Finally, he had found a rock shelf, sheltered by the cliff face. On the face itself, someone had marked a crude X, as high as a tall man could reach, above the shelf. The mark might have been an ancient pictograph, except that it was alone, and it had been inscribed there with no particular grace or skill. Someone had simply taken a harder rock and scratched it there, marking the cliff like a treasure spot on a pirate map.
The shelf was jammed with rocks, so it looked less like an open space than a jumble of fallen stone. But there were some on the ground in front of the shelf, and they looked to have been placed there recently, as they weren't covered with the film of dirt that coated everything else. Looking more closely, Greg saw that others had been removed and then put back, as if by someone trying to ensure that whatever was behind them stayed hidden. The hole that was left was almost wide enough for him to squeeze through but not quite. Behind it was a dark, open space, but he couldn't tell how big it was or if there was anything in it until he could get at least his shoulders inside.
The other footprints were all around there. Whoever had preceded him into the desert had been the one who had taken the rocks out, then replaced some. Why?
He took a few pictures of the rocks as he had found them, then slipped on three layers of latex gloves – knowing that handling the rocks would tear through at least one or two – and started pulling them away, setting them carefully on the ground behind him. Within a short time, he had cleared enough rocks to give him limited access. He took a flashlight from his backpack. Maybe he should have brought his whole crime-scene kit, but not knowing how far he'd have to walk, he hadn't wanted to risk carrying the extra weight, not to mention the weight of the additional water he would have needed had he done so.
He beamed the light into the opening, turning it this way and that until he saw the dried, shriveled form inside. It didn't look human at first, but then he spotted the hair, and with that as a starting point, he was able to make out the basic shape, the shoulders collapsed and curled slightly in toward the chest, knees drawn up, feet together. It looked more like some dark, carved wood than human flesh.
Greg knew that dry desert air could do that to a person. The aridity sucked the moisture from a body, and the rock wall that had been built in front of this one would have protected it from animals. Every schoolkid knew about the carefully embalmed and wrapped mummies of Egypt, but the fact was that anyplace dry enough or cold enough could mummify corpses, as could immersion in such natural preserving substances as peat bogs.
He took a few additional pictures before dislodging any more rocks and regretted once again the decision not to bring his crime-scene kit. Not that there would be much physical evidence left after ten years, but there might be some. And if there was, he wanted to find it.
Considering who had written the directions and saved them for so long, he had a feeling he was looking at the corpse of long-missing casino mogul Bix Cameron.
Since the space was now wide enough for him to wriggle through without worrying about dislodging any more of the rocks, Greg stuck his head and shoulders in. He expected to encounter the close, dry smell of a desert cave, but there was something else in the air. something unexpected. He took another whiff.
It was sweat. Human sweat, mixed with something else, something with a little of the bite of alcohol, leavened with a floral scent. He smelled himself. Not exactly fragrant but different from the smell in the air inside the cave. The body on the floor hadn't been sweaty for a very long time, nor had it worn any perfume, so the smell didn't come from him.
Greg tried to picture the footprints, to remember, without climbing back out of the tight space, if any of them had led away from there. He couldn't envision any, but they had strayed all over the place, as his own certainly did, since the other person had seemingly had just as much trouble as Greg finding the exact spot he or she was looking for.
Instead of turning around to look, he pushed forward. The floor of the rock shelf was dusty, and there were bug carcasses and bits of rodent feces scattered about – he checked his hands, pleased to see that the gloves were holding so far – but the piled rocks had kept the interior relatively clean. He saw scuff marks in the caked-on dust, though, leading past the mummified body. Aiming the flashlight that way, he saw that the cave curved around, and he couldn't see its endpoint from there.
"Hello!" he called. "Las Vegas Police! Is there somebody in here?"
He might have heard a faint intake of breath, but he couldn't be sure. He continued past the body, careful not to touch it, moving on hands and knees and trying to keep the flashlight pointed ahead at all times.
No way of telling what's around that comer, he thought. The cave might continue on for five feet or a hundred or more. There might be someone waiting to ambush him with a gun. The idea made his heart pound in his throat, but there was no way around it. He had to see what was there. And if the mummy was indeed Bix Cameron, he couldn't risk going for backup and letting someone dispose of or damage the body. The casino magnate had been missing long enough.
"Las Vegas Police Department!" he announced again as he neared the corner. Then he shoved the flashlight around and beamed it into the darkness. No one shot at it, so he risked following it with his head.
No one would be doing any shooting in that cave, not that day.
The cave spur reached back only about seven feet. Lying on her side, against the back wall, was someone Greg recognized from photographs as Daria Cameron.
As Catherine had suggested, there was an orange cast to the young woman's skin. Moving closer, he saw white streaks on her broken fingernails. She wasn't moving, but as Greg crawled nearer still, he saw that her chest rose and fell slightly as she took shallow breaths.
She wore brand-new hiking boots on her small feet, the tread matching the tracks he had seen outside.
"Ms. Cameron., Greg said. He couldn't tell if she heard him or not, but she gave no sign of it. He touched her arm gently. "Ms. Cameron, I'm going to get you some help. I'll be right back, okay?"
She didn't answer. He had not expected her to. If she was conscious at all, it was just barely. He backed out of the space, climbed out the hole through which he'd entered, and tugged his cell phone from his pocket, fully expecting to see the words "No Service" on the display.
Ten years ago, when Bix Cameron had come there – or been brought there, probably along with his son, Troy – there certainly would not have been service there. But in those ten years, Las Vegas had grown fast, and cellular-phone use had risen dramatically. Coverage areas had expanded as well, and he had two bars. That was plenty. He made the call, then went back inside the cave to wait with Daria Cameron.
She had come there to die where her father had, where her brother had been badly wounded and had lost touch with his own identity.
Greg didn't intend to let that happen.
He was still sitting beside her in the dark, speaking in quiet tones, telling her about his life, current events, sports, whatever he could think of, when he heard the thwap-thwap-thwap of the Life Flight helicopter's blades, muffled by the stone walls but still distinctly recognizable. He touched Daria Cameron again – she had not budged but was still breathing – and raced out of the cave, waving his arms in the air to bring the chopper down as close as it could come.
21
Robert Domingo had taken a swipe at someone, presumably his assailant, and as a result, there were bits of tissue under his fingernails, more than enough skin cells for Wendy Simms to run DNA tests on.