Part 15 (1/2)

”No sir. The sink is stabilized for the moment. Obviously that's not going to last. I got some film on it, taking some readings with sonar. But, well...” The old man took Don's elbow and drew him aside from the vacuously stricken Ring and Burton who hung back near the longhouse, smiling his strange, devious smile and rolling a cigarette. ”Sir, I was given to understand this is a feasibility study. We're looking for copper, gold, natural gas.”

”That's my understanding as well,” Don said.

”Okay, I'm game. No boat rocker. That said, you're a consultant. You aren't AstraCorp to the bone, am I right?”

”Where is this going?”

”I'm saying that if you're playing straight with me, then somebody on high is keeping information from us. I recognize Ring. He's famous. That physicist, Noonan, he ain't a slouch either. Ask yourself why the company needs a physicist on this job.”

”Their business is their own. I'm also wondering why it's anything to you.”

”It's on my mind because this hole isn't correct. You and I both can see that. The numbers are screwy.” Ordbecker turned to regard the chasm. It ran along level ground for roughly seventy-five meters and dug into the flank of the hillside, a low mountain, gradually narrowing to a fissure before it disappeared among the underbrush. ”What happened to Noonan is screwy too. Then there's the cave.”

”I hadn't heard of a cave.”

”See, that's what I mean. We're mushrooms-keep us in the dark and feed us s.h.i.+t. Yep, yep, a cave just yonder in the heavy brush. Whoever built this place excavated the entrance of the cavern. Can't see why-no evidence of mining. There's a honeycomb under this mountain. A whole system, completely undoc.u.mented, unrecorded, maybe unexplored. Although, I ain't sure I'd bet the house on that last part.”

Ahh, why did he have to say that? Don regarded the great trees and steep foothills. Birds chirped, water chuckled, and that was it. The sun tried to burn through the clouds and created that flat light that always gave him a headache if he didn't wear sungla.s.ses, and of course he'd forgotten to pack them. ”With due respect, if there was a system around here it'd be in the books.”

Ordbecker gave him a cynical smile, then lowered his voice even further and said, ”Look, it's probably nothing. I checked the sink for gas, and it's real baseline methane venting. No radiation. Deep, though. I pinged two hundred meters and didn't hit bottom.”

”Equipment malfunction. Gotta be.”

”The crevice widens to the point there's...nothing. It's registering as an abyss. I'm hoping it's a glitch.” The old man's eyes glittered with what Don finally recognized as fear.

Don said, ”Okay. Leave it there for the moment. You check inside any of these structures?”

”h.e.l.l no. Mr. Ring can have that pleasure. Bet he doesn't find much. Fire burnt everything to a crisp from what I can tell.” Ordbecker spit and stuck his hands into his pockets. ”Got the feeling it's for the best, too.”

Don thanked the surveyor and approached the near end of the creva.s.se. He'd disposed with thinking of the phenomenon as anything so mundane as a sinkhole the moment he'd seen it from the chopper. A creva.s.se, or if Ordbecker's readings were correct, an abyss. He stood at the rim where soil and rock crumbled into a gulf and eyed the striations and demarcations in the exposed substrata. A breath of subterranean air riffled his sleeve. It was dank and strong and cold. Faint metallic groans were carried on the breeze. He retreated several steps and called to Ordbecker. When the surveyor hustled over Don said, ”Did you hear anything down there?”

”No sir.”

”There's movement below. Major s.h.i.+fting. Stay the h.e.l.l away from this thing.”

”I won't argue with you.”

”Pack your gear. We can squeeze you on the chopper.”

Ordbecker laughed. ”I don't think so.”

”Okay, take my seat. I need to hike to the station and try to coax Noonan down from his tree. You know anything about the man? Is he a drinker? Seem like a loon? Beyond the obvious, that is.”

”Real pleasant fellow. Eager beaver. He was all over that sink. I had to drag him into camp for supper after it got dark. He stayed up by the fire for hours, going over some papers and a manual by flashlight. Next morning started fine, then around lunchtime he disappeared into the cave I told you about. I followed him for a few yards. Too spooky a situation, what with no supplies and n.o.body topside to come after us right away, so I retreated. Couldn't raise base camp on the horn due to interference. After maybe five hours I was getting a mite panicky. Noonan sort of stumbled from the cave. He didn't seem right. He turned and wandered up the mountain. Later, I managed to contact Smelser and he came and tracked our boy to the station. Couldn't make any progress, couldn't even get him to talk.”

Don noticed that Burton was watching them just out of earshot, grinning broadly now as he braced one boot atop a stump. What the devil is wrong with his face? Don had seen a few victims of cave-ins and fires and strokes, and the pilot's soft and drooping visage was similar, yet completely different. The skin fit like a bad mask. Syphilis? Syphilis could do it. Or St. Vitus's dance...Or leprosy. Does this guy have leprosy? Does leprosy make your face look like it's going to slide off at any second? Maybe he's not grinning and giving me the evil eye. Maybe his face is just screwed beyond repair.

Bronson Ford whispered, They took his skin and wore it for a while.

Don tried to remember when and where Bronson Ford had uttered such a cryptic line, and failed. ”I get the picture, Mr. Ordbecker. Go on, then.” He whistled to Burton and walked over and explained that the man was to return Ordbecker and Ring to base camp at once.

Ring overheard the conversation from where he'd knelt to take pictures of the charred and fallen center-beam of the longhouse. ”Hold on a dang second there, Miller. We just got here.”

”I'm aware of how long we've been here. Stuff your camera and get your b.u.t.t back on the chopper. That's not a request.” Don kept his tone bland, but he secretly enjoyed Ring's shocked expression. Guys like Ring only respected brute force; to reason with them was to exhibit weakness. ”You've got enough shots to get started. Pick a team, return to the site tomorrow.” And as the archeologist took a breath to protest, Don finished with, ”This is my call. In matters pertaining to company safety policy, I'm G.o.d. Want my head on a stick, file a report.”

Ring stood and marched past Don toward the helicopter, jaw hard, brows furrowed. Ordbecker covered his smirk with a cough.

Burton said through his lazy grin, ”What about you, G.o.d? Going up the hill to pay your respects?”

”Give me two hours,” Don said. He checked the map he'd borrowed from Smelser, which showed the ranger station-the village had been penciled recently. He tucked in his s.h.i.+rt, nodded curtly to the pilot and the surveyor, and set forth, past the outskirts of the ruins, into the forest, up the flank of sleepy, lovely Mystery Mountain...

The Bobcat Peak Ranger Station loomed atop the crown of a bluff, forebodingly gothic; a medieval watchtower accessible solely by a vertical wooden ladder that ascended to a trapdoor. Its darkened ring of turret-like windows overlooked miles of wilderness. The station was a forest sentinel, weathered and battered by the many storms it had suffered over the decades, mute and grim and implacable.

A house of secrets. Don wiped the sweat from his brow with a bandanna. He cupped his hands to his mouth and called Noonan's name, listened to his voice boom from gullies and boulders until it became that of a stranger's and was lost. A carpet of fir needles lay underfoot, and beneath the tower proper were several dusty crates and a stack of gray and wasted firewood. This outpost obviously didn't see much action. Probably received an annual inspection and was staffed for a couple of weeks if the weather was dry, or was used as a staging platform for search and rescue operations. Otherwise, deserted as a tomb...

In a way he was relieved to receive no answer as his disgruntled determination had withered a bit in the face of the hike, the remoteness, and the gloomy menace of the station itself. Either Noonan had moved on (the guy had to return to camp sooner or later, or hike to a trailhead unless he wanted to starve), or he wasn't in the mood for visitors. Don didn't plan on attempting to force his way in either. So, duty dispensed, he tucked the bandanna into his s.h.i.+rt and turned to leave. The trapdoor creaked and dropped open, revealing a black rectangle.

”Hi, Don. Come on up. Tea's on.” A man's voice, and familiar, though distorted by the acoustics of the building and the encroaching trees.

Don cursed his luck. He hesitated as the reality of his predicament crashed over him in a sea-cold wave. Was he really planning to blithely traipse his way into the lion's den? The scientist could be a lunatic, given the way he'd abandoned his work. Could be waiting to brain Don as he came through the door. ”No thanks, doc. Why don't you come down? Chopper will be swinging back around. Everybody's worried about you.”

Silence extended for a long, drawn moment. The hidden man chuckled, and again the familiarity of it chafed and aggravated. ”Best scamper up here, old son. If not...”

”Or what?” Don wished he'd brought the revolver he kept stashed in the footlocker in the garage. A brute, heavy weapon that he didn't recall the model or make, a gun he'd fired once at the range in Poger Rock, then replaced in the case and forgotten. It would've felt comforting hanging from his belt right then.

”I've got something very important to tell you. It's about Mich.e.l.le.”

Don's belly tightened. Was that even Noonan? That d.a.m.nably familiar voice... ”Who the h.e.l.l are you? Show your face!”

The man chuckled again. ”Come on. You aren't safe down there. The children keep pets in the trees. The critters come out of the woodwork at night. Gonna be dark soon.”

Don glanced around, then at his watch which was still behaving erratically. He estimated it was around 11 A.M., surely no later than 11:30. ”Hey, Noonan!” No answer this time, no chuckling, just the door, the black rectangle. He didn't know what to think except that whoever was inside, whether it be Noonan or whomever, knew something about Mich.e.l.le. Everybody did, it seemed. Baby, I've had it. We're having a little talk when you get home. He sighed, felt in his jacket for the folding knife he always carried while hiking. It was proceed or turn tail and wait for Burton in the clearing. Charging headfirst into what was potentially a dangerous situation bothered him less than spending more time with the creepy pilot.

He mounted the ladder and climbed at a measured but swift pace the three stories to the hatch and ducked through. The interior of the station was gloomy. To his immediate left were several more crates similar to those stacked below the platform; in the center of the circular chamber were tables and wooden chairs and a bank of equipment that included a shortwave radio set, reel-to-reel recording machinery, a seismograph, and a telescope mounted on a complicated dolly. The air smelled of must, mothb.a.l.l.s, and peppermint. A camp stove hissed upon one of the tables, and a pot of water emitted curls of steam.

The windows were shuttered except for a bank with an eastern exposure whence filtered dull hazy light. A man stood silhouetted against that bank of windows. He said, ”Glad you could make it, Don.” Barry Rourke's voice, clear now that the men were in proximity.

”Barry. What are you doing here?”

”Waiting for you.” Rourke was pale, his eyes sunken. ”And you are here because I called you here.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and slouched over to the bubbling kettle. His back to Don, he took a pair of mugs from a cabinet and poured from the kettle.

”Did you say there are children here? Pets?”

”Yes, yes-actually servitor is closer to the mark than pet. Heh, as guard dog is to poodle, or minnow to shark. The Crawlers, the Limbless Ones; call 'em what you will, you don't want to meet one. Stay near me, you'll do okay.”

”I think you'd better start from the beginning,” Don said. He'd recovered from the scramble to the ridgeline and the subsequent climbing of the ladder, but now his breath came short and heavy and sweat soaked his s.h.i.+rt. He took a breath and considered his options. Obviously the man had cracked under the pressure. Likely things weren't rosy at the Rourke mansion; maybe he had a gambling debt or was being blackmailed by a lover. The possibilities were endless. Whatever the cause, it didn't require a medical degree to a.s.sess Barry Rourke as a mental case.

”Ask me anything,” Rourke said. ”I'm the answer man, tonight only.”

Don said, ”Are you in trouble? It occurs to me after the government spooks and all the secrecy surrounding this project that AstraCorp is pulling the wool over someone's eyes. I've seen these kinds of shenanigans. People cutting through the red tape any way possible. Are you trying to screw the BLM? Did you find native burial grounds and can't decide whether to hide the fact? It's only money.”