The Senator’s Daughter (43 page)

“Here we go.” Lyle's words broke her reverie, as he slowed for the National Guard roadblock at Dunaweal Lane.

A young woman in fatigues approached Lyle's open car window. “I'm sorry, but this area has been quarantined due to the mercury pollution of the Lava River watershed.”

On a nearby hill, the white stucco walls of Sterling Vineyards made a bright beacon. The gondola hummed busily, carrying visitors to the crest. North of the road, no one was allowed to view the sculpture garden at Clos Pegase Winery.

Guess they had to draw the line somewhere.

Sylvia grimaced. Even without the inn, and they must have insurance, Buck and Mary's property had been worth millions. Had Andre's proposal about buying merely been a preamble to offering to take it at a fire sale price?

Sylvia leaned across Lyle and embroidered. “We understood people could go in to secure their property. I work for Buck and Mary Kline at the Lava Springs Inn.”

The guardian of the forbidden zone shook her head. “I don't know where you heard that, but it's certainly not true. No private citizens are going in or out until we get an all clear from the USGS.”

Lyle turned his car around and drove back south. He and Sylvia were both silent while he absorbed what he'd feared. Without a way to the springs, they wouldn't be able to find out if the mercury pollution was bogus.

“I'm afraid our hopes of getting in were too good to be true.”

“We had to try.” In the passenger seat, Sylvia looked dejected. Before he could ask what to do next, she bent forward and peered up at the sky. “There.” She pointed.

Lyle looked up. “What?”

“Pull over,” she insisted.

He guided the Mercedes onto the shoulder. Sylvia jumped out and he opened his door for a view of the cloudless sky.

A helicopter beat its way northbound over the middle of the Napa Valley. Normally, Lyle would have said, “So?” but as the chopper crossed the National Guard line, the implication became clear.

“Now all we need are wings,” he said.

Sylvia looked at him over the roof of the car. “The airport in Napa has a couple of helicopter charter businesses.”

Half an hour later, Lyle slipped Sylvia's arm through his as they approached the office of Wineland Helicopters. He was aware of the weight of Andre's pistol in his jacket pocket. If the charter service let them on board without going through a metal detector, he'd feel good about having it along.

Inside at the counter, he put on his best smile for the fifty-something woman with cropped iron-gray hair. “If we took a charter flight, could we have the pilot set us down somewhere?”

“I am the pilot,” she said with faint emphasis. “Charlotte Longstreet. Captain, United States Army.” Her gray eyes matched her hair and brooked no nonsense. “We can set down anyplace the landing is safe and legal.”

A glance at Sylvia was the signal for her to chime in, “I'm Sylvia Chatsworth, the Senator's daughter …”

“You sure are. Seen your picture on TV.”

“Then you've probably heard about my car being found north of Calistoga.”

Charlotte nodded. “They said you were still missing.”

“I'm keeping out of sight,” she explained. “There's a man who wanted to harm me and my father. The only way I can prove it and have him put in jail is to go up and collect some evidence … at Lava Springs.”

“Up where they've evacuated?”

“We'd only need to touch down for a little while. You'd be safe.”

“That's right,” Lyle put in. “The mercury levels they've been talking about are high, but only if somebody drank the water or bathed on a daily basis.”

The pilot tapped a finger on a newspaper on the counter. “That's what they said. But…”

“Has there been any communication from the FAA making the area a no-fly zone?” Lyle asked.

Charlotte shook her head. “Matter of fact, I did a tour a little while ago and left in the flight over the northern Napa.”

“I think we saw you,” Sylvia said.

“Guess they didn't scramble the fighter jets,” Lyle said easily.

The older woman considered and consulted a wall clock. “Right, then. I've got a couple of hours till my next appointment. My price is one thousand dollars an hour.”

Lyle swallowed. Sylvia didn't have one of the Senator's credit cards, and he wasn't carrying that kind of cash.

Quickly, he figured. He had a high line of credit on the major card he usually used, and if they were going to do this, he'd have to risk the
famiglia
Valetti tracking him. Hopefully, he and Sylvia would be back on the ground and away from here before anybody could hack his credit-card purchases and stake the place out.

Pulling out his wallet, Lyle placed the card on the counter.

Strapped into the seat, Sylvia pressed her forehead to the helicopter window and watched the white stucco landmark of Sterling Vineyards until it was behind them. They were over the evacuation zone.

The pilot steered them up to Calistoga, and, despite the rhythmic thwock of the helicopter's blades, Sylvia imagined the unnatural silence in the usually bustling small town. They flew lower above Lincoln Avenue, Calistoga's main street, where the angled parking spaces sat empty. The beer garden of the Swiss-style Calistoga Inn sat deserted, tables and chairs piled high beneath the overhanging lattice. Sylvia surmised the fountain no longer made its merry music; the petunias would wither in their terra-cotta pots.

They flew over Chateau Montelena Winery with its Japanese-style garden. Even from the air, schools of colorful koi could be seen swimming in the ponds, bright orange and spotted white.

Charlotte lifted the chopper higher and flew toward the foothills where Andre Valetti's vines met the forest at Lava Springs. After looking over the area, she rejected the Lava Springs parking lot for too many trees overhanging it, the road up the hill was too narrow and winding, and the rowed vineyards out of the question.

Reluctantly, Sylvia and Lyle agreed to land at the Villa Valetti heliport.

Sylvia pushed open the wrought-iron gate leading into Lava Springs. It creaked on its hinges with the same familiar sound as before. Today, it sounded louder. Wisps of steam rose into the still air from the pools, and beds of chrysanthemums nodded overripe heads, fallen gold petals littering the flagstone walks.

Lyle followed and let the gate shut behind him. Thankfully, the pilot had made no suggestion about accompanying them on the walk downhill.

Passing the pools, Sylvia approached the Lava River's source beneath the travertine cliff. Where the water poured forth, the flow was at least fifteen feet deep. Emerald algae clung to a metal mesh fence extending down about six feet to keep swimmers from entering the cavern.

Lyle knelt beside her on the rock wall, swished a hand in the water, and peered into the gin-clear spring. “I don't see anything.”

“Me, either.”

Was this the end, then? She had entertained the idea that with the clear water they would be able to see the black box inside and call the authorities to pull out the proof.

Lyle slipped off his Nikes, took off his black warm-up jacket, and drew his shirt over his head.

“No!” Sylvia grabbed his arm. “The water's scalding.”

“I just tested it,” he said. “Take a look around and tell me what's different from the other evening.”

She looked. What should have been obvious when they came through the gate became clear. “Less steam. A lot less.”

“Meaning things are settling back to normal.” Lyle took off his socks and tossed them at his shoes.

“Kiss me for luck.” In the same breath, he made it happen.

Wearing his running pants, he dove into the current, kicked down strongly, and swam beneath the metal grate. Sylvia watched until he was out of sight beneath the low-hanging rock ledge.

She started counting the seconds, figuring she'd missed about ten. And waited.

A minute passed, then two, and she wondered if he had found a pocket of air beneath the cliff.

“Hello?” she called.

Sylvia felt suddenly cold as sun turned to shadow. Looking up, she saw clouds dropping down from the mountain heights and a hawk soaring on the thermals above the lava cliffs of the high Palisades.

A faint thumping sounded above the valley. God, was it a military chopper come to apprehend them?

Throughout, she kept her count.

When three minutes and thirty seconds had elapsed since Lyle entered the water, she kicked off her shoes. Then peeled off red silk sweater and slacks.

At four minutes, in her bra and panties, she entered the water.

It was warm, so warm and soothing that Sylvia couldn't believe the springs had turned malevolent, spewing poison. The device must be in there.

Kicking hard, she arced down below the grate and entered the cavern.

The current pushed back, threatening to sweep her downstream if she relaxed for an instant. Reaching overhead, she pulled her way hand over hand along the vugs in the rock ceiling. Reflected daylight danced in water so transparent she felt as though she floated in air, fifteen feet above the boulder-strewn bottom. And in all that clear water, Lyle was nowhere in sight.

Oxygen starvation began, or she'd heard it was too much carbon dioxide, a creeping feeling of desperation. She kept looking for Lyle.

Her arms and legs started to burn. Her muscles needed air for fuel.

She fought on, until she no longer had the strength to move against the current. It took her, tumbled her back, and slammed her up against the metal grate.

Where the hell was Lyle? It had to have been six minutes and if he'd drowned in the pool, his body would have fetched up where she was, trapped behind the grate. That must mean the cave opened up inside.

And unless she got herself unpinned she was going to die.

Sylvia tried clawing her way down the fence, but its slippery coating made it impossible.

The need to breathe became a raging nightmare.

Without intending to, she opened her mouth and sucked in water. Drew it in deep as if it were the life giving clear air the water resembled.

Dark spots began to break up her vision. So this was how it went.

Rage enveloped her. Not fair. Not fair. Who ever said life was fair?

Only moments before she'd been standing on the shore, focused on the mission of exposing Andre. Now her only care was that she was going to lose her life just as she had found it.

Things got darker, and her chest muscles worked in spasms; her lungs must be filling.

They said your entire past flashed by before you died, but all Sylvia saw in her mind's eye was Lyle. She wanted to live, to share everything with him.

God, where was he? Had he drowned? Was he waiting for her on the other side of a tunnel of light? Or was he going to live and rage at himself for risking his heart by loving her?

Something grabbed her shoulders. She felt herself dragged like a broken doll, farther into the cavern against the current. Then her head broke the surface.