Mortal Pursuit

50

Clasped hands.

Shaking with effort, Trish hauled Ally through the drainage hole, into the bottom of the well.

“Thanks, Trish.” Ally coughed weakly, expelling inhaled dust. Blood measled her palms where the gritty limestone had chewed like rodent teeth. “Thanks.”

The last five feet had been nearly impossible for her. More than once Trish had been sure the girl would lose her hold. She was not an athlete, and the sheer physical exertion expended in chimneying up the sinkhole had left her shivering with fatigue.

“You need to work out more,” Trish said gently.

“No way.” Ally hung her head, a spill of dust-glazed hair overshadowing her face. “After tonight I’m never getting out of bed again.”

Trish couldn’t blame her. She’d had the same thought herself.

She glanced upward at the well head, twelve feet above the drain. The feeble glow of the flashlight, abandoned in the cave, was of no use now. But the stars, bright and clear in the cloudless sky, painted the scene in a pallid wash of light.

Over the well stood a hand-cranked windlass, a bucket dangling on a rope. The rope must have been wound tight on the winch once, but over time it had unspooled, the bucket pulled lower by the weight of collected rainwater.

Now the bucket hung halfway down the well. Just out of reach.

“Going to need your help again,” Trish said.

Ally struggled erect.

Her bare feet were bloodied, her stylish dress as shapeless as a flour sack, her arms and shoulders scored with scratches. Brambles gleamed in disheveled hair, matted with dirt and dust.

Still she voiced no complaint. “What can I do” she asked simply.

Wonder Woman’s partner, Trish thought with a smile.

“See that bucket I’ll make like a footstool. You stand on me and pull it down.”

Kneeling, Trish braced herself, hands spread. A blade of sciatica twisted through her sacroiliac as Ally stepped onto her back.

“Got it.” She climbed off.

Trish tugged the line until it was taut. “Okay. We’ve got to shimmy up.”

For once she’d found a use for her academy training. Like the other recruits, she had practiced rope climbing regularly as part of a conditioning program.

Grasping the rope with both hands, tucking it between her knees, she began to climb.

The distance was short enough, and the line seemed to be taking her weight without undue strain, but even so Trish felt a cool caress of relief when she reached the rim of the well.

Cautiously she raised her head, aware that she was an easy target for a sniper.

Nothing happened.

She climbed higher, then swung her legs over the rim and lowered herself to the ground. Pain flared in her sore ankle.

For a moment, just one moment, she surrendered herself to the warm night air fragrant with summer blossoms, the whisper of leaves, the trill of a mockingbird running through a series of whistling calls.

It was so good to be out from underground. It was like returning from the dead.

Later she would savor the feeling. Later.

Now there was work to do.

“You next,” she whispered, leaning weakly on the rim.

Ally started to shimmy up, gasps of exertion echoing in the shaft. The rope twirled giddily. Starlight painted her face as a pale smear.

Trish followed the girl’s slow progress, her gaze shifting intermittently to the dangerous darkness on every side.

Climbing the rope was not much of a physical challenge, but Ally’s strength was nearly gone.

Come on, kiddo, Trish urged silently. You can do it.

“No medals for quitters,” she called into the well.

Ally, halfway up, produced an interrogative grunt. “What”

“No medals for quitters, I said.”

“Screw you, Trish.” But she climbed faster. Three quarters of the way now.

From the windlass-a sudden creak.

The knot securing the rope was coming loose.

Instinctively Trish closed both hands over the line.

But the gesture was useless. Should the knot fail, the cord would slither through her clutching fingers, branding her with rope bums. She could never hold on.

Ally was nearly to the rim.

“Hurry,” Trish breathed.

“Hey, like I said, screw …” Then Ally saw how Trish gripped the rope, and she understood.

She shimmied faster, gulping air.

It would be a twelve-foot fall. Concrete floor. Broken arm, broken leg-at a minimum. Then Ally would be trapped in the well, unable to climb out or to take refuge in the caves.

Trish thought of the rabbit skull in the grotto, the scatter of bones.

How many hunted animals had died here in the dark

Ally was less than a yard from the well head.

Trish looked at the knot-unraveling still faster.

Another second, and the rope would spring free.

“Take my hand!”

Leaning forward, she thrust her right arm down.

Ally grasped her wrist, and the knot undid itself, the line lashing like a snake as it dropped away.

The wrenching tug of gravity nearly cost Trish her balance. With her left hand she clutched the rim of the well, digging her shoes into the dirt.

“It’s okay,” she gasped. “Got you.”

Straining, she pushed away from the well, carrying Ally with her, and abruptly Ally’s bare feet were scrabbling on the rim, finding purchase, and she was out.

“Oh, God.” Ally shook all over, a rag doll in a terrier’s mouth. “Oh, God, this is bad, this is bad.”

“It’s nearly over.” Trish fought the violent trembling of her knees. “Is the lake nearby”

Ally brought her breathing under control. “Yeah. That way.”

A wide strip of pavement was visible through a gap in the trees. Trish recognized the path she’d taken when she left the dock and entered the Kents’ backyard.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

They reached the macadam in seconds, then headed downhill, both of them hobbling.

Trish’s ankle screamed with every step. She gritted her teeth against swirls of lightheadedness and limped on.

Couldn’t let pain stop her. Somehow she sensed with premonitory certainty that death was rapidly closing in.