The Death in the Willows (22 page)

Lyon stretched out on the vacant twin bed and crossed his arms behind his head. “Pasic spent too much time and took too much risk on the theft of the computer reels … he was a meticulous and methodical man. He would have left us word where he hid them.”

“I think it died with him.”

“No,” Lyon said slowly. “I don't think it did. In fact, I think he left a map telling us exactly where to look.”

14

“WENTWORTH, WHAT IN HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!”

“You had better adjust your hear …”

“I CAN HEAR. I'M MAD! If you know the answers, tell us.”

“In due time, hon.” Lyon began to fold the maps neatly.

Bea turned toward Raven and Kim. “He's that way, you know. What are we going to do? I'll tell you what we're going to do. We're going to go along with him.”

“I'd like to know where we're going,” Raven said with his usual smile.

“Different places. Bea and I will go to Atlanta to pick up something, and Raven, if you'll drop Kim off in Orlando?”

“You want a trace on what Nick Pasic was doing there, how long he stayed, where, and so forth?”

“Right, if Raven doesn't mind helping?”

“Hell, no. This is great material. I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

“Okay, after you drop Kim off, meet us at the Holiday Inn in Bryson City, North Carolina.”

“Then you do think the reels are in Nantahala Gorge?”

“Our first problem is to get out of the hotel undetected. It's still possible that Hilly is watching us. I'm sure Attkins has others keeping us under scrutiny, and Croft MacKenzie and his men are also lurking around.”

“We could hold a convention.”

“Their sheer numbers will help us. I want Raven and Kim to leave the hotel by way of the balcony, climb down to the parking lot, and take the car Bea and I rented to Orlando.”

“They'll see it's not you before we're halfway there,” Raven said.

“Probably, but in the meantime we'll have time to get out a different way.”

“Sounds good,” Kim said. “Raven and I go over the balcony dressed in your clothes and take your car.”

“Exactly.”

“Just one thing,” the black woman said. “If we're going to do this, might I suggest that we do it at night? Otherwise, I have the feeling it's not going to work.”

Once they reached the outskirts of the city, Lyon stopped and made a phone call to Connecticut.

“You want it on the plane tonight,” Rocco grumpily acknowledged.

“Or first thing in the morning so that it arrives in Atlanta early.”

“I'll have to go through Pat.”

“Whatever you have to do, Rocco. It's important.”

It was daylight when they arrived in Atlanta and checked into a motel. They left a wake-up call for ten, and both fell onto the bed fully clothed and slept.

The phone awoke Bea. She thanked the operator for the call and shook Lyon.

He groaned and turned over. “Wake me in an hour.”

“We've got things to do.”

He sat up. “Right. I have some shopping to do before I get to the airport.”

“And I make phone calls,” she said as Lyon went into the bathroom to throw water on his face. “You think I should try the local colleges first?”

“I think that would be the best bet. I'll be back in two hours.”

As they drove toward northern Georgia, the red clay of the lowlands turned to the rolling hills heralding the beginning of the Appalachian Mountains. Bea drove, weaving past tractors on the shoulder of the road, while Lyon sat next to her, holding tightly to the package Rocco had sent air express.

She glanced at the package. “And that's the map in there?”

“I hope so.”

“And the stuff in the back seat?”

“A pack, canteen, nylon ropes, ice ax, pitons, flashlights.”

“We're going climbing?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“When was the last time you climbed rocks?”

“I had a course in the army once.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Then there was the time my balloon went down on Talcott mountain.”

“The rescue squad brought you down.”

“Well, my ankle was broken.”

“I hope this guy I called at the college is the man you want.”

“An assistant professor at North Georgia College in Dahlonaga, and he has the other qualifications?”

“So he claims.”

Assistant Professor of Geology Kai Nordstrom was a vague man. His small office was located in one of the older buildings on the campus. A large window ran the full length of the rock-cluttered room near a rolltop desk whose surface was covered with more rocks of all sizes and shapes and a pile of uncorrected student themes. He leaned back in the ancient swivel chair with his hands clasped behind his head and smiled at them.

“You're the Worthingtons, right? Tiger Worthington, funny name. I expected to see you drive up on a motorcycle or at least a skateboard. Suppose you're interested in North Georgia rocks. We have diamonds up here, did you know that? I can show you where to look, if you're interested. Or do you want to pan for gold? No money in it, but it's fun. Give me your map and I'll show you where to go, Mr. Worthington.”

Lyon shook the professor's hand. “Wentworth. Lyon Wentworth.”

“Well, I was fairly close.” He looked out the window and put his feet on the desk. “They shouldn't let girls wear such short-short shorts on campus. Disconcerting, very disconcerting. They tell me that if I got married, I wouldn't notice such things. What kind of rocks are you looking for?”

Bea had a strong sense of dèjá vu, and the feeling that perhaps her husband was not as unique as she had thought. She looked from Lyon to Nordstrom, and found that although the teacher was a few years younger, they were very similar in appearance. My God, the man didn't wear socks either.

“We're not looking for rocks,” Lyon said. “But I wonder, if you looked at this, could you tell me what it's a map of?” He unwrapped the package he had picked up earlier at the airport and handed Nordstrom the copy of
The Wobblies' Revenge
that he and Nick Pasic had inscribed for Mark.

The geologist looked at the book, puzzled, until Lyon opened it to the flypiece and the odd drawing below Pasic's inscription to his grandson:

“Uh huh,” the geologist mumbled.

“You are an officer of the National Speleological Society?”

“Yes, I am.” He examined the drawing again.

“If I mentioned the name Willows, Kentucky, would that help?”

“Oh, sure. The Willows. I've been in it.”

“Can you read the map for me?”

“You mean, tell you what the symbols mean?”

“Yes.”

“Sure.” He spread the book on the desk and his whole manner seemed to change. The distant quality that had struck Bea so forcibly when they entered disappeared as he bent over the carefully drawn cave map. He found a pair of dividers under the uncorrected papers, and calibrated various portions of the drawing. Standing, he went to a file drawer in the corner and pulled a larger drawing from the bottom drawer and spread it across the floor. He looked first at the larger drawing and then back to Pasic's smaller rendition.

“The small drawing in the book is a partial cave map, and my guess is that it's a passage in the Willows Cave. The approach is through an internal shaft from the main passage. That's this symbol.” He indicated the configuration
.

“This particular tunnel has a stream and siphon in it. This grouping here
indicates a rock fall. There are stalagmites, and on the other side of the siphon is a pillar on a ledge. This
x
mark near the pillar could mean anything.”

“You say an internal shaft. How deep is it?”

The professor examined the larger cave map. “Thirty feet, according to my elevations. Not a bad climb.”

“And the siphon, that means the stream goes under rock, but the passage enlarges on the other side? Can we get through that siphon?”

“Oh, sure. It's only about ten feet, and there's a ledge on the other side.”

“Could that
x
next to the pillar beyond the siphon mean someone hid something there?”

“It could mean anything whoever drew this map wanted it to mean.”

“Can I get to that spot?”

“Sure, if you were an experienced caver.”

“Could a neophyte make it?”

“I suppose, although a siphon is a scary thing for someone not used to them. You have to understand that the Willows is not a show cave.”

“Show cave?”

“One that's generally open to the public. Show caves like Monmouth, Carlsbad Caverns, and so forth, have tour guides, interior lighting, and paths. The Willows has only one known entrance, and that's on private property. It's not really a spectacular cave when you consider others in the area.”

“Then not many would enter it in a given year?”

“A dozen maybe. Fewer yet would go past the siphon. There's no real reason to go in the area marked on your map. As you can see, the stream widens out again, but then the passage stops. It's a dead end that would be of no real interest to a caver.”

“Would Pasic put the computer reels in a cave?” Bea asked.

“What better place than a location with a constant cool temperature? Mr. Nordstrom, could you give us directions as to how to find the location of that shaft?”

“I wouldn't recommend it.”

The man in the black Chevrolet, far down the road past the campus gates, yawned and lowered his high-powered binoculars. The glasses gave him a clear view of the Wentworths standing near a large window in the geology building. He imagined they'd leave soon in their car to wherever they were going.

The device he had attached under their car would allow him to stay back. Within a few-mile radius, the signal device would alert him if they veered from the road or changed direction. He yawned again. It would be a simple tail. He checked the road on either side. His eyes swept past a small boy on a big wheel toy and discounted any danger. He was careful, always careful, and that had allowed him to survive.

“Why do you want to go into the Willows, son?” The old man rocked slowly on the porch. His face was grizzled and the overalls were spotted, but his eyes were clear and inquiring.

Lyon stood before the porch with one foot on the bottom step. “We're looking for something, Mr. Bartram.”

“My brother died in the Willows. Did that professor tell you that?”

“No, sir. He didn't.”

“Yep. Back in '08. He was playing in there, and he ran back from the entrance and fell down one of them holes and broke his neck. My Pap put rocks in the entrance, and for twenty years no one went in the Willows.”

“It's very important to us, Mr. Bartram.”

“It's your neck. The professor tell you the price?”

“I brought it with me.” He handed a paper bag to the outstretched hands of the old man. The thin fingers lifted the bottle of bourbon by the neck. He squinted at the label.