Hawk Moon (18 page)

But they were definitely closer, coming closer.

Her heart pounding in her ears, she dashed away from the sound, running uphill through an area almost devoid of snow, then downhill, keeping to forested areas and away from snow-covered fields. When she stopped again, she didn't move for a full minute and she didn't hear any sounds of footsteps.

The afternoon was fading away into a murky gray. Soon it would be dusk, then dark. She'd gotten away, she thought, but she was lost. She wasn't so much afraid for herself now as she was concerned about Will and the others. She couldn't help them, couldn't do a thing, unless she quickly found her way out of the forest.

For all she knew, she might be wandering in a circle and wind up back by the mine. She calmed herself, gathered her thoughts, and realized that she must go down the mountain. Eventually, she would find a road. She plunged down a steep incline, skidding, grabbing tree trunks to slow her descent. At the bottom of the ravine, she stopped to catch her breath, then continued on.

Ten minutes later, she came to a rutted trail. She followed it down to a dirt road.
It must be the same one they'd been driving on
, she thought. She jogged in the downhill direction, keeping to the side of the road. Every so often she looked back over her shoulder. If a vehicle appeared, she'd be tempted to wave it down. At the same time, she knew there was a good chance it would be the sheriff, Burke, or the others. There was no doubt in her mind that they were looking for her.

The road curved and the forest fell away. Across the field in front of her was a log cabin. A thin stream of smoke twisted from a chimney, and there was a light in the window. She took one more look behind her, then dashed through the field.

As she neared the cabin, her hopes plummeted. There was no vehicle in sight and the place looked primitive. An old-fashioned well stood fifty feet from the cabin, and there was an outhouse behind it. The flickering light suggested the place was illuminated by a lantern.

She slowed to a walk just as a woman in a long denim skirt and a white blouse stepped out with a bucket and headed toward the well. The woman spotted her and stopped. Corey felt as if she'd just gone back a hundred years. No running water and no electricity. And probably no help.

"Are you okay?" the woman asked. She set the pail down and pushed her long brown hair over her shoulder.

Corey blurted her story, pointing to the road in the direction of the mine. She kept it simple. She and her friends had stumbled upon a drug factory and drug dealers. Guns. Fighting. Shooting. And she'd escaped. She needed help. Inside the cabin a baby began to cry and the woman, who said her name was Irene, motioned for Corey to follow her. "Max is in town. I don't have any transportation. Is there someone you can call?"

"You have a telephone?"

"Sure do." The woman scooped up the baby from a crib, walked over to the kitchen counter, and picked up a cellular phone not much larger than her palm. "I wouldn't be up here without one. I'll tell you that."

Corey took the phone and tried to think who she should call. Her parents were both on the road. Her mother wouldn't be home until tomorrow afternoon. She remembered the name of Will's mother's shop: Aspen Apparel. She dialed information and got the number.

"You're calling a clothing store?" Irene asked as Corey punched the number.

"I can't call the police; they're part of the drug ring." A woman's voice answered with the name of the shop. "Mrs.
Lansa
?"

There was a pause. "Connors. This is Marion Connors. Are you calling about Will? What's going on?" Of course, she had a different last name. "Yes, I'm sorry. Ms. Connors, Will needs your help badly." Corey quickly explained what happened.

"Okay, I'll get help."

"You don't understand. There's no time. You have to leave right now. Do you have a gun?"

"Yes."

"Bring it and hurry! Please!"

Before she hung up, Corey handed the phone to Irene who explained how to reach the cabin.

"She said she's on her way," Irene said as she hung up. "With any luck, she should be here in half an hour. But it's slow going on these slippery roads at night. How about a cup of coffee?"

Corey shook her head. "I just hope she gets here in time."

Just then headlights beamed into the window.

Irene went to the door. She spun around. "It's a police car. Maybe you better . . .”

But Corey was already out the back door, running as fast as she could through the growing darkness, passing the outhouse, and dashing for the forest.

W
ill's vision was blurred, his head pounded. It was dark and stuffy. There were fuzzy figures moving around and voices he couldn't quite understand. He was lying on a cool, damp floor. A rope was tied around his feet and his wrists; his arms were behind his back.
The drug lab
, he thought, as he recalled everything that had happened before he'd been knocked out.

In the center of the room, a light glowed on the lab counter where Burke and the two DEA agents were busy at work. His father was lying to Will's left next to Detective Olsen. Their wrists were cuffed in front of them and their feet were tied with rope. His grandfather lay on his right, bound the same way.

Corey had gotten away
, he thought. The sheriff and Claude were probably hunting for her. They couldn't let her escape. He realized that Burke and the others couldn't allow any of them to survive and tell their story.

He felt heavy, as if he'd been drugged. He fought off the dizzying sensation that was trying to pull him back into a deep sleep.

He moved his hands, testing the rope, stretching it. He had to get loose, but his vision was blurring. He was drifting, losing consciousness again. His eyes closed, and he heard a voice in his head.

You can dream your way out. Dream.

F
lickering firelight. He was with the initiates in the kiva again. It was happening all over. Near the fire pit, a robed man was talking to them and pointing up through the ladder hole. He was speaking Hopi, and again Will could understand him.

Suddenly, the old priest covered the fire pit with a flat rock so that only a faint glow filtered into the kiva. The men in robes descended the ladder. On each of their foreheads was a large four-pointed white star.

Among them was
Masau
, his head bald and painted gray.

He moved to one side of the other men who were humming and hissing. A white-robed figure emerged and said, "I am the beginning; I am the end."

It was all the same as before, but Will was only vaguely aware that the scene was familiar. The sounds grew louder, and the men were stomping one way, then the other. Suddenly, the flat rock was pushed over the entire fire pit and darkness swallowed the kiva. Amid the shouts and chaos, Will saw
Masau
standing directly in front of him and motioning to the ladder hole overhead.

Then it was Myra, not
Masau
. She was smiling at him and, like
Masau
, pointing to the hole overhead.
That's the way out, Will. That's the way. Hurry.

Will's body jerked and he blinked open his eyes. He tried to sit up. His head throbbed from the blow; he was confused by what he'd just experienced. The kiva had seemed just as real as the mine.

"Will, are you okay?" his grandfather asked in a raspy voice.

He looked over at him and Olsen, and nodded. Burke and the two others were gone. How long had he slept?

"They left a bomb," his father said from his other side. "Burke said we've got half an hour. Now it's about twenty-five minutes."

"Special effects," Connors said. "Burke's a bomb expert. That's what his daddy taught him."

"Can you get your hands loose?" Olsen asked Will.

"What good will it do?" Connors said. "You heard what Burke said. "The door's rigged. If we open the door, the bomb goes off."

"Maybe we can disarm it,"
Lansa
said.

Will recalled his dream.
That's the way out,
Myra had said. He looked up at the paneled ceiling. Maybe there was another way out, an escape hatch they'd built in the event of trouble.

He jerked his arms apart, stretching, then twisting the rope. He wriggled his hands, moved them back and forth, and tried to slip the rope over his wrists. But it wasn't quite loose enough.

"I've got a knife on my key chain," Connors said. "It's in my jacket pocket. See if you can get it out."

Will rolled over and worked himself next to his grandfather, then stretched his hand into Connors's pocket. He felt the key chain, but couldn't reach it. He edged closer, tried again, but Connors moved. On the third try, his index finger hooked over the chain.

"I got it!"

He worked open the blade with his fingers, then passed it to his grandfather who began slicing away at the rope binding Will's wrists. After a couple of minutes,
Lansa
took over, then Olsen. The detective had taken about a dozen slices when Will jerked his wrists and the rope snapped. Once his hands were free, he quickly untied the rope from his ankles. Then he went to work on the rope tied around his grandfather's legs.

When he finally got the knot undone, he handed the knife to his grandfather. "See if you can get their legs free."

"What are you going to do?" his father asked.

"I think there might be another way out of here, Dad."

He moved over to the counter and saw a box on the floor in front of the lab counter. Inside it was a red metal one-gallon gasoline can, a tangle of wires, and a timer that showed nineteen minutes were left. He glanced over at the door and saw a small plastic box attached to it. Probably a remote detonator.

He climbed up onto the counter and picked up the battery-powered lamp that had been left behind. With his other hand, he reached up to the ceiling and lifted one of the plastic panels. The lamp's glow revealed an eighteen-inch crawl space separating the ceiling from the rock roof. He raised the lamp higher. To his left, a rectangular piece of wood was imbedded in the ceiling. A cord hung down from it.

"What do you see?" Connors asked.

"A trap door, I think." He lowered the panel, then tiptoed through the hodgepodge of glassware and burners on the counter.

Will was about to remove another panel, when his foot knocked over a beaker. It rolled toward the edge of the counter. He reached down and caught it before it fell. Directly below was the bomb. No telling what would've happened if the beaker had fallen on it.

He lifted the panel, pushed it aside, and pulled on the cord. The rectangle of plywood creaked down on its hinges. Attached to the inside of it was a ladder, which he unfolded. The bottom of it reached the top of the counter.

"Does it lead outside, Will?" his father called to him.

"I can't tell." He held up the light, stepped onto the ladder. He could see a tunnel that was slightly wider than his shoulders. It rose at a steep angle.
The dream
, he thought. It was like the ladder hole in the top of the kiva. He knew he'd find a way out. But he didn't think the others would be able to maneuver through the tunnel with their hands bound.

"If you get out, run as fast as you can,"
Lansa
called to him. "We're stuck here, but you can make it. You hear me."

Connors was busy sawing at the rope on Olsen's ankles.

"I don't want to leave you," Will said. "We've still got time."

Before his father started to argue, Will climbed up the ladder and into the tunnel. He followed handholds and footholds up for about ten feet and came to another piece of plywood. He pushed on it, pushed again. It didn't budge. He closed his eyes. His head pounded.

He wedged his back against the wall and tried again, this time pushing with his feet. The plywood gave way, and the crisp smell of cool, fresh air filled his nostrils. He pushed the plywood aside with his feet and climbed out into the deepening dusk.

He had to get the others out. He couldn't just leave them. A rope. He'd seen one in the mining cart.

T
he police car had been parked outside the cabin for at least ten minutes, maybe fifteen, and Corey was getting anxious. What could they be talking about? She was crouched in the trees at the edge of the forest, hugging herself against the cold. The light jacket she wore wasn't designed for spending a night in the mountains.