It was possible the artist didn't want to offend the Great Eagle by putting his own stars and moons so close to the heavens. Or maybe it wasn't a shaman who had made these paintings. Perhaps it was a scientist who had to hide his ideas because they conflicted with beliefs about the animal gods. If so, this cave could hold unimaginable treasures.
Suddenly, something changed. It wasn't anything Grand could see or hear. He felt a chill, as though a cloud had moved in front of the sun. The sense of unrest returned.
Grand remained where he was, shining his light along the passageway. The waters glistened flatly as they spilled down the gentle incline. After a moment he thought he heard something moving in the water below.
"Roche? Greene? Is that you?"
The sound of the waters seemed to subside. Grand moved the light around. He didn't see anyone.
He agreed with what the deputy had said earlier. The men probably could not have slid down the sinkhole. Apart from the too-small size of the opening, the men would have dragged loose stones with them when they went down. There had been none of that along the sides. But freak events did happen. It was possible an animal had gone down the hole. Whichever it was, the cool along his back told Grand he wasn't alone.
"Roche! Greene!"
There was still no response and no further movement. If either man was here he might be injured. He thought of calling to the rescuers, but by the time they got down there the men could be dead.
Grand looked along the tunnel walls and floor for someplace to put his hands and feet. The first Chumash paintings were three feet away. He could go a little deeper without risking them. Grand tucked his penlight in his pants pocket, pointing up. He needed light but he also wanted his left hand free. He put his left foot in the water. The creek came up to his ankle and splashed over the top of his boot, but the footing was good. He leaned back slightly to compensate for the slope and put his hands on the walls just inside the passageway. He simultaneously brought his right foot into the passageway and ducked under the low ceiling. He was now standing inside the tunnel.
He retrieved his penlight.
The first two designs on either side of him were crescents. They were sharp-edged, matching, and seemed to glow against the charcoal-gray rock. The Chumash were not known to have used phosphors in their art, but these designs seemed to be more luminous after having been exposed to the light. Or maybe it was another illusion.
There would be time enough to study the paintings. Grand looked down the tunnel. Nearly half the lower cavern was visible now but there was nothing new to see. More water, more stalagmites.
"Is anyone down there?" he shouted.
He began to wonder if his imagination had created a presence where there wasn't one. Caves could do that too, if not by their personality then through the release of gases like methane or nitrogen.
This time the rippling didn't stop. It grew louder as it moved closer to the bottom of the tunnel. That ruled out a geological bubble-blower such as an underwater spring or thermal vent.
Grand's arms and legs were growing tired. If whatever was down there didn't show itself soon, he was going to have to retreat-
Something bobbed up, startling him. As Grand watched, a large, black plastic cylinder surfaced like a submarine. It took a moment before he recognized it as a flashlight casing. Water spilled from the open back as the hollow container turned over in the lazy current. The casing flopped over and lay flat on the water as a series of big bubbles sputtered from the end. Then the flashlight began rotating in the flow like a rolling log. The face glass and bulb were both shattered. If one of the engineers had dropped the flashlight, it probably hit a stalagmite or two before sliding down here. Grand didn't see any threads on the back of the cylinder, which meant it must have had a spring-loaded battery cap. Those were easy to change one-handed in the field. A good knock could have caused it to pop open. If they scanned the shallow water below, they'd probably find the batteries on the bottom.
Grand thought about trying to retrieve the flashlight but the current carried it away again, toward the back of the cave. Even if he could make it to the lower cave without touching the paintings, he didn't know what the ground was like or how many other branches the cave had. He would tell the sheriff about it and then come back the next day, better equipped, to examine the art. He didn't think Gearhart would insist on sending his Special Ops team back today. He needed his manpower outside, where it would be put to better use.
Grand took a long step back to the tip of the passageway. Before swinging onto the ledge, he had a final look at the Pictographs. The images were unique and their meaning was a mystery. Perhaps they were stars, perhaps they were eggs, perhaps they were an attempt to create an alphabet. Maybe they weren't even meant to be taken literally.
But whatever the paintings were, they were haunting. A little part inside of Grand smiled.
After too long a time, it would be good to have a challenge keep him awake at night instead of sorrow.
A moment later the scientist turned and made his way back to the tunnel that led to the main cavern.
The empty flashlight knocked against the side of the cave and twisted gently away. It hit a stalagmite and changed direction, spinning into a flow that led from the cave to a steep tunnel. A moment later it washed down, plunging deeper into the mountain.
The cylinder was swept into a long, low cavern where the darkness was thick and unbroken. The smells were heavy, damp, and musty. The only sounds were those of the water as it rushed into a forked tunnel. That and a slow, deep, hollow breathing.
The wait was over. The breathing moved. So did the musty smell.
They moved into the forked tunnel and down one of the twisting branches. They moved swiftly, surely, through stalactites and stalagmites, around sharp corners, and across depressions where the water deepened. The breathing quickened as it moved and after a minute the rankness, too, was no longer the same. It sparkled with the hint of salt air. Even the darkness changed. It was no longer as full as it had been. Here and there the black shaded to dark gray.
At the entrance to another cave the movement slowed and the breathing turned around. The smell settled into a place above another tunnel.
There were other smells coming from below, the smell of salt and decay. And new sounds, the sound of water.
And the waiting began again.
Chapter Fifteen
The Coastal Freeway went on sale at noon. Within two hours the office of the County Board of Supervisors-the six-person committee that represented the districts in Santa Barbara County-announced that a press conference would be held at 4:00 P.M. in the small auditorium of the county administration on Anapamu Street In addition to Sheriff Gearhart, the mayor of Santa Barbara, the chairperson of the County Board of Supervisors, the chief of police, Caltrans spokesperson Carl Lessin, and Dr. Thorpe would be in attendance. Sergeant Marsha Levy, the sheriff's public information officer, said that Gearhart wanted to personally brief reporters about the status of the investigation in the Santa Ynez Mountains and then get back to work.
Use the press when you need them, Hannah thought. Hannah and the Wall were there, along with reporters from the LA. Times, the weekly Santa Barbara View, several local radio stations, and the network TV affiliates from Los Angeles. Hannah always sat in the front row of the small auditorium. It was tougher for Gearhart to ignore her from there. She set her tape recorder on an empty seat beside her-there was always an empty seat beside her-and took a stenographer's notebook from her shoulderbag. Hannah usually filled several pages with questions, though she always starred two or three of the most important. Usually, that was all she got to ask.