Fatalis (10 page)

Surprisingly, Grand felt none of the apprehension he'd experienced when he was down here earlier. The air was as warm and close as before, the water was just as still, the gnats were equally as persistent Perhaps the presence of the other men had somehow changed the dynamic. Or maybe something
had
been different then, something his senses had missed but his instinct hadn't.

After collecting their pictures, the men set up the UCM. The main unit consisted of a battery-powered, thirteen-inch color monitor with an antenna on top and a detachable joystick controller. The rest of the system was built on a white plastic raft the size and general shape of a mouse pad. On the underside of the raft was a plastic case with a halogen light, a small video camera, and a rudder. On the top, in the rear, was a small motor. After Moy placed the raft in the lake, Lyon steered it using the joystick.

Grand watched the monitor as the raft slowly crisscrossed the lake. The hum of the motor filled the cave with a soft, echoing drone while the camera's wide-angle lens broadcast sharp color pictures to the monitor. The lake was no more than five or six feet deep and the images showed a relatively smooth floor columned in places with stalagmites. Judging from the lack of erosion, the waters hadn't been here more than a few weeks. There was no sign of equipment, clothing, or anything else that may have washed down with the radio.

It took nearly an hour to cover the entire lake. When the men were finished, Moy packed up the UCM while Lyon radioed Gearhart The Special Ops leader told the sheriff they'd found nothing except the engineer's radio and were planning on returning.

"Have you had any luck up there?" Lyon asked.

"Negative," Gearhart replied. "We're going to extend the search into the mountains."

"We'll be out of the cave within a half hour," Lyon said. "If you've got some place for Moy and me, we'll head directly there."

"Sounds good," Gearhart said. "Why don't you take the Arroyo Burro Trail. Work your way toward the Falls."

"Will do," Lyon said.

After the Special Ops volunteer signed off, Grand approached him.

"Do you think you can find your way out?" Grand asked.

"Sure. Why?"

"I'm going to stick around, look in some of the other tunnels," Grand said.

Lyon offered Grand his hand. "Stay safe, and thanks for your help."

"Anytime."

Frank Lyon turned and took a last look at the water spilling into the cave. "Professor, you've been around these mountains a lot. What do you think happened up there?"

"I don't know," Grand admitted. "The way the weather's been, the ground acting up-it's easy to get hurt or lost or swallowed up."

Lyon nodded. "Yeah. Lots of possibilities. We just haven't hit the right one yet."

Moy came over and wished Grand well. Then the men left, trailing light and clomping footfalls.

Grand fished his penlight from his jacket and clicked it on. He walked toward the far side of the cave. The sounds coming through the sinkhole dimmed and vanished as he approached the gentle waterfall. Because the lake was so shallow, it had probably been just a small pool before La Nina caused it to swell. The waterfall might not have existed before then, in which case the lower cavern might have been easily accessible to the Chumash.

Reaching the tunnel, Grand found a waist-high cupule on the right side of the entrance. He used the small, natural groove as a handhold and swung his left leg around. He placed his foot on the bottom of the opposite wall, just above the waterfall. Still holding on with his right hand, he shined the light along the narrow opening.

And looked down at the sky.

The cosmos was spread before Jim Grand. At least, that was what it seemed like. Painted on both sides of the narrow tunnel were nearly linear arrays of white dots, crescents, circles, and semicircles. The images looked like stars, lunar phases, and what appeared to be several comets. The symmetrical objects ranged in size from several inches in diameter to over a foot across. Unlike most Chumash art, which was sharp-edged, all of the images were extremely fuzzy, as though they were twinkling. Like the two mountains painted in the upper cave, the walls down here were mirror images of one another, though only seven of the individual pictographs on each side were identical.

Grand looked down the center of the passageway. At the bottom, about twenty feet from where he was perched, the creek spilled into another underground lake. The lake below was shallower than the one up here, since Grand could see portions of stalagmites.

Grand would have to go further to see what was down there, but not today. He would have to go back home to get additional climbing gear as well as rubber boots, and he was also tired. He didn't want to make a mistake that might harm the paintings. Before leaving, he took a moment more to study the images. Though they looked like representations of the heavens, he didn't recognize any constellations among the smaller "stars." Perhaps the Chumash shaman was trying to explain celestial mechanics, imagining where the moons and stars went when they dropped below the eastern and western horizons. That might be why there were no renderings on the roof of the tunnel. But if these images were heavenly bodies, why would the Chumash have painted them down here instead of in the upper cave?

It was possible the artist didn't want to offend the Great Eagle by putting his own stars and moons so close to the heavens. Or maybe it wasn't a shaman who had made these paintings. Perhaps it was a scientist who had to hide his ideas because they conflicted with beliefs about the animal gods. If so, this cave could hold unimaginable treasures.

Suddenly, something changed. It wasn't anything Grand could see or hear. He felt a chill, as though a cloud had moved in front of the sun. The sense of unrest returned.

Grand remained where he was, shining his light along the passageway. The waters glistened flatly as they spilled down the gentle incline. After a moment he thought he heard something moving in the water below.

"Roche? Greene? Is that you?"

The sound of the waters seemed to subside. Grand moved the light around. He didn't see anyone.

He agreed with what the deputy had said earlier. The men probably could not have slid down the sinkhole. Apart from the too-small size of the opening, the men would have dragged loose stones with them when they went down. There had been none of that along the sides. But freak events did happen. It was possible an animal had gone down the hole. Whichever it was, the cool along his back told Grand he wasn't alone.

"Roche! Greene!"

There was still no response and no further movement. If either man was here he might be injured. He thought of calling to the rescuers, but by the time they got down there the men could be dead.

Grand looked along the tunnel walls and floor for someplace to put his hands and feet. The first Chumash paintings were three feet away. He could go a little deeper without risking them. Grand tucked his penlight in his pants pocket, pointing up. He needed light but he also wanted his left hand free. He put his left foot in the water. The creek came up to his ankle and splashed over the top of his boot, but the footing was good. He leaned back slightly to compensate for the slope and put his hands on the walls just inside the passageway. He simultaneously brought his right foot into the passageway and ducked under the low ceiling. He was now standing inside the tunnel.

He retrieved his penlight.

The first two designs on either side of him were crescents. They were sharp-edged, matching, and seemed to glow against the charcoal-gray rock. The Chumash were not known to have used phosphors in their art, but these designs seemed to be more luminous after having been exposed to the light. Or maybe it was another illusion.

There would be time enough to study the paintings. Grand looked down the tunnel. Nearly half the lower cavern was visible now but there was nothing new to see. More water, more stalagmites.

"Is anyone down there?" he shouted.

He began to wonder if his imagination had created a presence where there wasn't one. Caves could do that too, if not by their personality then through the release of gases like methane or nitrogen.

This time the rippling didn't stop. It grew louder as it moved closer to the bottom of the tunnel. That ruled out a geological bubble-blower such as an underwater spring or thermal vent.

Grand's arms and legs were growing tired. If whatever was down there didn't show itself soon, he was going to have to retreat-

Something bobbed up, startling him. As Grand watched, a large, black plastic cylinder surfaced like a submarine. It took a moment before he recognized it as a flashlight casing. Water spilled from the open back as the hollow container turned over in the lazy current. The casing flopped over and lay flat on the water as a series of big bubbles sputtered from the end. Then the flashlight began rotating in the flow like a rolling log. The face glass and bulb were both shattered. If one of the engineers had dropped the flashlight, it probably hit a stalagmite or two before sliding down here. Grand didn't see any threads on the back of the cylinder, which meant it must have had a spring-loaded battery cap. Those were easy to change one-handed in the field. A good knock could have caused it to pop open. If they scanned the shallow water below, they'd probably find the batteries on the bottom.

Grand thought about trying to retrieve the flashlight but the current carried it away again, toward the back of the cave. Even if he could make it to the lower cave without touching the paintings, he didn't know what the ground was like or how many other branches the cave had. He would tell the sheriff about it and then come back the next day, better equipped, to examine the art. He didn't think Gearhart would insist on sending his Special Ops team back today. He needed his manpower outside, where it would be put to better use.

Grand took a long step back to the tip of the passageway. Before swinging onto the ledge, he had a final look at the Pictographs. The images were unique and their meaning was a mystery. Perhaps they were stars, perhaps they were eggs, perhaps they were an attempt to create an alphabet. Maybe they weren't even meant to be taken literally.

But whatever the paintings were, they were haunting. A little part inside of Grand smiled.

After too long a time, it would be good to have a challenge keep him awake at night instead of sorrow.

A moment later the scientist turned and made his way back to the tunnel that led to the main cavern.

The empty flashlight knocked against the side of the cave and twisted gently away. It hit a stalagmite and changed direction, spinning into a flow that led from the cave to a steep tunnel. A moment later it washed down, plunging deeper into the mountain.

The cylinder was swept into a long, low cavern where the darkness was thick and unbroken. The smells were heavy, damp, and musty. The only sounds were those of the water as it rushed into a forked tunnel. That and a slow, deep, hollow breathing.

The wait was over. The breathing moved. So did the musty smell.

They moved into the forked tunnel and down one of the twisting branches. They moved swiftly, surely, through stalactites and stalagmites, around sharp corners, and across depressions where the water deepened. The breathing quickened as it moved and after a minute the rankness, too, was no longer the same. It sparkled with the hint of salt air. Even the darkness changed. It was no longer as full as it had been. Here and there the black shaded to dark gray.

At the entrance to another cave the movement slowed and the breathing turned around. The smell settled into a place above another tunnel.

There were other smells coming from below, the smell of salt and decay. And new sounds, the sound of water.

And the waiting began again.

The Coastal Freeway
went on sale at noon. Within two hours the office of the County Board of Supervisors-the six-person committee that represented the districts in Santa Barbara County-announced that a press conference would be held at 4:00 P.M. in the small auditorium of the county administration on Anapamu Street In addition to Sheriff Gearhart, the mayor of Santa Barbara, the chairperson of the County Board of Supervisors, the chief of police, Caltrans spokesperson Carl Lessin, and Dr. Thorpe would be in attendance. Sergeant Marsha Levy, the sheriff's public information officer, said that Gearhart wanted to personally brief reporters about the status of the investigation in the Santa Ynez Mountains and then get back to work.

Use the press when you need them
, Hannah thought. Hannah and the Wall were there, along with reporters from the
LA. Times
, the weekly
Santa Barbara View
, several local radio stations, and the network TV affiliates from Los Angeles. Hannah always sat in the front row of the small auditorium. It was tougher for Gearhart to ignore her from there. She set her tape recorder on an empty seat beside her-there was always an empty seat beside her-and took a stenographer's notebook from her shoulderbag. Hannah usually filled several pages with questions, though she always starred two or three of the most important. Usually, that was all she got to ask.

The press conference started nearly fifteen minutes after four as Gearhart was late getting in from the mountains. Hannah wondered if the delay was intentional. Gearhart was a skilled politician. He may have wanted to create the impression that only the responsibility of calming the public could tear him from the field. Chairperson Andrea Danza, a young Santa Barbara native, took the podium to introduce Sheriff Gearhart. Chairperson Danza claimed to have problems with Gearhart as well, though she only confessed those off-the-record, woman-to-woman. She, too, was a skilled politician.

In usual Gearhart fashion, it wasn't so much a conference as a recitation; the sheriff said he wouldn't take questions until the end when, of course, he would be in a hurry to return to the scene.