Fatalis

Chapter Eleven

Grand had climbed down the first hundred feet of mountainside, after which the ground sloped sufficiently for him to walk. He weaved his way through the pines that broke the otherwise flat landscape. He was perspiring from the exertion and the cool drizzle felt good. He had parked his sports utility vehicle just past Snyder Trail. After placing his duffel bag in the back, Grand climbed behind the wheel, turned on the wipers and heat, and sat for a moment. It was ironic. Jim Grand spent most of his time in the distant past, trying to think like the ancient settlers of this region-figuring out where they would have lived, how they would have hunted or fished, what they would have done with their dead. He never had any trouble returning to the present-until now. Before he saw Gearhart he wanted to try and flush some of the bitterness and rage away.

It was difficult.

Rebecca Schuman-Grand had died in a boating accident off Sandy Point on nearby Santa Rosa Island. She had gone out to assist an elderly colleague who ran a tortoise farm. Grand was going to take the day off and go with her. But he got caught up studying DNA results that had come in early-thanks to one of his students being in charge of the equipment-of nineteen-thousand-year-old fossilized sloth dung that had been found in a cave in Las Vegas. Rebecca's last words to him were a teasing, "You're always giving me one shitty excuse or another."

That was it. Their good-bye. Just the one-liner, a kiss on the forehead, and she went smiling out the door.

On the way back, Rebecca's small jet boat was rammed by a motor yacht that just didn't see her. The Santa Barbara coroner later determined that Rebecca had died instantly.

The United States Coast Guard's Eleventh District Search and Rescue team-which was based on the Channel Islands Harbor in nearby Oxnard-and Sheriff Gearhart's own SAR team were both on-site in twenty minutes. However, after the Coast Guard's motor lifeboat carefully pried the jet boat from the prow of the much larger motor yacht, Gearhart insisted that they bring both vessels to Santa Barbara for impoundment. The ships remained at sea for nearly four hours until the SAR unit finally yielded control of the investigation. The sheriff used the accident to establish absolute jurisdiction over the coastline. Within two days he had also turned Rebecca into a poster child for fund-raising efforts to obtain a motor lifeboat for Santa Barbara County.

Gearhart called the scientist and asked him to assist in the effort. Grand declined. At the time, all the scientist could do was sit in front of the open door of the bedroom closet, staring at his wife's blouses and pants and stacks of shoeboxes and hats and scarves and remembering when they were full of her and alive. He didn't want to see or talk to anyone. Gearhart called him a disappointment, not just to the community but to the memory of Rebecca. Grand should have called the bastard out then and there, but didn't. He was too busy trying to hold onto his wife, the goodness that was in her. Until today, that phone call had been their only contact. Unfortunately, though the moment had passed, the anger never did. A big part of Grand still wanted to hurt him.

The sheriff eventually got his motor lifeboat. He also got an involuntary manslaughter conviction for the seventy-year-old skipper of the motor yacht, who had been kissing his young bride when he should have been watching the water. Grand had always wondered if the bastard expected his thanks.

The scientist set off along East Camino Cielo and followed the long, narrow U-shaped turn to Painted Cave Road. He turned south and was at the sinkhole five minutes later. Grand pulled around the flares. He had to park on the road itself since all the off-road space was taken by private cars and Caltrans emergency vehicles. As he approached, he saw two deputies walking along the creek some thirty feet below. Up ahead there were eight men digging in the sinkhole while his colleague Elma Thorpe, reporter Hannah Hughes, and a man-mountain of a photographer stood around the site. Gearhart was on the other side of the sinkhole, sitting in his patrol car and talking on the radio. As soon as the sheriff saw Grand he stopped what he was doing and came over.

Hannah Hughes followed but stayed several paces behind.

Gearhart exemplified the expression "Once a Marine, always a Marine." His posture was ramrod-straight and there was nothing lazy about his movements. The men met halfway between Stan Greene's van and the sinkhole. Neither man offered a hand or a word of greeting.

"Professor Grand," Gearhart said, "a couple of my Special Ops volunteers are going to enter the cave and retrieve the radio. I'll need precise instructions on how to get to the lower cave."

It wasn't a request but a command.

"Sheriff, I'm not good at giving directions, orders, that kind of thing," Grand said pointedly. "Why don't I just take them in myself?"

"I don't have a problem with that," Gearhart replied.

"They'll need harnesses to get down there," Grand told him. "They'll also need night vision capability until we get to the subterranean level."

"Why?"

"I discovered paintings in the outer cave," Grand said. "Bright lights may damage them."

"I'll let them know," Gearhart said.

The sheriff didn't make an issue of that. California state law required the "participation, guidance, and accommodation" of specialists whenever there was police activity in or around an historic site. In the absence of a clear and present danger, search-and-rescue operations or criminal investigations were obliged to follow the expert's advice to protect the integrity of the site.

"The men should be up here in about an hour," Gearhart went on. "Can you wait?"

Grand nodded. Gearhart nodded back, then strode over to the ravine.

Hannah wandered over. She watched Gearhart go. "You're welcome. Sheriff," she grumbled.

Grand looked at her.

"You know," she went on, "the movers and shakers are actually talking about running him for governor."

"Sounds like a good idea," Grand said.

"Oh, come on-"

"Hell, I'd vote for him," Grand went on. "Get him out of Santa Barbara."

Hannah smiled. "Professor, we could become great friends. I'm Hannah Hughes-"

"With the Coastal Freeway, I know." Grand took off his glove and offered the young woman his hand. "You wrote some very nice things about Rebecca. Thank you."

Hannah shook his hand. "She was a terrific lady, she did a lot of good work. But how did you know it was me?"

"From your photograph."

"Which photograph?"

"The one on the editorial page."

"That tiny one?"

Grand nodded.

"Wow, you do know how to interpret cave art."

Grand smiled. "It's not so bad."

"Not for high school circa nineteen seventy," Hannah said. "It was the Wall's idea of a glamour shot."

"The Wall?"

"My photographer." She pointed him out. "Walter. The big guy."

The Wall saw her and waved.

"I used the photo because I didn't want to hurt his feelings," Hannah said. "Anyway, speaking of what we do, I have a nasty-wicked deadline. I overheard your conversation with Gearhart and I was wondering if you could tell me more about what you found in that lower cave."

"The radio, I assume. Not the paintings."

"Correct."

"There isn't much more to tell," he said. "The only thing I found in the lower chamber was the radio. There's a lake, but I wasn't able to check it."

"Where exactly is the cave?"

"I'd rather not say," he told her. "People might go out there-"

"-and climb all over the paintings," Hannah said. "I understand."

"They could also get hurt," Grand said. "Several of the caves have been opened because of rockslides. The ground is still pretty unsteady around the entrances."

"Say no more," Hannah said. "Professor, you were at that site roughly the same time as the men disappeared. Could anyone have snuck in or out without you knowing it?"

"Someone might have been able to get in through another entrance or fissure," he said, "but it would have been very difficult to sneak in. Even small sounds can carry for miles in those caves."

"There are miles of caves?" she said.

"Typically," he said. "The Chumash often used them to move under grazing herds in order to get upwind. And with all the flooding we've had, tunnels are probably being opened that have been blocked for tens of thousands of years."

"Bet you can't wait to have a look at them," Hannah smiled.

"I'd be camping there if it weren't for my classes," Grand said. "But there is something we can have a look at right now, if you'd care to join me."

"Something-?"

"A place that may tell us how the radio got underground."

"I'm there," she said, beaming.

Grand and Hannah walked down the road, away from the sinkhole. He stopped at a spot past the parked cars. It was only about fifteen feet to the bottom of the ravine here. Large boulders were piled most of the way up, with newly broken tree limbs and soft, rotted logs scattered about Grand started down the jumble of rocks and debris and Hannah right behind him. It was an easy climb.

The rain-swollen creek coursed swiftly to the west Grand picked his way across the jagged rocks along the bank. It was even cooler down here than up on the road, the thickly leafed branches preventing sunlight from getting through. They created a sense of quiet isolation that was actually enhanced by the rushing waters. As the Chumash described riverbeds, this was the home of the waters. Everything else dwelt here at its pleasure.

The two sheriff's deputies were walking along the ravine several hundred yards ahead. It was extremely dry there. Grand stopped as they neared the little cove where the waters slid under the creek bed and went underground. He remembered it being a small, natural depression in the center of the creek, covered by two flat rocks that were steepled one against the other.

He reached the spot and stopped. The depression was there but it wasn't small anymore.

"Score one for Professor Grand," Hannah said as she stared at the spot.

Rushing water wasn't the only thing in the opening.