The Promise (40 page)

"Bitch." She had no idea who the word was meant for,
and frankly she didn't care. Her time was running out. Her flailing
arms hit something. Something cold, metallic. The candle-holder.
Her fingers closed around it, even as bright points of light began
to dance before her eyes. With a last burst of energy, she brought
the iron stake down with all the force she could muster.

Owen screamed, as the sharp metal glanced off of his
cheek and dug into his shoulder. His grip loosened and she jerked
free, thrusting the now-extinguished candle and holder in front of
her, point out. It was deathly quiet. She stepped into the shadows,
her eyes scanning the area for Owen. It was as if he had
disappeared. She rocked from right foot to left foot, crouched in
the dark, waiting.

Suddenly a rock rattled in front of her.

"Stay back." Her voice cracked as she spoke, coming
out barely more than a whisper.

"There's no escape, my dear. Michael can't hear you
and I'm much stronger than you are. It may take time, but I'll find
you. And when I do…" His voice trailed off, and she shivered at the
implication of his words.

She swallowed nervously, waiting. The other candle
suddenly blew out and it was impenetrably dark. She had matches in
her pocket, but any light now would only give away her
position.

She bit back a scream. Owen was right about one
thing. Michael would never hear her. But Owen would.
Owen
would
. She took another step, unsure now of whether she was
going backward or forward. It was like the cave-in. Only this time,
the cold darkness was embodied in flesh and blood. Owen. And he
wanted to kill her.

"Checkmate." A soft voice whispered in her ear just
as a hand closed on her elbow. She swung blindly with the
candle-holder and ran, maniacal laughter echoing after her. One
minute she was on solid ground and the next she was falling, like
Alice down the rabbit hole. She'd have closed her eyes, but it
wouldn't have done any good.

With a peculiar lurch, it almost seemed that her
descent slowed, and then she crashed to the rocky floor wondering
idly why a mine would smell like roses.

Michael squeezed the last few feet out of the
fissure. He'd obviously been a lot smaller the last time he'd
worked his way in there. He should have realized there'd be no way
to easily get the silver in and out of that crack. Although, in a
perverse kind of way, it's exactly what he would have expected his
father to do.

He wiped the dust from his hands on his jeans and
looked around. The passage was dark. No sign of Cara and Owen.
Maybe they'd had more luck. He set off in the direction they'd
gone. If he remembered correctly, the north tunnel wasn't more than
a few hundred feet ahead.

He looked down at the length of iron in his hand. The
candle was burning low. He stopped and reached into his pocket.
Never one to take chances, he lit the new candle and pushed it onto
the stub of the old one. The new wick flickered briefly in an
unseen draft and then burned brightly, casting a cheerful glow on
the cold damp walls as he passed. He wished it echoed his feelings,
but he couldn't seem to shake the apprehension that settled over
him like an icy blanket of snow.

A scream broke the dark silence of the tunnel. A
woman's scream.

Cara
.

Michael willed his feet to run, to move, but his
terrified brain refused to release the brakes. The sound died
almost as quickly as it had begun. One minute sending shivers of
dread down his spine, and the next gone, as if the dark had
swallowed it. Despite the chill of the tunnel, sweat beaded out
across his forehead. He wiped a hand across it, trying to make
sense of what he'd heard.

A light appeared in the tunnel, not far from where he
seemed to be permanently rooted to the spot. "Michael, is that
you?" The light swung upward and he recognized the voice as
Owen's.

He tried to form a coherent sentence, but Cara's
scream echoed over and over in his head. As the light began to move
towards him, he finally found his voice. "Owen? What happened."

"It's Cara," came the answering reply.

His heart was beating so loudly it almost drowned out
the words.

"I'm afraid she's had a fall." Owen materialized out
of the dark, sliding to a stop in front of him. Blood darkened a
cut along the side of his face, and another darker stain spread
across the shoulder of his shirt. More blood, Michael's brain
assessed.

"Is she…" He hesitated, afraid to finish the
sentence.

"I don't know. We were in northwest three and there
was a bit of a cave-in. We fell backward and…" He paused,
ineffectually dabbing at his blood stained face with his
handkerchief. His eyes met Michael's and the look there made
Michael's stomach contract in fear. "I'm sorry, my boy, I tried to
grab her, but…" Owen's eyes were full of regret. Tragic regret.

"Michael?"

He spun around at the sound of his brother's voice.
"Patrick? Is that you?" The light at the far end of the tunnel was
faint, but his brother's voice carried through the tunnel as if he
were only a few feet away.

"Hang on, I'm coming. Is
Owen
with you?"

The name came out with a strange emphasis and the
hair on Michael's neck rose. "Yes, he's here." He glanced back at
Owen, surprised to catch the tail end of a flinch. He tried to pull
his brain into gear, but found that all he could think of was the
sound of Cara's scream and the pain etched on Owen's face. He'd
seen that look before, when Owen had come to tell them about his
mother.

"Michael?" Evidently the sound only carried one way.
Patrick's light moved closer, bobbing up and down as though his
brother was running.

"Don't move." Owen's words were not a question, but a
command. Michael's brain cleared in an instant. "Turn around." The
words were issued in a staccato bark Michael hardly recognized.

Slowly he turned around. "Owen? What's this all
about?" He tried to keep his voice calm, but every inch of him was
screaming for Cara.

Owen's derringer was pointed directly at his heart,
his father's friend's eyes were narrowed and his face was shuttered
with a cold mask Michael had never seen. "Throw your pistol over
here." Owen gestured with his gun.

Michael slowly drew his six shooter from his jeans
and threw it on the ground beside Owen. "I don't understand."

Owen picked up the Colt, pocketing his tiny
derringer, and smiled ruefully. "And I'd hoped you never would, but
I think your brother has nosed his way into the answers."

"What answers, Owen?" Keep him talking, Michael's
brain urged.

Owen laughed and Michael shivered at the hatred and
anger concealed in the sound. "Ah, dear boy, 'tis your mother who
should be answering these questions, not me." Owen's eyes glittered
in the candlelight, the blood marring his face adding a sinister
cast.

"My mother? What in hell does she have to do with
this?" Michael felt a growing chill of understanding.

"Michael?" Patrick skidded to a stop, his eyes moving
quickly from his brother to Owen. "Where's Cara?" His voice was low
and intense, his attention focused completely on Owen.

"At the bottom of a very long hole, I'm afraid. Such
a lovely girl. Rather like your mother. Stubborn to the end. Always
ready to believe the worst." Owen's voice had lost the edge of
rationality.

"Where is she?" Michael's voice echoed through the
tunnel.

Owen waved the gun. "I told you, Michael, she fell
down. Way down." His laughter held the echo of a madman.

Patrick tried to inch around Michael, gun drawn.

"Drop it." Lucidity was back with frightening
clarity.

Patrick stopped, but didn't drop the gun. Michael
heard the hammer click into place.

Owen stood his ground, Michael's Colt pointed not at
Patrick, but still at Michael. "Shoot me if you dare, little
Patrick." There was a condescending note in his voice, almost as if
he wanted Patrick to shoot. "But," he waved his other hand in the
air in a theatrical gesture, "I'll kill Michael, even if you do
manage to shoot me." Again, he let go with his tortured laugh.

Patrick met Michael's eyes and he shrugged, dropping
the gun.

"Kick it over here," Owen barked.

Michael reached over with a booted foot and kicked
the gun. It landed off to the right of Owen in the shadows of the
tunnel.

"That's not exactly at my feet," Owen snarled, "but
it will have to do. Now, move over there by the wall." He gestured
to the left side of the tunnel, away from the gun.

Michael met Patrick's gaze and tried desperately to
read the message there.

"I said, now." The hammer on the gun clicked into
place, echoing through the stillness of the tunnel.

*****

Oh God, she was destined to spend eternity in
the dark. First the cave-in and now… Cara paused trying to remember
exactly what had happened. The rabbit hole. She sighed. At least
Alice had been able to see. She'd had the white rabbit and the
little glass table. Cara had, well, inky blackness and… roses.

She sniffed deeply, but the smell evaporated almost
before she was certain it
was
roses. She shifted
uncomfortably, realizing she was lying on a bed of rocks—sharp
rocks. Sitting up, she took hesitant inventory of her body,
relieved when all parts reported in hale and hearty. Her ankle felt
a little iffy, but for the moment at least, there seemed no point
in pressing the issue. As long as she was seated, she was fine.

A sharp jabbing in her left hip remained the only
uninvestigated pain, and when she shifted right, the stabbing
stopped. Reaching across with her hand, she located the source of
her discomfort. The candle holder. Wrought iron did not make a
comfortable seat cushion, especially if it had a sharp point. There
was no way to see the thing, but she recognized the feel of it,
remembered the satisfying thwunk it had made as it had sunk into
Owen Prescott's flesh.

She hoped it hurt like hell.

For a moment she pictured Michael, and her heart
twisted with agony, but then her mind stepped in with a public
service announcement about people stuck at the bottom of deep, dark
rabbit holes. A picture of a long forgotten episode of
All My
Children
flashed in her mind.

Natalie at the bottom of a well.

That had ended happily, hadn't it? Oh God, she didn't
remember. She never watched regularly and Natalie was off the show
now. Had she died in the well? Cara forced back a swelling of
hysteria. She wasn't Natalie, and Owen certainly wasn't Janet. No,
whispered a perverse voice in her mind, he was much worse.

She struggled to gain control and was relieved when
all images, television and otherwise, disappeared and she was alone
in the deep darkness, clutching a twisted piece of wrought iron.
Used for lighting, her still functioning brain pointed out. She
frowned, the information failing to have significant impact.

Lighting
, her brain repeated, telegraphing
letter by letter. She slapped a hand to her forehead and felt for
the hooked end of the candle holder, finally getting the message.
With a shaking hand, she touched the candle. Wax had never felt so
good.

Drawing the matches from her pocket, she lit it,
relieved when a pale white light cast a feeble circle into the
darkness.

Let there be light.

There wasn't a glass table. She'd known there
wouldn't be one, but she was devastated nevertheless. Most likely
because it meant that this wasn't a dream. So, most likely there
wasn't a sister at the top of the well. No, there was only a madman
and Michael.

Michael
. God, she hoped he wouldn't fall into
Owen's trap. The man was insane. She shook her head to clear it of
the image of Owen, the consummate British madman. No use in
borrowing problems she didn't have. Her main concern had to be
getting out of here. And that was a big damn deal.

Her language was going to hell. So much for her
parochial school upbringing, but then again, the nuns hadn't
covered what to do when one was pushed into a mine shaft. Probably
even Sister Inez would allow for a few curse words in this
situation. She shook her head—hard. She had to stay in control. No
room for hysteria here.

She struggled to her feet, wincing as she put weight
on her right foot. Not broken at least. But it hurt. A lot. She
focused on the flickering candlelight. Holding it away from her
body, she surveyed the shaft. Only about half of it was illuminated
and it was frustratingly round, curling in an almost perfect
semicircle without an opening to mar the arc.
Damn
.

She limped forward, holding the candle high so that
the other half of the shaft was illuminated. The light glanced off
ivory, and two black eyes stared back at her. She bit back a scream
and tightened her grip on the candle. The eyes were joined by a
jaunty grin. A grimace really—a death mask.

Her heart lurched and descended a moment for a
conference with her stomach. Cara could only stare at the skeletal
remains. All that was left of a person. Her cellmate so to speak.
Cellmates. Her stomach demanded more time as she stared at a second
skull. This one looked gentler somehow than the first. Its eye
sockets were just as empty, but the smile was less jaunty, more
feminine somehow.

Her stomach heaved, then settled, the voting
evidently completed, but her mind sent in the minority opinion.
Get Out
. Not bad advice. She circled the cavern looking for
the exit tunnel. There wasn't any. What had once been a tunnel was
now nothing more than a pile of shale and rubble, the pair of
skeletons marking the entrance with frightening punctuation. There
was no exit. This was the end of the line.