbit hole. She sighed. At least Alice had been able to see. She'd had the white rabbit and the little glass table. Cara had, well, inky blackness and… roses.
She sniffed deeply, but the smell evaporated almost before she was certain it was roses. She shifted uncomfortably, realizing she was lying on a bed of rocks—sharp rocks. Sitting up, she took hesitant inventory of her body, relieved when all parts reported in hale and hearty. Her ankle felt a little iffy, but for the moment at least, there seemed no point in pressing the issue. As long as she was seated, she was fine.
A sharp jabbing in her left hip remained the only uninvestigated pain, and when she shifted right, the stabbing stopped. Reaching across with her hand, she located the source of her discomfort. The candle holder. Wrought iron did not make a comfortable seat cushion, especially if it had a sharp point. There was no way to see the thing, but she recognized the feel of it, remembered the satisfying thwunk it had made as it had sunk into Owen Prescott's flesh.
She hoped it hurt like hell.
For a moment she pictured Michael, and her heart twisted with agony, but then her mind stepped in with a public service announcement about people stuck at the bottom of deep, dark rabbit holes. A picture of a long forgotten episode of All My Children flashed in her mind.
Natalie at the bottom of a well.
That had ended happily, hadn't it? Oh God, she didn't remember. She never watched regularly and Natalie was off the show now. Had she died in the well? Cara forced back a swelling of hysteria. She wasn't Natalie, and Owen certainly wasn't Janet. No, whispered a perverse voice in her mind, he was much worse.
She struggled to gain control and was relieved when all images, television and otherwise, disappeared and she was alone in the deep darkness, clutching a twisted piece of wrought
iron. Used for lighting, her still functioning brain pointed out. She frowned, the information failing to have significant impact.
Lighting, her brain repeated, telegraphing letter by letter. She slapped a hand to her forehead and felt for the hooked end of the candle holder, finally getting the message. With a shaking hand, she touched the candle. Wax had never felt so good.
Drawing the matches from her pocket, she lit it, relieved when a pale white light cast a feeble circle into the darkness.
Let there be light.
There wasn't a glass table. She'd known there wouldn't be one, but she was devastated nevertheless. Most likely because it meant that this wasn't a dream. So, most likely there wasn't a sister at the top of the well. No, there was only a madman and Michael.
Michael. God, she hoped he wouldn't fall into Owen's trap. The man was insane. She shook her head to clear it of the image of Owen, the consummate British madman. No use in borrowing problems she didn't have. Her main concern had to be getting out of here. And that was a big damn deal.
Her language was going to hell. So much for her parochial school upbringing, but then again, the nuns hadn't covered what to do when one was pushed into a mine shaft. Probably even Sister Inez would allow for a few curse words in this situation. She shook her head—hard. She had to stay in control. No room for hysteria here.
She struggled to her feet, wincing as she put weight on her right foot. Not broken at least. But it hurt. A lot. She focused on the flickering candlelight. Holding it away from her body, she surveyed the shaft. Only about half of it was illuminated and it was frustratingly round, curling in an almost perfect semicircle without an opening to mar the arc. Damn.
She limped forward, holding the candle high so that the other half of the shaft was illuminated. The light glanced off ivory, and two black eyes stared back at her. She bit back a scream and tightened her grip on the candle. The eyes were joined by a jaunty grin. A grimace really—a death mask.
Her heart lurched and descended a moment for a conference with her stomach. Cara could only stare at the skeletal remains. All that was left of a person. Her cellmate so to speak. Cellmates. Her stomach demanded more time as she stared at a second skull. This one looked gentler somehow than the first. Its eye sockets were just as empty, but the smile was less jaunty, more feminine somehow.
Her stomach heaved, then settled, the voting evidently completed, but her mind sent in the minority opinion. Get Out. Not bad advice. She circled the cavern looking for the exit tunnel. There wasn't any. What had once been a tunnel was now nothing more than a pile of shale and rubble, the pair of skeletons marking the entrance with frightening punctuation. There was no exit. This was the end of the line.
The smiling skulls seemed to mock her and she turned away to avoid their knowing gazes. A glint of something caught her eye as she turned and she bent with the candle to see what it was. A band of gold circled the smaller skeleton's bony finger. Cara fought with her stomach, heart, and brain before she found the strength to reach for the ring. With a deeply drawn breath and a mumbled apology, she snatched it away.
The gold was smooth from years of wear, the faint pattern of etched flowers almost faded from the band. A wedding ring. She held it up into the soft glow of the candle light. R.O., D.M., 1858. Initials. A date. Her sluggish mind processed the information. A wedding ring. R.O. D. M.
D. M. — Duncan Macpherson. Her mind clicked into gear. R.O.—Rose. Rose O'Malley. Oh God. Her stomach signed off altogether. She was on her own.
She looked at the remains of Michael's mother and what had to be Zach, and took a deep, but not particularly cleansing, breath. What did one say to the dead? She sank to the ground, leaning back against a wall, her right hand still clenched around the wedding ring, her head inches from Zach's. She ran her left hand over the cool silver of Loralee's locket, tears filling her eyes. So many dreams…
*****
Michael grabbed Patrick's elbow, recognizing his brother's need to fight. But that would only get them both killed. "We need to find Cara," he whispered, and Patrick nodded in mute acceptance as they moved to the wall of the tunnel.
"I see you both remember how to follow orders." Owen sounded smug, almost relieved.
Michael had to bite his tongue to keep from responding. Patrick, obviously, had no such self-restraint. "You killed our mother." The words were harsh and they hung in the cavern as if carved from stone.
Owen narrowed his eyes, watching them. "No." His response was angry. Abrupt. Secure, in only the way the deranged can be. "She killed herself."
"Why?" Patrick asked. "Because she loved Father more than you?"
"She loved me." The words were clipped, explosive.
Michael was beginning to follow the train of Patrick's conversation. "She never loved anyone but our father. You know that, Owen." He threw the words out, trying for distraction.
What he got was rage. A rage so fierce and out of control, he felt his brother flinch. "She loved me."
"No." The word was like an epitaph in its finality. Patrick spewed it almost as if it were an obscenity.
"She always loved me. That's why I did it," Owen retaliated.
"Did what?" Keep him talking, Michael's brain demanded. Patrick was face forward against the tunnel. Michael had opted for a less conciliatory stance, his back to the rock wall.
"Killed her."
Michael felt sick inside. "You killed her?"
"I had to."
The man in front of him shrank a little and Michael swallowed his bile. "Why?"
"She wouldn't come with me." Owen sounded like a three year old who hadn't gotten his way.
"When you offered her the silver?" Patrick asked, his back still turned.
Owen leveled the gun, his chest heaving in and out in agitation. "I offered her more than the damn silver. I offered her my life." He waited for some reaction, and when he got none, he continued. "Duncan led her on. Year after year, he promised her the moon, but never, never did he deliver."
Michael couldn't argue his father's faults. The fact was that his mother loved his father despite those flaws. It hadn't mattered. Suddenly his worries about Cara took on new relevance. If she was still alive. His mind fastened on the idea, holding it close to his heart. She had to be alive.
"She turned you down. All of it. She turned you down," Patrick hissed.
Owen's face twisted with anger. "I did it all for her, and she had the audacity to say no. No one says no to Owen Prescott, no one."
"But what about Zach?"
Owen waved the gun. "Oh, that was simple enough. I used my rifle. The man was dead before he knew what had happened."
Michael took a step forward. Owen pointed the gun.
"Move back."
Michael obliged him. "But surely you didn't expect my mother to fall into your arms after you murdered her friend?"
Owen looked surprised. "He wasn't her friend. He was a no account muleskinner. Beneath her notice. It never occurred to me that he might matter to her."
Michael was struck at the way Owen dismissed the man.
"But he was a husband and a father," Patrick put in.
Owen shrugged, obviously not understanding the relevance of Patrick's statement. "He was nobody. And if he did have a wife, she was nobody as well."
"So you proposed to do what?" Michael asked. "Take my mother away from all the murder and mayhem?"
His sarcasm was wasted on Owen. "Of course. She deserved better."
"And you were the one to give it to her?" Patrick's jaw tightened, his hand moving between his body and the wall.
"I was the only one who could give it to her, " Owen said.
Michael grimaced. "But she didn't want you."
Owen's face flushed with fury. "No. She only wanted your father. The stupid woman couldn't see what was right in front of her eyes. She called me a murderer and a traitor. Me. Who'd loved her since New York…" He broke off.
"So you killed her." Patrick's voice was calm, but firm.
Owen cocked his head, looking at them both. "I killed her." The pronouncement was absolute.
Michael needed to know. It was probably perverse, but he needed to know. "So then you stole the silver?"
"Only after I'd killed them I couldn't exactly leave it lying around, now could I? Thanks to your father it was readily identifiable." Owen sounded almost disdainful.
"The rose."
"Yes." Owen sighed. "It's a pity you two had to figure this out. I had hoped to avoid the unpleasantness." He leveled the gun.
"So what? You hid it?" Patrick asked.
"Right here. Under your father's nose. I used the lower level. One of the tunnels we'd abandoned. I hid it in some old machinery."
"But Father found it. That's why you killed him."
"The drunken bastard. Always nosing around. I should have melted the damn stuff and sold it off. "
"Why didn't you?"
"I got lazy." Owen shrugged. "Truth is, it was more work than it was worth. I didn't need the money, and I never thought anyone would find it. Besides, I liked knowing it was here, right under everyone's noses."
"And when Father found it, he moved it."
"Stupid ass."
"But if you didn't need it, why go to all this trouble?" Patrick frowned. "Why not let someone else find it and cart it away?"
"Because sooner or later the story was going to come out. You were already starting to ask questions, Patrick. And Michael was a wildcard. I didn't know if he was alive or dead. I have Striker to thank for that."
"So you killed him." Michael said, trying to make sense where there obviously was none.
Owen shrugged. "It was kill him or kill you, and he'd out grown his usefulness. I always tie up my loose ends."
"Like us?" The pain in Patrick's voice was almost palpable.
Owen sighed. "As I said I was trying to avoid this."
"But now, just like that, it's over? Your loyalty to our family— to me— was all a lie?"
"I loved you in my own fashion, I suppose." Owen waved the gun in Patrick's direction. "Michael, too, for that matter. But in the end, you're just like your mother. You'd rather be with your father than me. The old bastard didn't deserve what he had."
