Somewhere in the depths of Claire’s unconscious, Clarice reached the mine entrance before her pursuers, but the iron-gate that led to the Star Mine’s elevator was locked. Frantically, she looked over her shoulder, the three young men had slowed to a walk when they saw she had no place to go. Shuffling to the right she tried the handle on a little door. When it flew open she nearly fell over but quickly recovered and dove into the dumbwaiter, slamming the iron door behind her. Rolling onto her back Clarice saw in the dim light that an iron latch had fallen into place. Lurching forward she applied all her weight to hold it. She could feel someone on the outside trying the handle.
“Shit, the little bitch has locked herself in,” the leader of the three said.
The taller one stood in front of a small wooden box mounted just above Clarice’s hiding place.
“Hey, look at this.”
He broke open the door to the box, revealing two buttons, one red, marked up, one blue, marked down.
He leaned down until his face was next to the little door, and shouted to be sure Clarice could hear. “Hey guys, since she won’t come out, let’s send her to the bottom of the mine.” They all laughed as he straightened up and pressed the blue button.
The dumbwaiter that carried tools and sometimes explosives to the various levels of the mine had its own shaft. Designed to descend at breakneck speed, it never was meant to carry human cargo.
Clarice plunged into darkness and felt her stomach lurch with the sudden drop.
Paul ran as fast as his hip would allow. He carried a twelve-foot, four-by-four across his shoulders. Rye ran to meet him, grabbing the post. Together they lugged it to the hole, and shoved it beneath the center ring of the tripod. Suddenly there was a loud metallic sound as the tripod completely fractured and the four-by four took all the weight.
“Claire, are you alright? The tripod collapsed but the rope is secure,” Rye yelled.
No answer.
Rye cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Claire.”
No answer.
Paul came around next to Rye. “You think she’s alright?”
Rye sat back on his haunches. “She could be in trouble. Claire has claustrophobia, something happened to her when she was a little girl… God, I just don’t know.”
Reaching out, Rye grabbed the rope and began to shake it. “Claire, talk to me, Claire!”
Her back pinched out a needle of pain and Claire opened her eyes. She was spinning and nauseous. Everything was out of focus; a yellow arch of light illuminated a muddy wall. Claire’s disorientation suddenly fell away. She reached out for the rope and began to pull herself upright, hand over hand. Grasping the rope with both hands she gave one final yank and pulled herself back into a sitting position.
When she finally summoned the strength to look up she could see an arm stretched out to the rope, and heard someone calling her name.
“I’m OK. Rye, Paul.”
Rye breathed a sigh of relief. “Hang on, we’re going to pull you up.”
She was still nauseous, her back ached and the memory of being locked in that tiny dumbwaiter in the mine was still in the back of her head. “No, keep lowering.”
Rye and Paul looked at each other. “What do you think?” Paul said.
Rye was looking back down the well. “Keep lowering.”
Paul positioned himself at the last stake, the rope wrapped around his waist. Rye was half way between Paul and the hole.
For the first fifteen feet there wasn’t any change in the walls, then slowly the sides narrowed and the mud gave way to stone.
Her progress stopped. Claire held the rope with an iron grip. When she looked up, a heavily silhouetted head was peering over the edge of the hole. She was reassured by Rye’s voice.
“You’re about twenty feet down, what do you see?”
She paused and looked down; there was still nothing for her light to illuminate. “The walls are closing in, and are solid stone. There’s still no sign of Amy.”
She looked back up, but the head was gone, and she began to descend again.
She smelled it first, and then the temperature dropped. Reaching into the little change pocket of her jeans she pulled out a penny. Holding the coin away from her body she dropped it and began counting, she’d reached twenty before she heard a splash.
“Shit! Hold up,” Claire shouted. She kept descending. “Rye, Paul, hold up.” Her progress came to a sudden halt. Claire squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath until the bouncing stopped. When she looked up, the head looking into the hole was tiny.
“Everything OK down there?”
Claire could hear the fear in her husband’s voice.
“Fine. I’ve got water about twenty feet below.” She was interrupted by a tiny voice.
“Aunt Claire?”
“Yes, yes it’s Aunt Claire. Amy honey, are you OK?”
Claire strained, listening for a response until her ears rang.
“Amy, where are you? I can’t see you. Can you see me?”
“I’m muddy. Are you on the rope?”
Claire began turning her head left and right, scanning the wall around her with the helmet light.
Wait a minute, Claire thought. Am I on the rope? She can see the rope. She’s above me!
Claire scanned the wall above her. She didn’t see Amy, but she saw movement.
She shined her light on what looked like a ball of mud about the size of a basketball.
“Amy, I can see you!”
“I don’t want to be here any more, Aunt Claire.”
Claire gasped as a little hand reached out. “Amy, please don’t move. I’ll come get you”
The hand retracted. “OK.”
When wells were dug by hand, ledges or handholds were built into the walls so the digger could climb out. Amy was sitting on a little ledge extending out less then a foot from the wall.
Chapter Nine
The two doctors leaned over the stainless steel sink at the center of the scrub station, antibacterial soap up to their elbows.
Dr. Frank Mason, the younger of the two, would be assisting Dr. Austin Young, the senior surgeon at Medford General, in the removal of a damaged kidney from an accident victim.
The gowning nurses hadn’t entered the scrub room and Dr. Mason was only on his second scrub.
“How do you do it, Frank?” Young said.
“I’m sorry, do what?” Mason said.
“The cars, the house… and all the trips. When I was your age I struggled for years just to pay off student loans.”
Mason rinsed and began scrubbing for the third and last time. “Good karma, I guess.”
“I’m serious! You know that I make quarterly entrees on every surgical resident based on both in-house performance and community standing. I’m obligated as senior surgeon and assistant director of Medford General, and I have a board of directors to account to. That meeting is coming up next month. Looking at your income and the number of surgeries you perform each month I find that you’re living beyond your means. You have a good community profile, Frank, numerous events on behalf of the hospital, but nothing to indicate an outside source of income. All the staff sees is that you’re working half the hours and living twice as well as anyone else at your level. You’re making waves, Doctor. The board will see this and ask me how you do it. So I’m asking you.”
Mason turned from the sink, arms dripping, and faced the senior surgeon. “What would you have me do, sell my home because it makes people jealous?” He wasn’t yelling, but his voice held the indignant tone of one being accused.
“No, Frank, just enlighten me. Where’s the money for these excesses coming from?”
At that moment, the head surgical nurse entered the room. Dr. Mason spun around and barked at her, “You’ve got five minutes to find another assist for Dr. Young,” then slammed through the heavy double doors and stormed down the hall.