City of the Lost (28 page)

“If you tell me he wouldn’t want to meet me, I’d never try.”

His voice dips with his chin, as if in apology. “I know. Thank you.”

Exploring today’s cave is not like walking hunched over through Brent’s cavern. It’s shimmying on my stomach through passages so narrow I’m sure I’ll never get to the other side. It’s shivering against a bitter and damp cold that gnaws at my bones. It’s filthy, wet jeans that have burst at the knee, and I’m pretty sure I feel blood trickling down my leg. And the smell. God, the smell. Of cold, and of death. When I put my hand down and feel stones crackling under my fingers, I shine my headlamp on them to see they’re actually bones from some tiny creature. There’s another smell, too. Guano. Better known as bat shit.

It’s cold and it’s wet and it stinks and it’s absolutely filthy. And I love it. Every time I squeeze through a tight passage, there’s a moment of animal panic, where my shoulders or hips catch and I’m sure I’ll be trapped in there forever. Then I make it through, and the relief … God, the relief. A shuddering, shivering relief that amuses the hell out of the others.

“Uh, you do understand the basic laws of mass, right?” Anders mock-whispers after I breathe that sigh of relief on surviving another chute. “If I go through first, there’s no way in hell
you
can get stuck.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He grins and then peers at me, tilting his headlamp down into my face. “Hold on. You’ve got bat shit on your face.” He leans in and wipes his thumb across my cheek. “There.”

“Gone?”

“No, I was just putting a matching streak on the other side.”

I smack his arm. Beside us, Mick gives a soft chuckle before he moves on. Anders keeps grinning down at me, and I look up at him, and I think,
Maybe
.

Maybe I’m missing an opportunity here. I probably am. I look at him, and that grin, and it’s not because he’s gorgeous or sweet or funny or kind. It’s this feeling that there’s more to him. Something that resonates with me at gut level.

“Are we moving or freezing to death?” Dalton says.

Anders waves for him to lead the way. We squeeze through another tight passage. Then we gather in a cavern. As we start heading out, Anders catches my arm and says, “Hold on.”

“More bat shit on my face?”

He smiles. “Lots. It’s adorable.” Then he calls to the others. “I’m taking Casey into the Dark Cavern. I want to show her something.”

“Uh-huh,” Petra says. “Given it’s the
Dark
Cavern, I’m pretty sure she’s not going to be able to see whatever it might be.”

He shoots her the finger, and she laughs and says, “Go on, kids. Catch up with us in the Cathedral. There’s something there that I want to show Casey. And don’t worry, I’m sure it’s not the same thing.”

A round of chuckles for that. Dalton doesn’t join in. He’s peering down the dark passage that Anders is tugging me toward.

“We shouldn’t split up,” he says. “If you want to take Casey to the cavern, we should all—”

“It’s too small. I’ve got this, boss. I can’t track for shit, but my sense of direction is impeccable. We’ll meet you in the Cathedral.”

He motions me along before Dalton can argue. We crawl through two passages and end up in a small cavern.

“It’s dark,” I say.

He laughs. “Hence the name. The passages are switchbacks, so any illumination from out there doesn’t get in here. Which is what I want to show you. Something you aren’t likely to ever see outside a cave. Turn off your light.”

I twist the headlamp on my helmet. He does the same, and when the lights go out …

“Wow. That’s…” I begin.

“Dark?” He chuckles. “Absolute darkness. Not a single pinpoint of light. Now, if the others are far enough away, and I stop talking for once…”

He does, and the silence falls, as absolute as the darkness, and suddenly I’m alone. Absolutely alone in the dark. Every outside stimulus vanishes and there’s nothing except me in the darkness and the silence.

I swear I can hear my thoughts. All my thoughts. And it’s horribly uncomfortable, and I want to switch on the light and say something and shove that aside. But the feeling passes in a few panicked heartbeats, and then … and then it’s indescribable.

This is what I’ve been looking for in all those therapy sessions. Not a chance to tell someone my story. A chance to be alone with it. Utterly alone with it, and maybe that makes no sense, but it’s what I feel. Just me and that one defining moment in my past.

Grief and rage and pain and guilt and clarity. Yes, clarity.

After a few minutes, Anders’s leg brushes mine, and he whispers, “You okay?”

I nod, only to realize that’s pointless and say, “I am.”

“I’ll tell you a deep, dark secret,” he says, and then chuckles. “In an appropriately deep, dark location. I come here sometimes. Alone. If Eric found out, he’d skin me. But … It’s just…” He exhales, his breath hissing in the dark. “Sometimes I need a break from being good ol’ cheerful Will Anders. This is where I find it.”

I don’t know what
to
say.

He continues. “I can be that guy. Most times I
am
that guy. But … not always. Shit, you know. The past. Mistakes. The stuff that doesn’t let you really be what others expect you to be. What they need you to be.”

“Yes.”
I understand perfectly.

He squeezes my knee. Nothing flirtatious. Just a squeeze that says, maybe, he knows that I do understand. I don’t know why Anders is in Rockton. It’s not something most people share, but I say, “The war?”

“Yeah.”

“If you ever want to talk…”

Another squeeze. “Thanks. Maybe. Someday. For now, this works.”

“All right.” I understand that, too.

“If you ever want to come out here with me…” he says.

“I’d like that.”

“Good.”

We sit in silence. Then I peel off my glove and find his hand, and it’s the same as his squeeze on my knee. Comfort and reassurance and a wordless understanding that there is always darkness. In some part of us, there is absolute darkness, as much as we wish otherwise. As much as we pretend otherwise.

Anders shifts closer, his jeans whispering against the rock. He’s still holding my hand, and I feel him there, beside me, hear his breathing, and I think …

I want to be like Diana and throw caution to the wind and embrace this new freedom. But I can’t. I’m still me. Logical Casey. Rational Casey. Cautious Casey. A-little-bit-scared Casey. I cannot turn off my brain, close my eyes, and jump.

A scraping and thumping in the passage breaks the silence. Anders sighs and drops my hand.

“Hello, Eric. Were we gone five seconds longer than anticipated?”

“More like five minutes.” Dalton’s headlamp floods the cavern with light as we flick ours on.

“God forbid,” Anders mutters.

“I got worried.”

“That what? We’d been devoured by cave bears?”

“We need to get back before dark, and Petra still wants to show Casey something.”

Another deep sigh, and Anders moves into the lead. As he passes Dalton, he murmurs, “Thanks, boss. I
was
worried. Those cave bears, you know. Dangerous and unpredictable.”

Dalton grunts and motions for me to follow Anders out.

What Petra wants to show me is a chute leading off a huge cavern known as the Cathedral.

“It seems too tight for the guys, so they won’t risk it,” she says. “I fit, but you know Eric—either we stay within sight or we need a buddy.”

“Cave bears,” Anders says.

“Basic safety,” Dalton says. He turns to me. “If you want to try the chute, go ahead. If Petra fits, you definitely will.”

“Thanks,” Petra says.

He ignores her. “But it’s up to you. As always.”

I stick my head into the chute. It’s called that because it goes, well, down. Like a laundry chute. I can’t even see what’s at the bottom.

“It looks like a small cavern,” Petra says. “With branching passages. We won’t go far, but it would be nice to map a little more.”

When I put my head in farther, my chest constricts, as if I can feel the walls pressing in. It looks impossible to fit through. But while Dalton may have been a little impolitic in pointing it out, Petra is bigger than me. Bigger bust. Bigger hips. If she can get through, I can.

“Let’s do it,” I say.

She lets out a whoop and taunts the guys. Then she goes through, headfirst. I wait until she calls, “In!” and then it’s my turn. Mick crouches and gives me a few tips for the tighter passages. He’s barely said a full sentence during the trip—he’s not exactly a chatty guy—but he takes the time to be helpful, and I appreciate that.

The first section is easy. Then the chute angles slightly, and this is the “squeeze”—the part that keeps the guys out. I wriggle my head and shoulders through. Then my hips get stuck and my breathing picks up, as I see that now-familiar image of me trapped forever in a chute. I can hear Mick’s voice, as if he’s whispering in my ear.

If Petra got through, so can you. Once your shoulders make it, the rest is fine. Relax and wriggle and be patient. Back out if you have to, but remember that’ll be harder than going straight on.

I’m finally through. It may be a chute, but it has enough of an angle that I don’t tumble out headfirst. When I see the end coming, I put out my arms, and it’s like sliding into home base. Very, very slowly sliding … as I propel myself with my knees and feet and hips. Apparently this looks hilarious. Or so Petra’s peals of laughter suggest as I finally touch down.

“You make it look so much tougher than it is, Casey,” she says as I get up. “I really wish I had my sketch pad.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I brush off my knees. Which is a mistake, because I definitely have sliced one open and I only rub dirt into the cut.

I look up to see I’m crouched in a small cavern.

“Check this out,” Petra says, waving her headlamp at an alcove to the side. Inside, there are what I’ve come to know as soda straws—baby stalactites.

“Ten minutes,” Dalton calls down the chute. “I’m timing it.”

“I forgot my watch,” I call back. “If we’re late, just come down and get us.”

Petra snickers. Dalton says something I don’t catch. I won’t give him grief. I check my watch—yes, I’m wearing it—and make a mental note of our deadline.

“Which way first?” I ask Petra.

There are three options. She bends to check the narrowest and declares it
too
narrow. I move to the biggest of the three. It’s almost a straight drop, but wide enough to go feet first. When I shine my headlamp down, I can see the bottom, less than ten feet below, and the walls are rough and angled enough to climb back up.

“Can I go first?” I ask.

She grins. “Getting into the explorer spirit?”

“I am. Also, I’m the one with the gun because, you know, cave bears.”

“Of course. The chute is yours. Virgin territory awaits.”

I slide down. The wider passage actually makes it a little tougher, because I can’t just leap down the chute or I’d bang myself all to hell. I use my arms and legs as braces and find foot-and handholds and slowly lower myself until I’m in the cavern. Then I drop the last few feet.

The cavern ceiling is only about three feet off the ground. Which means I have to wriggle down until I’m crouching. My helmet finally comes out of the chute and my light shines on …

An arm.

I’m staring at a human arm.

There’s a moment where my brain says no. Just no. In the past two weeks, I’ve seen severed legs, a skull, and an intestine nailed to a tree. This just isn’t possible. It’s too much. I must be seeing a weirdly shaped stone or a bleached-out branch, and after so many damn body parts, I mistake it for an arm.

But that’s not the answer. I wish it was. God, I really fucking wish it was, because when I see that arm—the light-brown skin, the slim fingers, the nails with chipping purple polish … I know who it is: the girl who celebrated her twenty-first birthday two months ago. Who went missing a few days later.

Abbygail Kemp.

“Casey?” Petra calls.

“Don’t—!” I begin, but she’s already coming down, legs through the chute, and I call, “Hold on!” but she doesn’t hear me. She bends, and she looks my way and she sees the first thing I did and she screams.

It’s a horror-movie scream. As soon as I hear it, I know there’s trauma in Petra’s background, something terrible. I grab her shoulders and turn her away and talk to her, calming her down as she presses her hand to her mouth and squeezes her eyes shut.

“Butler!” Dalton shouts, his voice echoing through the cavern. “Casey!”

“We’re fine!” I yell back, but he just shouts again, obviously not hearing me, having only caught that terrible scream. I gently move Petra aside, crawl into the chute, stand, and yell again, but there’s no response.

I duck down and look at Petra, crouching and breathing deeply. Then I look up the chute, and I curse. I’ve got a freaked-out boss and a freaked-out friend, and there’s a cavern and two passages between them. I can’t leave Petra. Can’t leave the crime scene.

Rocks scrabble overheard as if someone is trying to make it through that narrow chute.

“We’re fine!” I shout. “Just hold on!”

“Go,” Petra whispers. “It’s Eric. Stop him before he gets stuck.”

I try yelling again. It does no good. He’s coming down, and Petra’s right: he’s going to get his damned self stuck. I tell her I’ll be right back, and I scramble up the chute, making it into the other cavern at the same time Dalton comes through the first passage. His jeans are ripped. He’s stripped off his jacket and is wearing only a T-shirt, his arms scraped and bloody.

“Goddamn it,” I say, but I mutter it under my breath. The guy heard a scream and came running, slicing himself up in the process. I can’t really fault him for that, can I?

“It’s okay,” I say. “I tried to tell you—”

“You’re all right?” he says, his breath coming hard, adrenalin setting his blood racing so hard I can see it pulsing in his neck. “Someone screamed.”

“Petra. She’s fine. She’s down there. I was, too, but came back up. We…” I hesitate. Shit, how do I say this? I can’t just blurt—

“Butler?” he says. Then, when I don’t answer, he steps toward me, his hand going to my elbow to steady me. “Casey? What’s wrong?”