Fatalis (3 page)

"When you were eight?"

"When I was eight."

"Man. No wonder you're burned out now. Gave the Chumash spirits all your life essence. Me? I used to borrow my older brother's dog tags, grab my Daisy rifle and a backpack full of provisions like jerky and Twinkies, and I'd be on a mission in Europe. I had this Clint Eastwood,
Where Eagles Dare
, thing going. Storm the mountain fortress. The scuzzier the weather, the happier-"

"Shit!" Greene stopped and shined his flashlight ahead.

Roche stopped abruptly beside him and echoed the remark. Both engineers stood staring for a long moment.

About fifteen feet in front of them the left side of the road seemed to sag in. The sides of the depression were smooth and mushy. They reminded Greene of paper towels that had been run under a faucet in a TV commercial. Torn and ragged in the center and sagging around the edges. Mist swirled from the sides as damp, cool air mixed with the warming air.

"That's a big goddamned sinkhole," Roche said. "Either that or a small volcano. You sure the deputy said it was a one-footer?"

"Yeah," Greene replied.

Greene picked up a long tree branch that was lying in the shallow ditch between the mountain and the road. He didn't take a step without first jabbing the fat end of the branch straight down into the road. Earth around a sinkhole could be like quicksand, especially if the underlying rock had collapsed. That was a definite possibility in this area. On the drive up Roche had checked California Institute of Technology geological charts using the van computer. This section of the mountains sat on a confluence of fault zones: the Mesa-Rincon Creek, Santa Ynez, Mission Ridge, Arroyo Parida, and Santa Ana. The region could be laced with fissures large and small and it wouldn't surprise Greene if the weeks of rain had tapped into one. The potential volatility of the region was one reason the United States Geological Survey and the National Science Foundation were spending millions of dollars to study it, both on the ground and by satellite. What worried Greene was how much of the road might be in danger of falling in.

The ground approaching the sinkhole was stable and it took the men less than a minute to reach the rim. The opening was about six feet across, half of it on the road and half of it in the ditch. Dirt from the road was washing in with the rain and the smell that hung above the pit was awful, like a freshly opened cesspool. Exposed roots and the edges of slablike rocks jutted from the mountain and ravine sides. The stratum beneath had obviously collapsed and the dirt had been washed into the hole. There were about four feet of road to the right where the treadmarks of the black-and-white patrol car were still visible.

"The treads are right at the edge but the driver didn't have to swerve to avoid it," Greene pointed out.

"The sinkhole's getting bigger fast," Roche said.

Greene nodded.

"I'd better set out flares," Roche said. He turned and walked up the road, to the west. There would be more traffic coming down the mountain than going up at this time of day.

Cautiously, Greene moved closer to the sinkhole. As he neared the edge the ground felt like foam rubber, it was that saturated. The engineer could hear rocks coming loose underneath, possibly pieces from other cracked sections of bedrock. With nowhere to go, rainwater would have been pushed into existing fractures of the natural roadbed, stressing and expanding them. Daily traffic destroyed the remaining structural integrity. What Greene needed to know was how much of the road was in danger of collapsing. The hole beneath the bedrock might have been an isolated one caused by centuries of runoff from the mountain to the ravine.

Greene carefully knelt and leaned over the rim. The rocks of the roadbed had cracked and fallen about three feet. They were covered with dirt that was still washing in from all four sides. Greene ran his light across the edges of fallen rock. Each slab was about four inches thick.

As he knelt there more tiny pieces became dislodged and fell. Greene lay on his belly to distribute his weight over a wider area. He poked his head and the flashlight into the sinkhole and looked at the sides. The hole continued to the east and west, directly under the road.

"That's just great," he said.

Roche's workboots slapped on the mud behind him. "What's wrong?"

"Don't come over," Greene said. He looked back. Light from the flares had turned the world around them a dull, flickering red. "We've got a fissure."

"A big one?"

"I can't tell," Greene said. "Set out the rest of the flares, then call Chelmow and let her know what we've found. Tell her that until we know how far the fissure follows the road, this section should be closed. I also suggest that she get a geologist up here."

"Right," Roche said. He circled the sinkhole wide, walking along the ravine among the ferns and ivy. Then he jogged back to the van.

Greene lay down again and stuck his head back in the opening. He turned to the side to try and see deeper along the fissure. As he ran his flashlight along the mountainside wall, he heard a faint echoing cry from the fissure.

"What the hell?"

Roche stopped and looked back. "Did you say something?"

Greene shushed him with his hand and listened. After a few seconds he heard the cry again, louder than before.

"Christ," Greene muttered. He sat up on his knees and quickly slipped off his backpack.

"What's wrong?" Roche shouted.

"I hear crying down there."

"You hear what?"

"Crying!"

"Like a baby?"

"No," Greene said. "Like someone might be hurt."

The engineer hoped that an early-morning jogger or a dog-walker or teenagers who'd camped out in a cave hadn't taken a tumble into the sinkhole. He hadn't seen any footprints around it, but then they wouldn't have been as deep as the tire treads. The rain might have erased them.

Greene slid his legs around so that he was sitting on the soft edge of the sinkhole.

"Whoa there! What are you doing?" Roche asked.

"Going down," Greene said.

"Stan, no."

"It's okay," Greene told him.

"Stan-"

"Listen to me," Greene said. "I don't think any more of the road is about to fall in-"

"But you don't know that."

"It'll be okay."

"Famous second-to-last words," Roche said. "They're the ones that come right before, 'Oh, fuck!' Anyway, whatever's down there may not be a 'someone.' It could be a dog or that bobcat the deputy never found."

"It could be," Greene admitted. "So?"

"If it is an animal and it's hurt-"

"I know," Greene said. "It'll be really pissed off. But it could also be somebody's kid."

"Yeah. There's that."

"I'll be careful. Give me a radio check, then set out the damn flares and call Chelmow. Stay there in case I need you to tell her anything."

"Stan-"

"Just do it, okay?"

Greene removed the two-way radio from his backpack. He slipped his hand through the strap on the waterproof carrying case, then switched it on.

"Roche to Greene."

"I read you," Greene replied. "Stay tuned."

"I'm not going anywhere," Roche said. "But I want to say one more time that I think this is a stupid idea."

"Noted," Greene said.

Armed with the radio and flashlight, he saluted his partner back at the van and slid over the side. Landing on the rocks below, Greene lost his footing as well as the flashlight.

"Stan?" Roche cried. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Greene said. "I tripped."

"Damn it, this isn't what we came out here for-"

"I said I'm fine," Greene insisted. "Just give me a second to get back on my feet."

As he was pushing himself off the rocks he heard the cry again.

"Bill, did the radio pick that up?"

"Yes," Roche said. "But it sounded like the wind."

"It wasn't," Greene said. "It definitely wasn't." He wiped his hand on his pants and retrieved the flashlight. "It came from the western side of the fissure. I'm going to check it out."

The engineer turned slowly. Behind him, the roof of the fissure was only five feet high. He had to stoop in order to move inside. He was glad he wasn't claustrophobic. The mountain was just a foot to his left. It sloped toward him, forming the floor of the fissure. Two feet to the right was the inside of the ravine, with its snarl of roots, rocks, and worms.

He shined his light around. There was about seven feet of tunnel in front of him. After that it turned to the south, into the mountainside.

"Shit."

"What's wrong?" Roche asked.

"There's no one here."

"I told you," Roche said. "Now come on out. I just talked to Chelmow. She's sending a repair crew and a rock hound. They should be here in forty-five minutes."

"But I don't understand," Greene said. "I heard it."

"It was the goddamn wind-"

"And I'm telling you it wasn't!" Greene barked. He winced as bits of dirt and stone fell from the roof of the fissure, pelting his cap. He had to remember not to yell like that.Loud noises could bring down weakened pieces of roadway.

Just then, he heard the sound again.

"There it is," Greene said quietly. "It's definitely a cry. It's coming from around the turn in the fissure, just a few feet away." Crouching, Greene took small, shuffling steps toward me dark curve ahead.

"Stan, please," Roche said. "You're an engineer, not a spelunker. Wait for the damn rock hound!"

"No," Greene whispered, "I'm already down here. I'm just going in a little deeper." It was surprisingly muggy as he moved further from the sinkhole, especially since the opening had been relatively cool. And it smelled exponentially worse inside than it did outside. On top of that, Greene's pants were wet and uncomfortable, his backside was sore from the fall, and rainwater was dripping from his poncho into the tops of his boots and soaking his socks. Windy bridges and prickling sea spray were starting to glow brighter in his memory. But there was no way he could turn his back on someone who might be injured.

Greene had the flashlight in his right hand and the silent radio in his left. He reached the opening in the mountainside and rounded the corner. He shined the light inside.

"I'll be fucked," be whispered.

"What?" Roche said.

Before Greene could answer he felt a sharp, merciless pain along his upper torso. It shot from shoulder to shoulder and from the base of his skull to the small of his back. He screamed but be couldn't breathe, so there was no sound. His hands opened up and then his arms went limp. For an instant he felt extremely heavy and
then
he felt nothing at all.

He was dead before the flashlight hit the floor.

Roche beard the
clunk
of the radio followed by silence. It wasn't the open silence of someone being quiet but the solid silence of a radio that was no longer broadcasting.

"Aw hell, Stan," he said to himself. "What'd you do?"

Roche was standing by the driver's seat of the van. The engine was running, the door was open, and the radio was on. Roche had poured himself coffee from a thermos and was sipping it as he stood tapping his foot anxiously and listening to his partner.

Roche informed Marcy Chelmow that Greene's portable radio had died and that he was leaving the van to investigate. He kept the portable radio in case it came back on. Then, snatching his flashlight from the passenger's seat, he jogged up the road. The hard drizzle was more relentless than before, making the road even muddier. At least it was brighter now as the sun rose behind the clouds, turning the black hills deep brown.

The engineer slowed when he neared the weakened area of the sinkhole. He called Stan's name.

There was no answer. He moved closer.

He listened. There was silence. He was willing to bet that Stan had been so anxious to reach whatever was down there that he'd hit his head or else slipped and fell.

"Stan, if you can hear me, moan or bang a rock or do something," Roche shouted down.

He listened hopefully but Greene didn't respond. He was going to have to go down.

Something cracked to his left He turned as several large rocks tumbled down the side of the mountain. He shined the beam up the mottled, moss-covered rock. He thought he saw something move on a ledge about twenty-five feet up, behind a row of ferns. Still holding the radio in case Greene tried to reach him, Roche used the back of his left hand as an extension of his baseball cap. He shielded his eyes from the rain.

Almost at once, Roche felt something strike his right side, just above the waist It was a hard, solid blow, as though he'd been whacked with a baseball bat. The engineer lost his radio and his breath as he staggered to the left. His right arm went numb and the flashlight seemed to vanish. When he tried to breathe pain ripped through his side, as though every rib were shattered. Wincing and gasping through his teeth, he turned to the right.

In the early morning darkness all Roche could see were two pale white lights, like twin moons glowing behind a thick haze. The lights were hip-high and about two feet away. He tried to reach out to them but while he could feel his right arm he couldn't move it. His first thought was that whatever hit him had broken it Then he looked down. He saw blood pumping onto the road. He reached over with his left hand.

The blood was coming from his shoulder. Roche's fingers moved up his side.

"Oh, no. No."

Roche couldn't find his arm. It was gone. His torso began shivering violently and his vision started to swim. Then something struck the engineer from the left. It came from above, hitting his head and snapping his neck. The back of his head hit his right shoulder blade. He died instantly.