The Eye of the Devil

by S A Falconi

  Abernathe waited but he again heard nothing. He grumbled, wishing he’d killed Donaghue on the spot. Now he had to decide what he would do: descend the mineshaft blindly and not only risk being bushwhacked but also asphyxiated by the lack of oxygen, or retreat back to town to bring proper equipment and personnel and risk Donaghue escaping. The choice was clear; he couldn’t risk losing the Ripper again.

  Abernathe took a deep breath, pinched his nose with his unarmed hand, and entered the mine. Although passage into his nostrils was obstructed, the mine’s breath still managed to gag him. He coughed violently several times, desperate to rid his nose, mouth and lungs of the smell. No action could expel the smell though, so he forced himself to proceed into the dark nothingness of the pit. Although he could see nothing, his ears tingled with hypervigilance. Every step he took, he heard the gravel and unknown substances crunch and crackle beneath his boots. He heard the occasional insect scuttle or fly by and he heard the water dripping from the ceiling as the groundwater penetrated the granite above. He counted every step he took so as to track the distance and depth he was at. He knew miners used caged canaries to determine the depths at which the oxygen was too thin for survival, but he would just have to proceed with absolute caution to keep from suffocating. As if attempting to conserve the oxygen of the space, Abernathe tried desperately to control his breathing. His efforts seemed to make his respirations more furtive and desperate though.

  Eighty steps. Eighty-five. Ninety.

  He stopped and turned toward the mouth of the mine. It was a distant hole at this point, a blindingly bright hole that provided no illumination whatsoever in the depths. Abernathe turned back and the mine’s throat seemed even darker and ominous than before. His anxiety rose and his breathing increased in frequency. He took another step forward. His foot found a solid, but uneven surface. When he bore his weight upon his foot though, the uneven surface shifted from beneath him, sending both feet out from under his body. He crashed to the flat of his back, several jagged stones piercing his flesh.

  “Ahhh!” he hollered from pain and fear.

  He tried to inhale, but suddenly, it was as if a cork were lodged in his windpipe. He expanded his chest again, but no air seemingly entered. A gale of panic coursed throughout his body as he choked and gagged for air that was no longer existent. In an instant, his desire to hunt the Ripper down had evaporated, leaving only the instinct of self-preservation. In a fit of panic and fear, Abernathe scrambled to his feet and hurried back towards the mouth of the mine. The light was blinding as he broke the threshold and he nearly tumbled down the side of the mountain had it not been for a tree he snatched and clung to. Clinging to that tree, he panted frantically, desperate to fill his lungs with the oxygen that seemed to be absent for hours on end. After several minutes of gluttonous panting, Abernathe was finally able to regain his composure and gather his thoughts.

  There was no possible way that Donaghue could’ve descended much farther than Abernathe had, and even so, Donaghue would pass out and suffocate in a matter of minutes. Abernathe wasn’t about to retreat to town – not just yet at least. The intelligent move was to sit and wait at the mouth of the mine. Donaghue, oxygen-deprived and desperate, would emerge from the pit in due time. And when that happened, Abernathe would be waiting.

  ~

  Abernathe’s howl of pain and fear nearly crumbled the rock enshrouding Donaghue and Kraus. Although Kraus couldn’t be certain, Abernathe was no farther than twenty feet away from them. Donaghue was sitting on the ground with his back leaned against the wall of the mine while Kraus was kneeling by his side, fashioning a tourniquet out of Donaghue’s bloody sleeve. As Kraus put the final touches on the bandage, he heard Abernathe’s frantic panting – an attack of neurosis most likely – followed by the raucous shifting of the ground debris.

  Kraus was thankful, for the oxygen was quite limited at their current depth and he estimated that they had no more than an hour before they passed out from oxygen deprivation. But Kraus knew that Abernathe, despite his cowardice, was clever enough not to abandon the mine entirely. Kraus knew the detective was waiting in ambush at the mouth of the mine.

  “How you doing, Pete?” Kraus whispered to Donaghue.

  Donaghue groaned. “Feel full as a tick honestly.”

  “You’ve lost a lot of blood,” Kraus remarked, “and the lack of oxygen down here certainly isn’t helping. We’ve gotta get you out of here.”

  “We can’t,” Donaghue grumbled as he shifted his weight. “Abernathe’ll be waiting for us.”

  “I know …”

  Kraus considered the situation for a moment. Under mortal circumstances, the psyche faced one of two actions – combat or exodus. In their current position, there seemed to be no means of the former. After all, the only exit was the entrance, and Abernathe had the mouth guarded like a sentry. The only choice was combat. Abernathe was armed, but so was Donaghue. But how effective could Donaghue shoot with his primary shooting arm wounded? Kraus could certainly try to fight, but what match would a novice gunman be against a trained deadeye? It seemed no choice would lead to success. They would just have to stay in that reeking cave and wait for Abernathe to assume they’d suffocated and leave.

  “Wait a second,” Donaghue uttered, breaking Kraus’ concentration.

  “What?” Kraus retorted.

  Donaghue attempted to push himself up against the wall more. “Airshafts,” he moaned. “Most mines are built with airshafts.”

  “This one though? This is hardly a commercial mine. Besides, how large could an airshaft be?”

  “Don’t know … but it’s worth a try.”

  Kraus shook his head, protesting, “If there were air shafts, wouldn’t the air be more saturated down here?”

  “Not necessarily,” Donaghue answered. “Could be a low point of the shaft. The fumes of the mine stagnate in the low point, blocking the air from circulating all the way through.”

  “What if it’s not though? What if we go deeper and the oxygen just becomes more and more depleted?”

  There was a brief pause, followed by Donaghue’s terse tone, “We’re dead either way, Doc. I’d rather suffocate trying to flee than walk into the hands of that swindler, wouldn’t you?”

  Kraus couldn’t bring himself to answer that question truthfully. The truth of the matter was that Kraus was merely a person of interest in this whole ordeal. Donaghue was the prime suspect. Abernathe didn’t care one bit about Kraus; he just wanted Donaghue. But despite the innate sense of survival, Kraus wouldn’t abandon his colleague. Although he’d only befriended Donaghue a few weeks prior, an unbreakable kinship had formed between the two. Somehow, abandoning Donaghue now seemed just as treacherous as Iscariot betraying the Christ. Kraus couldn’t do it – wouldn’t allow himself to do it. Just as Donaghue had said, he’d rather suffocate in the reeking depths of the mine than betray his only true friend.

  “Alright, Pete,” he finally muttered, “I’ll see what I can find.”

  He rose from his knee and stood in a semi-crouched position. He was hunched over and already his scalp and back were grazing the moist granite ceiling. He proceeded carefully down the mine, checking each step to ensure his footing wasn’t false. He’d read about mining accidents in which men blindly walked over the edge of vertical shafts deep within the bedrock, the men plummeting hundreds of feet into impenetrable wells. Each step Kraus took could very well be his last. His respirations grew as the oxygen became thinner and thinner. It was a vicious cycle, that of suffocation. As the oxygen deprivation grew, the respiration rate increased exponentially, depleting the already scare oxygen that much quicker. Roughly fifteen steps down, he had to stop and calm himself. He purposely breathed slowly, feeling his heart beat slower as the anxiety diminished. Finally, when he regained his resting heart rate, he slowly glided his feet forward again.

  He stepped, sensing an irregular edge beneath his boot. He lifted the foot from the edge and flicked the toe of his boot. A stone to whi
ch the irregular edge was attached tumbled to the side. He exhaled with relief, taking the step forward again. He slid his other foot forward, anticipating the downward grade of the mine shaft. He felt the resistance of the ground long before he should have though. Thinking it was just a large rock obstructing his path, he nudged the toe of his boot again. The stone did not budge though. He inched to the side a bit to proceed around the obstruction, but when he stepped, he sensed the ground’s resistance much too early as if the slope was now ascending. He held his breath as he slowly shifted more weight onto the uncertain footing. The ground held though, and soon the entirety of his bulk was resting on the new step.

  Another sigh of relief. His lungs were burning at this point and his consciousness was wavering. He so desperately wanted to turn back, return to Donaghue where at least there was breathable air. But he knew he had to proceed. He reached up, feeling the grade of the mine shaft. Its slope was different, no longer crashing down upon him. It was sloping up, vaulting in a way that could be indicative of only one thing. The next step brought him to yet a higher elevation, but the hope of escape wasn’t confirmed by this, it was confirmed by the fact that his breathing was eased. Oxygen was present, meaning it was coming from somewhere external to the mine.

  And then he saw it - the literal light at the end of the tunnel. It was neither brilliant nor expansive, but it was most certainly there. Daylight.

  Against his better judgement, Kraus’ paced quickened, the excitement of newfound hope taking hold of his gait. Daylight was there before him, gleaming, winking at him with the seduction of a Siren. Although it was difficult to tell the exact distance with the black surroundings, Kraus knew he couldn’t be farther than fifty feet away. Faster he proceeded and the crisp alpine air seemed to kiss his lips firmly. His heart raced now, relieved despite his enormous doubts.

  When Kraus finally reached the mouth, he stopped at the threshold and glanced about cautiously. Evergreen trees and boulders covered the sloped landscape. Glancing down the slope to his left, he thought he could see the minute fragment of Georgetown. Although the slope was much steeper here, Kraus knew it’d only be a matter of time before Abernathe discovered the airshaft. Kraus would have to get Donaghue out before that happened.

  Kraus turned back to the mouth of the airshaft, a belch of that reeking stench seemingly striking him. He took a few extra deep breaths, savoring the purity of the alpine air before finally scrambling back into the mineshaft.

  The anxiety of uncertainty had evaporated despite the blinding darkness of the mine. Kraus proceeded with a greater ease, although his hunched back scraped the irregularities of the granite ceiling and his boot toes crashed into unseen stones.

  As he proceeded up the slope, the light of the mouth was barely visible again. He knew Donaghue had to be close by. But where?

  “Donaghue,” Kraus whispered. “Donaghue?”

  No response came though. Where in God’s name could he have gone? And then it dawned on him – perhaps Donaghue didn’t go anywhere. Perhaps he was unconscious or worse … dead.

  Just the thought made Kraus shudder.

  “Pete,” he hissed. “Pete!”

  “Ugghh.”

  The groan seemed to be right at Kraus’ feet. He halted and stooped, sweeping his hands out groping blindly for his colleague.

  “Oww!” Donaghue grumbled.

  “Sorry,” Kraus whispered, taking his hands away from Donaghue’s wounded shoulder. “You were right, Pete. There’s an airshaft we can get out through. Let’s get you up – ”

  Kraus threw Donaghue’s uninjured arm across his back and slowly hoisted him onto his feet. Donaghue grumbled in pain but forced himself to comply.

  “Donaghue!”

  Kraus and Donaghue halted, their hearts instantly pounding through their chests. It was Abernathe. Kraus glanced over his shoulder and saw that Abernathe was still standing at the mouth of the mine. But he wasn’t the only one there. The mouth was blocked by at least two other figures.

  “This is your last chance, Donaghue!” Abernathe bellowed. “Surrender yourself or we’ll cave you in!”

  Panic struck Kraus – cave us in! He can’t just cave us in. We haven’t been tried or convicted – hell, we’re not even solid suspects! Kraus frantically glanced back and forth, back and forth, debating the next move. Maybe Abernathe was merely bluffing, a feeble attempt to deceive the fugitives into surrender?

  “Donaghue!” Abernathe hollered again. “Come out now!”

  Kraus continued to glance back and forth, the indecision overwhelming him.

  “Alright!”

  Kraus stopped, staring at the nondescript outline of Donaghue.

  “Alright!” Donaghue rasped again. “I’m coming out!”

  “Pete,” Kraus hissed, “what are you doing?”

  “It’s over, Doc … it’s over. I’m wounded and even if we get out of here alive, how am I gonna be able to make it over the pass? There’s no way. You’re gonna have to go on without me. Hunt this monster down yourself.”

  Kraus protested, “I can’t, Pete. Not without you. I can’t do this alone.”

  “You have to … if I go with you, we’ll certainly be caught.”

  Kraus’ mind bounded in deliberation. Was Donaghue right? Could he hunt the Ripper down himself with the ominous deadline of Donaghue’s certain execution? Could he do it? Did he even want to do it? After all, this case didn’t carry the importance for him that it carried for Donaghue. This was Donaghue’s case, through in and throughout. For Kraus to take the case over independently didn’t just feel foolish, it felt erroneous.

  Kraus hissed, “No.”

  “What?” Donaghue muttered. “What do you mean no?”

  “I mean no, just what it sounds like.”

  Kraus turned back towards the depths of the mineshaft and strained to bear the weight of his wounded colleague.

  “Doc …”

  “Listen, Pete,” Kraus interjected. “There’s only one person who can solve this case … should solve this case. You. Not me and certainly not Abernathe. You’ve been on this monster’s heels the whole time. If it weren’t for you, he’d still be comfortably ravaging Denver with no chance of capture. But he’s on the run, Pete. He knows you’re only a few steps behind him and it’s only a matter of time before you anticipate and thwart his next step.”

  “But my wound …”

  “Damn your wound! If Perry Grafton can survive a tamping rod through his head, Pete Donaghue can survive a moderate flesh wound.”

  Donaghue didn’t respond for several moments. Then finally, he grunted, “You’re right, Doc. Let’s get out of here.”

  As they inched their way slowly through the innards of the mine, Abernathe waited impatiently at the mouth with Clear Creek County Sheriff Carl Lusk and Deputy Sheriff Alfred Narr. Abernathe had no intention of actually caving the mine in, thus trapping the Ripper in a granite crypt. In order for the investigation to come to full fruition, he needed Donaghue alive so that a complete confession could be given. As was obvious to all of those involved, every piece of evidence connecting Donaghue was circumstantial. The knife found in Kraus’ apartment, although quite similar to the alleged murder weapon, could very well be an ordinary blade of no heinous history. It was possible that the preserved organs weren’t even human at all and until Abernathe knew for sure, he couldn’t count on the jars to convict Donaghue either. The personal connections of Donaghe to the victims were yet another circumstantial connection that could be applied to hundreds of men in the city. The victims were prostitutes, and at that time, a proclivity for prostitutes was as common as a proclivity for liquor or tobacco. But the evidence that linked Donaghue ever so perfectly, the only evidence that Abernathe really needed to convince himself, was his own intuition. The feeling in his guts told him that Donaghue was the Ripper even though it was the one piece of evidence that Abernathe could never prove. He needed something else. He needed that confession, and he knew that if he could just get
Donaghue shackled in an interrogation room, he could make him sing.

  “Donaghue!” Abernathe bellowed. “This is the final warning! Come out peacefully or die in this mine!” They waited for several moments, but no response came. Turning to Deputy Narr, he ordered, “Deputy, you enter as point man and the Sheriff and I will follow.”

  “Yes, Detective,” the stout deputy replied, drawing his weapon and creeping into the darkness.

  The sheriff drew his revolver next, proceeding within a few feet of his deputy. Abernathe waited until the outline of the sheriff was hardly visible before entering though. If the assault went haywire, Abernathe couldn’t afford to be taken out.

  The darkness was as impending as Abernathe recalled the first time and, save for the crunching of the deputy’s and sheriff’s cautious steps, he hadn’t a clue where his colleagues were. Every ten steps, Abernathe ordered them to halt, to listen ever so carefully for the slightest indication of Donaghue’s presence. A muffled breath. A groan. A wayward pebble punted by a boot toe. Anything that would betray the Ripper’s location. But each time, all they heard was the scuttling of an insect or the dripping of organically-filtered groundwater.

  Well within the bowels of the mine, Abernathe began to feel the air thinning again. His lungs labored and his heart raced with panic.

  “Stop,” he hissed at the others. “He can’t be much further. The air’s too thin.”

  “He could be,” the deputy whispered. “You’d be surprised what a man can survive.”

  “If I say the air’s too thin,” Abernathe snarled, “then the air’s too thin.”

  The deputy showed no fear of the once big city detective though. “You stay, Detective,” he muttered. “We’ll go.”

  And so the deputy’s and sheriff’s footsteps continued, the crunches growing fainter the deeper into the mine they went.

  Abernathe waited, the uncertainty of what was to transpire increasing his anxiety. Would it be the thuds of a hand-to-hand scuffle, the yells and groans of defeat, or the mortal eruption of a revolver? Abernathe knew not. He just waited, staring into the darkness as blind as ever before.