The Florentine Deception (25 page)

“How would you do that?” Steven asked.

“I've got to think you could find it on
Spelunking.com
or maybe on
Rockclimbing.com
. They've got thousands of caves cataloged. Members post photos and videos of their descents all the time. Unless the cave is totally unknown, which would be pretty surprising, it's just a matter of slogging through web pages. Or you could post a clip from the video onto their chat forum and see what people say.”

“At this point, I'm willing to try anything,” I said.

“Can you show me the video?” she asked. “Maybe I'll recognize the cave, or see something you guys missed.”

I locked the panic room, then the three of us worked our way back up the ladder and into the library. It was getting misty outside, and as the last rays of the sun disappeared, curls of fog began to descend over the wall and amongst the ferns and bamboo.

I motioned for Linda to sit down in front of the laptop, then flipped on the kitchen lights.

“Here, take a look,” I said, opening the clamshell and clicking on the Play button. After a brief pause, the computer resumed the video from where Steven had fast-forwarded it earlier. “This is a few minutes in. Let me back up to the start—”

“Wait.” Linda grabbed my hand.

“You recognize it?” My heart raced.

“I'm not sure. Let me watch a little more.”

Linda leaned into the small screen and stared intently.

“Those stalactites are pretty unusual. Somehow they look familiar—I'm pretty sure I've seen a photo of this place online before. Does the video show the outside of the cave?”

“Not really,” I said, walking over to the sink for some water, “the footage starts just inside the mouth.”

“Let's see,” she said, swiping her finger and clicking the track pad. A beat later, the video began playing from the start. Again, she leaned into the laptop, chin resting on her fists, watching intently.

“The problem is they don't show the outside,” I said.

“Shhhh!” Linda sat glued to the screen, watching and rewinding the video at least five times. Then with a vigorous nod of her head, she slid her chair back and stood up.

“Guys … I know where this is.”

Chapter 39

“You what?” asked Steven.

“That's the Cupeño Indian Cave!” Linda backed up the video a few seconds, then paused it.

“Cu-what?” I asked, running around the table to the laptop.

“Cupeño,” she repeated. “It's supposedly an old Indian shaman cave.” Linda pointed at the oak silhouetted at the mouth of the cave. “No mistaking it; I'm one-hundred-percent sure. Last week I was looking for new spelunking sites with Jamie. They had a photo almost identical to this shot on
Climbing.com
.”

“Where is it?” I asked. “In Montana?”

“No! No, it's practically next door. According to the write-up, it's about a mile up the ravine in Malibu Creek State Park, an hour's hike past the rock pool, up on the left side of the canyon.”

“Malibu Creek? Are you kidding?” I'd spent the last seven years of my life hiking and climbing every square inch of Malibu Creek State Park, but had never once heard of a cave system. “How come I've never heard about it?”

“You're not alone. The guy who posted the pictures is an old-timer, and he said he'd never heard anyone mention it either. He apparently found a reference to it in an old nineteenth-century naturalist book and decided to take a look.”

“Have you been?” I asked.

“No. Jamie and I were planning on going in a few weeks.”

“We've got to go, Alex,” said Steven. “Let's settle this once and for all.”

I gnawed on my thumbnail.

“Look,” he said, “we know for a fact that we're the only people alive that have seen this video—no one else has a clue that the Florentine is hidden in a cave, or for that matter, where the cave is.” He took a deep breath. “You could be in and out of there before anyone even knows it. And once you have the, the thing, you're in control. Give it to the FBI if you like. Or give it to the press. Either way, this whole thing could be over by tomorrow.”

He was right. The only sure way to get closure was to find the Florentine and then expose it. And if we were going to go after it, now was the time.

“I … I can't do it alone.”

“What do you mean,
I
?” asked Steven.

“There's no way you're going down into that cave. You'll get yourself killed. Even given my caving and climbing experience, I still wouldn't go more than ten feet into that tube without an expert partner.”

“Okay, then who do you know who could go?” asked Steven.

“I don't know,” I said, shaking my head. “This whole thing could be a deathtrap.”

“I'll go with you, Alex.” Linda twisted her chair to face me.

“No way. It'd kill me if anything happened to you.”

“Alex, you're not going without me. I won't let you,” she said, shaking her head. “If you want to drop this, that's okay, but there's no way I'll let you go in without me.”

“I can't.”

“Yes you can,” she said. “I can take care of myself, Alex. And you need me.”

I sat down and covered my face in my hands. Linda ignored me and plowed on.

“Like you said, you can't do this alone. You're going to need an experienced partner, one you've climbed with before. Someone who knows how you'll react—and what to do—when shit goes wrong.”

“But,” I stammered.

“How many times have we caved together, Alex? Ten? Twenty?” she asked. “Who knows you better than I do?”

I shook my head.

Linda stood up and began pacing. “We're going to need to round up a bunch of equipment and find a third. It's not safe with just two.”

“I can be the third. You're both experts. I can be the backup.”

Linda turned toward Steven, paused a beat, and looked questioningly at me. At two-twenty, Steven had put on a fair amount of weight since our college days—and he'd never set foot in a cave.

“Listen to me, Steven, you're going to be a liability,” I said. “We need someone who can help us get out of trouble, someone who's caved before.”

“I've climbed at least half a dozen times with you,” countered Steven defensively.

“This is different,” said Linda. “If someone gets injured down there, or we run into a gas pocket, or the headlamps die, or any one of fifty other things go wrong, we're going to want to have someone who knows exactly what to do.”

Steven held up his hands. “Okay, okay.”

“Alex, what do you think about Potter? He's caved for years.”

“I couldn't drag Davis Potter into this.”

“Why don't you let him decide for himself?” asked Linda.

“I wouldn't feel right,” I reiterated. “It's just too dangerous.”

“Just give him the facts and let him decide,” she said. “You've been there for him, Alex, many times. And if he's not cool with it, we'll figure something else out.”

“I … I guess I could ask him.”

“Do you have any paper and a pen?”

“On the counter. One second.” I grabbed the first thumb drive from the card table and slid it back in the envelope, then laid it on the counter to put back later.

“Here,” I said, returning with a Regina Flowers notepad and pen.

“Let's watch the rest of the video and take notes,” she said, “I want to make sure we know what equipment we'll need. Then we'll call Potter.”

By the time the video had ended, Linda had a list twenty items long.

“Did you ever pick up a new set of Jumars and étriers?” she asked.

I nodded. “Yeah, they're in my garage with the rest of my spelunking gear.”

“What's a Jumar and an … etr—” asked Steven.

“Et-tree-aye,” said Linda in perfect French. “They're a set of devices that you use to ascend up a rope. You need them when you're caving and the rock's too wet or difficult to climb with your hands.”

“Are they battery-powered or something?”

“Only in the movies,” I replied with a smile. “They're muscle powered—they make it much easier, but you've still got to manually use them to pull yourself up the rope.”

“That sounds like it would be a lot of work,” said Steven.

“Trust me,” I said, “it's exhausting.”

Steven nodded nervously.

“Okay, I think that's it. Let's call Potter.”

“You still want to go?” I asked Potter. “Even given all of the risks?”

“I do,” said Potter over Linda's speakerphone. “I want to be there for you guys. You've saved my life more times than I care to remember, now it's my turn to repay the favor.”

“Then we do it tomorrow morning—at eight—before the park gets busy.”

“That works,” said Linda.

“Sounds good,” said Potter.

“All right, everyone knows what gear they're bringing,” I said. “Let's call it a night and get some sleep, guys. We'll need it.”

Linda hung up her phone, then stood to stretch while I packed my laptop for the trip back to my old place in Northridge.

“Actually, Linda, would you mind giving Steven a ride home? When I get back, I've got to dig up all my spelunking gear, and I want to transfer a copy of the video to my iPod so we can consult it on the way down. It'd save me some time if you could take him back.”

“No problem,” said Linda. “You cool riding in an old Bug without belts?”

Steven shot me a look that said ‘I'd be cool riding with her without anything on,' then moderated his output: “Uh, yeah, that's fine.”

“All right, cross your fingers, guys,” she said, “tomorrow's the big day.”

Chapter 40

My stomach growled as I turned left onto the Pacific Coast Highway from Latigo. I reached for the latch on my glove compartment—I usually had an energy bar in there for emergencies—then decided I was just too hungry. I'd stop at the Jack in the Box just before Topanga and load up before I headed back to Northridge to transfer the video. A delay, but I couldn't concentrate if I was hungry.

Then it hit me.

Shit. The video. I'd forgotten to lock up the other thumb drive—it was still sitting in its envelope, unprotected, on the kitchen counter.

The Pacific Coast Highway was nearly empty this time of night, so I slowed, checked for headlights in the fog, and, seeing none, cranked a tight U-turn and accelerated back up Latigo Canyon.

A minute later, I took the hairpin right turn onto the dense, tree-covered driveway and barreled over the uneven asphalt up to the gate. I clicked the remote on my sun visor and with a sudden creak, the iron gate shuddered and began rolling behind the estate's thick stucco wall. I edged the car past the gate and into the courtyard, then cut the engine and turned off the headlights. Two antique-style gas lamps mounted on either side of the front door flickered lethargically, illuminating wisps of marine fog and casting strange shadows through the yard's bushes.

I scanned the yard for any sign of movement, grabbed the Ruger, then exited my car and waded through the offshore mist toward the front door.

The key fit snugly into the lock. I twisted and shoved the door inward, clicked on the hallway lights, shut the door, and turned the bolt. I knew that no one could possibly be in the house—we'd left less than five minutes ago—yet I was oddly paranoid, alert.

“I've got a gun,” I yelled. My fingers tightened on the pistol as I stood motionless, listening.

Nothing.

I took a tentative step, then another, my sneakers squeaking, echoing off the paneled walls and down the empty corridor. Again, I stopped to listen.

Silence. I lifted my foot to take another step.

Then I heard it. A footfall, tentative but unmistakable.

Shit.

I spun around and in one fluid motion, flipped the deadbolt, yanked the door, then slammed it shut. Taking the front steps in a single leap, I scrambled to the car and dug my hand into my pocket for my keys, fingers jamming in the tight fabric of my jeans. Pistol in my right hand, pointed shakily at the front door, I dug deeper with my left until my index finger caught the key ring. I yanked. The mass of keys jammed against my wallet and I tugged even harder, the thin steel ring slicing into the flesh of my index finger, stretching under the strain of my flexor tendon. I screamed from the pain, but continued pulling manically. The wire ring deformed further, then with a sudden, loud rip, the fabric tore and my keys went airborne.

I staggered over, grabbed the ring and jammed my thumb against the remote's unlock button. Nothing. I pressed harder, longer. Again, nothing. Key in hand, I closed the space to my driver's side door, rammed the key into the lock, and twisted. The lock clicked. I jumped in, inserted the key into the ignition, shifted the car into gear, and accelerated into a tight loop, past the gate and down the driveway. The undercarriage of the car scraped the curb as I skidded onto Latigo toward the Pacific Coast Highway.

“Hello? Steven?”

“Alex?”

“Fuck! They broke into the house!”

The line went silent for a long second.

“What? Where are you?”

I took a deep breath.

“In my car. I forgot to lock up the other thumb drive in the panic room, so I drove back. They must have been waiting for us to leave.”

“Jesus Christ! Who was it? Was it the Russian?”

“How the fuck should I know?” I snapped. “I heard someone in the house and I bolted.”

“Alex, just calm down and we'll figure this out.” It was Linda.

My hands trembled visibly on the steering wheel. I concentrated on my heartbeat, inhaling and exhaling slowly.

“I'm not waiting until tomorrow morning,” I said. “No way. No fucking way. If you found those cave photos on
Climbing.com
, then they will too. They're going to figure out where that cave is and I'm going to be fucked.”