Chapter 31
M ichael 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.