"It also may prove irrelevant," Grand said.
"Why?"
"Because of the rainfall," Grand told her.
"I don't understand."
"Some of the old, charted tunnels may have collapsed and some new ones may have opened up," Grand told her, "like the one I was exploring this morning, which lead to a series of tunnels and the subterranean cavern where I found the engineer's flashlight-"
"You found that?"
"Yes."
"Gearhart, you lying SOB," she said. "He said he found it."
"He can have it," Grand said. "The point is, the only way to be sure of any connections would be to find a cave, sinkhole, or fissure near the beach and work your way backward, to the northeast."
"Couldn't you go the other way?"
"Not if you don't want Gearhart to know."
"Oh, right," she said. "Good point."
Shit, Hannah thought. A hive of "he's," a journalist's nightmare. The maybes, could he's, might he's. Though Hannah was taking notes, she knew she wasn't going to get much of this in today's already-late paper. She wouldn't be able to prove most of it in time.
Okay, she told herself, she was semi-resigned to that. But if there were anything to her theory she was going to get it into tomorrow's edition. And to do that, she was going to need help.
"Professor," Hannah said, "would you possibly, please, consider working for us?"
"What?"
"As a paid, independent consultant," she said. "Accompany me to the foothills and look around. Help me see if there's an opening that could connect to the Painted Cave sinkhole, and if so whether it looks like someone or something has been using it."
"And if the answer is yes?"
"Then we'll call in Sheriff Gearhart," she said. "Not to show him up, I swear," she added quickly. "I just want to be in there getting dirty. He can't blow me off if I have some kind of evidence."
Grand thought for a second. "Ms. Hughes, ordinarily I'd be happy to. But I've got some important research to do right now."
"Professor-Jim, I understand but I'm begging you. This is breaking news and you're the only one who can help me get it right."
"I'm not the only one-"
"You're the only one I trust," she said. "And I don't want to go nosing around up there alone or with the Wall."
More silence.
Hannah had to fight to resist playing the don't-you-hate-Gearhart-too? card. She was afraid that bringing Grand's late wife into this, even obliquely, might shut him down rather than fire him up. Grand's hesitation was killing her, but Hannah pressed her lips together. She didn't know if even a gentle please at this point might push him the wrong way.
What the hell, she decided. "Please?" she said softly. "I need this."
Grand was silent for a second longer. "You're obviously not going to make today's edition," he said.
"Correct."
"Then I'll tell you what," Grand said. "I've got to run some tests. I should be done with those in two or three hours. Can we meet somewhere around four o'clock?"
"Four would be terrific," Hannah said. "How about I swing by the school and pick you up."
"All right," Grand said. "I'll be at my office in the Humanities and Social Sciences Building. If you miss me there I'll be in the physical sciences lab. That's off Mesa Road, parking lot eleven-"
"I'll find it," Hannah said. "Got an interesting project working?"
"I found something in one of the caves," Grand told her. "I want to run the basic DNA tests, try to figure out what they're from and how they got there."
"Anything newsworthy?"
"Not for the Freeway," Grand said. "Just some hairs, probably from an animal-"
Hannah felt as though she'd raced over a speed bump. "You found what, where?"
"Excuse me?"
"You found animal hair in one of the caves?"
"I think that's what they are, yes."
She was still feeling the jolt. It could be nothing. She didn't want to get too excited. She also didn't want to scare Grand off. She forced herself to calm down. "Professor, you said your classes are over at four?"
"Right."
"That'll give me enough time to finish up. I'll see you then."
"I don't understand-"
"I'll explain when I see you," Hannah promised.
The young woman hung up. It took her a few moments for what she'd heard to settle in.
It could be a coincidence: fur in the truck on the beach and fur in a cave in the mountains. One could have come from a dog, another from a bobcat or bear. But if it weren't a coincidence, it could be the biggest local story ever. Her mind raced from rabid animals to a mad killer in a fur coat. It was possible. That was the wonderful thing about journalism. Though nothing could be reported until it was proved, nothing could be discounted until it was disproved.
Hannah added some of the information Grand had given her. She wrote that the sinkhole the two engineers had been investigating could lead anywhere, even to the shoreline, and that-to hell with caution and to hell with Gearhart-a lead was being investigated that could link the men's disappearance to the crash of the fish truck.
Hannah read the new material. She frowned. She didn't say or imply that the driver was missing. And what she wrote was true: She was investigating the link. Reluctantly, Hannah added a line to that effect. She didn't want to imply that the sheriff's office was following the lead. She reread the addition and was satisfied that she hadn't written anything inaccurate or misleading. If it turned out there was a connection between the two incidents, the Freeway would be the first news source to have reported it.
Hypercharged, Hannah spell-checked the stories, E-mailed the crash feature and the search-and-rescue update to the printer, then went to work on the rest of the newspaper, meeting with Karen, talking to her writers and art director, and reviewing manuscripts.
But her mind wasn't on the work. It was on caves and fur.
There was a trick one of her investigative methodology professors had taught her, to play word association when you had no other clues or leads. First impressions were a good guide.
Butcher knife wound and dead husband? The guy was a philanderer.
Single woman strangled from behind? She got in a last word for which her boyfriend had no other comeback.
Caves and fur? she thought.
Fred and Wilma Flintstone, she answered.
Hannah frowned. She hadn't done well in the course, either. She wasn't good at making blind jumps. She needed to examine things closely, follow them from point to point to point. That was one reason this was so frustrating. Gearhart was holding information that prevented her from doing that.
But Hannah was dogged in that pursuit and, unlike Gearhart, she had only one goal. Not self-aggrandizement, not a bigger audience, not wealth or fame. She had the only goal you could reach by going straight ahead.
The truth.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The University of California, Santa Barbara, in Isla Vista was founded in 1891 as a trade school. Brought into the University of California system in 1944, the school moved to its present site in 1954. Set on the cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean and wrapped around its own moody lagoon, the sprawling, spectacular 815-acre campus is the home of Nobel and Pulitzer Prize-winning professors in engineering and mathematics, humanities and fine arts, and physical and social sciences. The centerpiece of the campus is the 175-foot-tall Storke Tower, which sounds its sixty-one-bell carillon twice every hour.
Grand pulled on his windbreaker and headed over to the physical sciences lab. He was intrigued by Hannah's insistence on coming over and wondered why mentioning the fur samples had gotten such a strong reaction. He had a feeling he'd be finding out. Hannah Hughes did not seem like the kind of woman who held back whatever was on her mind.