Definitely a woman. But who?
Because Lord only knew what her face looked like.
32
Crouching in the brush, Marge felt her thighs bunch as she froze stock-still. Looking and listening. Throughout the night, there had been random shots coming from the small windows that lined the Order’s main gathering halls. Nothing organized, but enough to get the adrenaline going. The task force had talked about hurling canisters of tear gas through glass, but over the past twenty-four hours, the cult members had covered most of the panes with wooden planks.
Again, she glanced around, checking over her shoulder. The only sounds were the nocturnal voices of nature, everything appearing calm. But how quickly that could change. Forced to play the interminable waiting game. A second, then two…three…four…counting slowly…slowly.
Garbed in nylon camouflage fatigues and thick boots, she knew most of the perspiration pouring off her forehead was coming from tension and fear. Because the night was cool and the clothes were lightweight. Still, she sweated—on her face, under her arms, between her legs, rivulets running down her thighs and calves. She dabbed her forehead with her sleeve at the rim of her miner’s hat.
More waiting…twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-ei—
An owl hooted, then swept down from the trees, rustling branches as it nosedived to the ground. Moments later, it soared upward with a wiggling field mouse in its talons. Highlighted against a three-quarter full moon, it flew across the sky, its wings cutting through the air. While still in flight, it plucked the mouse from its claws with its beak, held it there, then landed on a ghoulish oak tree twenty yards down. Moments later, the mouse was carrion.
Marge’s heart hammered against her chest. The bird’s sudden movements could bring unwanted attention to their operation. Quickly, she pulled back sharply twice on the rope tied around her waist—the stop signal to the others.
Tugs answered her back.
Then nothing.
Start all over, Dunn. One, two, three, four…
They had decided to use the rope for messages because it was far less noisy than two-way radios. Of course, they had the boxes for backup.
As a matter of fact, they had everything—dried food, water in pouches, locating devices, communication devices, protective gear, flashlights, ammunition with regular scopes and infrared scopes, grenades and mace. The gear loaded Marge down, made trampling silently through the brush even more difficult. But she did what was necessary.
Several more minutes passed. Then she felt a Morse code pull against her waist—two long and one short. Lauren was requesting to go forward. Marge passed the message down to Special SWAT Agent Elise Stone. From the rear, she received the sign to proceed. Marge forwarded it to Lauren.
A big game of telephone. Hoping that, unlike the childhood diversion, the signals stayed true.
Another step forward. Another stop.
And so it went. For what seemed like hours.
In fact, it took Marge a full two hours to traverse a mile.
To the others, Lauren whispered, “We’re going to have to drop the electronic junk. They have lots of honing devices, being paranoid and all. We can’t afford to risk it. We’re also going to have to leave behind the heavy stuff. You two are pretty large. You’ll never make it through the tunnel all bulked up like that.”
Elise Stone was a couple inches shorter than Marge, but also thick-boned. Her short blond hair peaked from her miner’s hat. “We’ll remove our bullet vests. But you keep yours on.”
“I can’t move in it. I feel like a mummy.”
“Lauren,” Marge whispered. “You’re the front person, the first one in. You have to be protected. You’re a small girl. Just do it.”
“I’ll sweat to death.”
“You’ll sweat, but you won’t die,” Elise answered. “Where’s the entrance?”
“The boulder you’re standing next to.”
Elise looked down and to her left. Her face registered surprise. “How’d you lift that thing?”
“I didn’t lift it, I rolled it millimeters at a time. Back then, the one thing I had was time.”
Elise tried to heft it “Thing must weigh five hundred pounds. Where’s the crowbar?”
Marge pulled the tool out of her knapsack. She wedged it between the granite and the ground. “This is where we use that leverage thing.”
“What time is it?” Elise asked.
“Two-fifteen.”
“When is sunup?”
“Six-thirty.”
“Jesus, that’s not good,” Elise said. “We’d better haul ass. Lauren, out of the way.”
The young girl moved aside.
Elise grabbed the middle part of the crowbar, Marge held on to the tip. On the count of three, they exerting maximum force, heaving down on the metal pole, pushing so hard they grunted. The solid orb of stone rolled inches. The two cops exchanged glances.
“Do the rocks in these mountains have a high metal content?” Elise asked.
“Just keep going,” Marge said.
“Keep going,” Elise echoed.
A half hour later, two thirds of the opening to the tunnel was exposed. Drenched in sweat, Elise said to Marge, “I think I can make it through. What about you? You’re the biggest of us. Can you fit down there?”
Marge dropped to the ground and inched in head-first. Immediately, her shoulders caught.
She surveyed the situation. “I think if I wiggle my shoulders from side to side, I could probably clear it eventually.” She raised her body back to a standing position, feeling strong and fit. All those years of push-ups and sit-ups had finally served a practical purpose.
Elise began retightening the rope around her waist. “Then let’s do it.”
Marge said, “First, we should wedge the boulder so it doesn’t roll back and cover the opening.”
Elise made a face. “Be nice if I had a brain.”
The two cops worked together. After the boulder was safely rooted, they did a checklist for the final time as they secured the rope around their bodies. They left their backpacks at the opening, taking out only what was necessary—miner’s cap, a flashlight, bottled water, a small canister of supplemental oxygen and a semiautomatic with magazines. Adjusting the surgical mask over her nose, Marge regarded Lauren’s covered face. “Sure you’re up for this?”
“Definitely.”
“Are you ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Then go for it, girlfriend.”
Lauren hugged Marge with force. Then, without hesitation, she dropped to her belly, turned on her miner’s hat and crawled down into darkness. Seconds passed, then a full minute. The opening became darker and darker until Lauren’s hat light became nothing more than a raindrop of illumination. Finally, Marge felt the tug around her waist.
“Time to go.”
Elise said, “Good luck, Dunn.”
“Best wishes to you, too, Stone.”
Marge made final adjustments to her mask, then crept into the ground. Immediately, her upper body was wedged between the dirt opening and the boulder still blocking part of the tunnel’s entrance. Marge shifted her shoulders to the right, then to the left, cramming her body down the shoot. She kept repeating the motions until the soil about her torso loosened, giving her that extra needed millimeter of free space. She felt herself slide through the adit, and moments later, she was encased in a dark, moldy channel.
Completely sealed off from life-giving air! As if she were buried alive. Hell, she was buried alive! Only a small entrance hole furnishing all three of them with natural oxygen. Their backup supply wouldn’t last more than a half hour. If the ground should give way, Marge knew she’d be finished. She fought off waves of panic, hearing her own anxiety-riddled panting through the mask.
Slow down, you’re fine, she chided her brain. Breathe deeply…breathe regularly. In and out…in and out.
Instant biofeedback. As she heard her breaths slow, she was able
to retard her choppy gasping.
Ahead was a unidirectional tube. Nowhere to go except forward. Struggling, she managed to stretch her gloved hands in front of her body and claw at the ground with her nails. Pulling herself along. Slithering on her belly like a snake.
More like a lowly worm, she thought. Don’t think about yourself. Think about the kids! Or that poor innocent woman shot by a maniac murderer simply to prove a point. Discarded like a broken toy. Or poor Pete and his ringing ears.
Although truthfully, compared to being buried alive, ringing ears didn’t sound so bad.
Grit scratched her flesh; she could feel it through her clothing, rubbing against her quadriceps, her shins, her abdomen and chest. She tried to lift her face upward only to hit her hat on the ceiling. Clumps of dirt rained down as dust clogged her eyes.
More panic.
Breathe slowly…breathe deeply. In and out…in and out.
The light on her hat was functional, thank God, but she couldn’t see much. She waited for several moments, then felt a pull about her waist. A signal from Lauren—although there was no visual sign of Lauren.
As Marge continued, the only thing visible to her eyes was the ground beneath her belly. The air was sodden and dirty, the smell metallic like an approaching electrical storm.
At first, the tunnel was dead quiet…not even a hint of any ambient noise. But as Marge listened more closely, she could make out dripping sounds…a plop here…a plunk there. Groundwater. It had rained recently. How much was down here? Was she going to get caught in a pool and drown? No, if anyone would get caught it would be Lauren—No, no, no, don’t even think about that. Keep going!
Marge heard scratching, like mice skittering in an attic. But mice didn’t live six feet below. Moles did. Maybe it was a mole. Do moles bite?
Don’t think about it.
More likely it was Lauren moving forward, her light body skimming across the soil.
Another tug.
Marge moved toward the direction of the pull. As she went on, she felt the channel constricting, the circular walls closing around her body.
It wasn’t her imagination. There was definitely less room to move.
God, suppose she got stuck in the middle? Could they pull her free without the tunnel collapsing?
Don’t think about it!
Counting slowly…one…two…three…
Breathe normally, she commanded herself. One…two…three…
Trudging deeper into the gully—tighter and darker. The soil had become saturated with groundwater, turning the pinched alley into round walls of slime and ooze and an occasional germ-infested puddle. Marge could feel the goop streak her clothing.
No one in front, no one in back. Completely alone for all that she could see.
If the terror and the claustrophobia ever became unbearable, they had a predetermined message of a half-dozen hard pulls on the rope, repeated twice. But Marge would be damned if she would be the first to cry out.
Just keep going.
Her heartbeat reverberated inside her miner’s hard hat. She knew she was gasping as her lungs took in sharp intakes of air.
Keep going, her brain screamed. Stop thinking about your own terror. Instead, think about the abject fear of those kids!
But as the cylinder narrowed, compressing her body even farther, she felt pins of panic stick her bones. She lifted her eyes upward, hoping to spy a glimmer of light from Lauren’s hat. Ahead was only a dark hole of black sludge.
Don’t panic! Don’t—
All at once, she felt the rope tighten about her waist. The action was being passed to her from the front. Lauren was asking permission to once again move forward.
Marge stopped…tried to catch her breath.
Concentrate, Dunn! Hundreds of people are depending on you! Think of that poor girl shot through the head! That’s what caused all the urgency!
Bob on a killing spree.
Another breath.
Slower…slower.
Remembering what had been discussed, Marge managed to squeeze her hand against her body and tug on the rope twice, passing on the communication to Elise.
Waiting.
Seconds later, the tug was answered.
Elise giving the signal that she was about to enter the cold, clay pipeline.
More seconds passed.
Elise giving Marge the signal to continue. Marge passed it to Lauren. A count to ten, then she crept forward on her stomach.
It was now more like sliding because the tunnel was very wet. It reminded Marge of the old Slip-n-Slide…the hours she had spent in the hot summers of Fayetteville, sliding on a thin sheet of water-coated plastic. There had been an in-ground pool at the base, and she had used it occasionally. (The colonel had demanded that all the Dunns be proficient swimmers.) But no one in her solidly rooted working-class neighborhood had a pool in the backyard. Not like here in money-rich L.A. Even the shoddiest apartment house had a pool.
So think of the tunnel as a Slip-n-Slide.
Another quick breath.
And you’re not surrounded by darkness, you’re just closing your eyes…
Never realizing how claustrophobic she was. How in the world had Lauren pulled this off? Not only had she crawled through it and saved Lyra’s life, Lauren had actually built the damn thing.
And the newspeople keep ragging that there are no more heroes in this world.
Think of Lauren’s heroism, she demanded. Think of the Slip-n-Slide. Think of anything except how you’re buried six feet beneath earthquake country with no way except a goddamn rope to communicate. And the rope wouldn’t do you a fuckin’ bit of good if the whole tunnel was to collapse because the others would be fucking buried along with you.
Again, she felt the dread of unbridled fear.
A draw around her waist.
Lauren was moving closer toward the destination.
That was good, Dunn. Very good.
Just remain cool, remain super cool. Think of the kids. The kids, the kids, the kids!
A pull back toward Elise.
Again the message was passed along telephone-style.
Keep going, keep going!
Her head felt light.
No, Dunn, no! You’re not going to faint. Slow your breathing down.
A drag on the rope…Lauren telling her to stop.
Marge passed the signal down.
Then she stopped.
Counting softly, but this time, she counted audibly. She wanted to hear something besides the dribbling of groundwater. She wanted to hear something besides Lauren’s scratching. Most of all, she couldn’t stand the horrible silence that engulfed her when Lauren wasn’t scratching or the water wasn’t dripping.
One…two…three…four…five…six…
Don’t panic, don’t panic!
Thirteen…fourteen…fifteen…
The message to keep going.
Pass it on back, Dunn, pass it on back.
Shimmying on her belly, she proceeded. Nothing in front, nothing in back.
Nowhere to run.
Nowhere to run.
Wasn’t that a song title?
That’s good, Dunn. Think of song titles.
Just keep on truckin’, girl, keep on truckin’.
The seconds slowly converting to minutes—first to one minute…then two…then five…then ten…fifteen…
Inching forward, her face and mask painted with ground muck as she wondered just how many gnats, mosquitoes and pathogens was she inhaling or smearing into her pores.
Keep on truckin’.
Gettin’ good at it now, girlie. You can do it.
Another signal to stop.
Pass it on down, Dunn. Pass it down.
Counting slowly. One…two…three…four…five…
Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. Then two.
Don’t panic, don’t panic!
Three minutes crawled by, then four.
Again, the panic. Too much time was passing. Sh
e signaled to Lauren—tell me what’s going down, girl?
Her question remained unanswered.
Marge’s heart took off in flight. Oh, God Almighty, please tell me what the hell was happening? Please just let her be okay!
Again, Marge attempted to relay another message to Lauren via the rope.
Again, her signal wasn’t returned.
Good God, was Lauren intercepted? Should she and Elise turn back?
Wait it out, Dunn! A few more minutes. Wait it out!
After ten minutes, Marge felt a pull from behind. Stone was now asking her what was going down. Damned if she knew.
Another minute, then she’d give the turnaround signal.
Ten seconds…twenty…
What to do! What to do!
Thirty…forty…
At last, there was a draw about her waist, the sign coming from Lauren.
A sweet, sweet sign!
Lauren had given her a message via rope pulls, and what a message! She had made it to the entrance to the Order.
Stop until further notice.
Marge passed it to Elise.
Again, minutes passed. But this time Marge felt better waiting. Because if one of them had made it, surely she and Elise would make it as well.
Lauren was safe.
Five minutes passed. Then Marge felt a drag on her rope. Lauren was telling her to press on.
Pass it down to Elise.
With renewed vigor, Marge inched forward. Her breathing had calmed, and clarity of thought filled her brain. She didn’t realize it, but there were tears in her eyes.
33
A slender hand reached down, grabbing the mud-caked glove. Peering upward through the narrow hole, Marge could see Lauren’s dirt-encrusted face, her finger over her lips in warning. Digging her feet into the slimy wall of the tunnel, Marge tried to root herself. Though Marge must have outweighed Lauren by fifty pounds, the young girl pulled with reserved force, lifting Marge’s head and shoulders above the murky canal. Unfortunately, Marge’s lower body remained compressed inside the tunnel. Her gloves weren’t much help. Slick with muck, they held little traction. Still, she pressed the greasy palms against the floor’s flat surface and attempted to liberate her torso. But the gloves slid out from under. Lauren clutched around her shoulders before she sank down.
Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 11 Page 33
