They slipped forward and suddenly all his resistance to the rope was gone. With enough torque to squeeze the air out of him, Lonetree’s weight yanked him forward headfirst toward the river.
Jack bounced along the rock floor like he was being dragged behind a truck. He reached out and clawed at the ground for something to cling on to, but he knew what was coming next.
Jack sucked down a lungful of air just as his body plunged into the water. He closed his eyes and curled up in a ball the best he could with the rope still tugging at his midsection.
He knew that in less than a second he would disappear just like Lonetree had into the black hole cut into the rock. In that one second a cascade of images burst through his mind, as if every synapse knew it was about to blink out forever and wanted to fire one last time. His family. His girls. His wife. And with the images came an unspeakably cruel understanding that he would never see any of them again. The black hole ahead of him was death. Cold, dark and silent. He focused on the images of his wife and daughters as he rolled end over end through the water, carrying his memories into the darkness with him.
He was sorry, so sorry, that hadn’t been strong enough to save his daughter. But it occurred to him that maybe he deserved to fail. After all, he had taken another father’s child away when he ran over and killed Melissa Gonzales. Maybe God did exist and He was settling a score, making sure all debts were paid off in the end.
Still, what kind of God would punish children for the sins of their fathers? Only a God who didn’t care or didn’t exist. Either way, Jack held no desire to meet Him. He expected that death would be as dark and lonely as the tunnel looming ahead of him.
Time snapped back into place and the world moved again in full motion. The river carried him into the rock wall, his helmet scraping against the ceiling as he tumbled through the water.
The narrow beam from the waterproof helmet light cut through the dark water and lit up the smooth walls as they flew by. Jack knew he was a dead man but still he reached out for something to grab on to, as if gaining a handhold was the only thing keeping him from clawing back upstream and escaping the clutches of the river. Both times he managed to grab onto a crack in the rock, the rope around his waist tightened and ripped him from the wall.
It suddenly occurred to Jack that Lonetree might already be dead. The thought of being dragged through the dark tunnel tied to a corpse struck Jack as a particularly gruesome way to die. He idly wondered where the river ended and how long he and Lonetree would be joined together. Maybe forever. Buried underground. Their bodies seeping into the ground water a little bit at a time.
Jack choked down the little air left in his mouth and throat. His ears rang. He wanted to fight back, scrape and beg for every spare second, but he felt his muscles loosening, surrendering, as he started to float through the water instead of struggle.
The blood in his temples beat in a rising tempo, quickening. He couldn’t hold his breath much longer. He had only seconds left before his body betrayed him and sucked the lukewarm river water into his lungs.
Then rope around his waist went slack. The meaning of this worked its way through his oxygen deprived brain. Lonetree’s body was probably hung up in a crevice, or wedged between rocks up ahead. It occurred to him that whatever it was, maybe there was an air pocket.
But the burning in his chest had gone from pain to desperation and thoughts of survival disappeared.
Seconds later, even as he floated through coils of rope bunching up in front of him, his lungs gave way.
With a choked inhalation, Jack’s lungs filled with water and he lost consciousness. His brain burned off the last remnants of oxygen still available, then, without fuel, ceased to function. The rest of his body did the same.
Deep inside the mountains of western Maryland, in a dark underground river without a name, Jack Tremont’s dead body floated with the current, drifting toward wherever chance might take him.
SEVENTY-SIX
Consciousness came like a sunrise viewed through antique glass, distorted and blurred. Pale shadows swirled in faded degrees of color. Muffled sounds reached her ears in undulating waves, like listening to a talk radio station through blown speakers.
“She’s waking up,” someone said.
She recognized the voice, but she couldn’t attach a name to it. Hearing it made her feel comfortable. Made her feel safe.
Everything was confused, but she knew something bad had happened to her, she was sure of it. And the owner of the voice would tell her what it was. He would help her.
She squeezed her eyes shut and willed the pain in her head to go away. The voice came back to her through the velvet darkness and asked her how she felt. It was just like Stanley Mansfield to ask such a question.
That was it. That was who the voice belonged to, Dr. Mansfield.
It was just like him to look out for her. She smiled and tried to say hello but there was something wrong. The words wouldn’t form on her lips. She carefully opened her eyes, aware at some level that the bright light around her would be painful if taken in too quickly. Dr. Mansfield’s face hovered in front of her, blurry at first, and then sharpening into focus as if someone were fine tuning the reception in her head. Then, in a rush of images, she remembered what had happened. She remembered the basement in the hospital. She remembered Dr. Mansfield was not her friend. He was the Boss. The person in the crazy story Jack had told her.
In an emotional plunge that left her stomach turning, she remembered seeing Sarah.
The burst of adrenaline from that memory pushed her consciousness through the thick drug-induced blanket around her brain. She pushed herself up off the floor.
“Sarah? W-wh-where’s Sarah?”
Strong hands pulled her up to a sitting position. Dr. Mansfield’s voice came at her from what seemed multiple directions. “Easy. The drug is wearing off.”
Lauren smelled manure. And damp straw. She rubbed her eyes and looked around. They were in a barn. The interior was lit by massive halogen lights so that everything stood out in sharp contrasts. There, on the ground next to her, blond hair fanned out around her head, was her little girl, curled as if she were asleep in her bed at home. But something was wrong. She was too still, too pale. Lauren’s heart thumped hard in her chest. She lurched forward but several hands held her back. She screamed in frustration and lashed out, but she couldn’t break free. Rope appeared and she sobbed as her hands and feet were bound, her eyes never leaving Sarah’s unmoving body.
“Is she alive?” she sobbed.
Dr. Mansfield crouched down in front of her, putting himself into her field of vision as she continued to stare at her daughter. “Yes, she’s fine. She’s had the same medication I gave you. Now, try to calm down, all right. You’ll feel the effects of the drug for a few more minutes.”
“Why are you wasting your time with her?” Huckley asked, spitting on the floor. “She’s going to die just like her daughter. What’s the big deal?”
Lauren’s eyes went wide. She struggled at her bindings until the rope started to cut into her wrists.
“You’ll just make it worse. Please calm down.” Dr. Mansfield said. “Please.”
Once she stopped struggling, Dr. Mansfield rose and faced Huckley. Lauren tore her eyes away from her daughter and watched the two men standing only a few feet from her. No words were exchanged, but Huckley stared at the ground, his shoulders slumping forward like a kid pouting from a parent’s reprimand. No, Lauren thought to herself, more like an animal’s show of submission. The simple gesture confirmed to her that the doctor was not only part of the madness but he was leading it. And if he was the leader, the one Jack called the Boss, was it possible that the rest of Jack’s story was true? Was it possible that these lunatics meant to kill her daughter in some kind of ritual sacrifice? Lauren shook her head, willing the thoughts to go away, as if that alone could change the situation she found herself in.