Close to his boots, lying half in the water and half on the stone ledge, he also saw what was making the gurgling sound. It was neither a spirit nor a geyser.
It was a handheld radio.
Chapter Eight
Hannah Hughes was sitting in the front seat of her muddy red Blazer. It was parked off-road on a rutted, ravine-side ledge one hundred yards east of the sinkhole. In front of her was the gray van the engineers had used to drive up. Angled behind her was the black Jeep belonging to her linebacker-big photographer Walter "The Wall" Jones. The Wall was over at the site, taking pictures. Despite his girth, which was formidable, the Wall was a self-admitted wuss who practiced photojournalism because that's what he'd studied in college, where he met Hannah. What he really wanted to do was open a photo-portrait studio in Santa Barbara. He was saving up for that now. Until then, he was busy taking pictures with both a Kodak DC 260 digital camera and an old 35mm Bolsey that had belonged to his grandfather. The former could be sent to the newspaper from his car uplink. The latter was for backup in case the pixels got temperamental, which sometimes happened in the rain. Or when he dropped the camera. Or when he got disgusted with his work or Hannah or digital technology and threw it.
The heat was roaring from the dashboard vents and the wipers flip-flopped loudly. Hannah's jeans and sweatshirt were flecked with mud and darkened here and there with rain, and her head was wetter than it had been forty minutes before. But the cold and discomfort didn't bother her. She only hoped that the water dripping from her hair onto her laptop didn't cause it to short. Not until she finished her copy and had E-mailed it from the car phone to production chief Weezie Hanson.
Though Hannah had only been on the mountain for fifteen minutes, she'd already framed the story. Just before she arrived the sinkhole had collapsed again. It now occupied most of the road from the mountainside to the ravine. The section where the blood had been found was gone. The area was ringed with five work lights on stainless-steel tripods. Hannah had watched as the three crew members dug dirt with their hands; they couldn't use shovels lest they accidentally spade one of the buried engineers. She'd offered to help but the short, muscular foreman Victor Singer told her that wouldn't be necessary. A second crew was due momentarily. Apart from sharing that information, Singer had no time to talk-he said-because he was busy using a portable radio they'd found in the road to try to raise Stan Greene or Bill Roche.
However, Hannah had managed to snare an interview with Dr. Elma Thorpe, the UCSB geologist. Dressed in gray sweatpants, a red windbreaker, and an Australian Outback hat, the tall, robust, silver-haired professor seemed very much at home here. Hannah had profiled the London-born scientist two years before, when she'd been campaigning for a U.S. Geological Survey grant to research blind thrust faults in the region. Instead, the money went to charting the caves in the Santa Ynez Mountains.
The two women stood in the rain for several minutes, talking about fissures and the rural road infrastructure.
The journalist's long fingers moved across the laptop keyboard like spiders on a hot plate, as the Oklahoma-born Weezie once described them. But even that wasn't fast enough for Hannah. She didn't want to miss today's edition. She wouldn't miss today's edition. The Los Angeles Times hadn't sent anyone up to cover the story. Either they hadn't heard about it or they didn't care because there wasn't a body. The local TV stations would wait a few hours before dispatching a team because the sinkhole was getting larger and the bigger the pit the better the image for dinnertime news. So for a few hours the story would be hers, and it could be a big one. Not just the two missing engineers but the potential danger to all the mountain roads of Southern California. According to Dr. Thorpe-Hannah loved this quote-"Fissures like this one could thread through the entire Santa Ynez range and pass under the roadway in innumerable places. Caltrans should look into it before there are other disasters."
Hannah was nearly finished with the draft when there was a back-of-the-knuckles rap on the window. It was the Wall, his bald head and face made ruddy by one of the dying flares on the road.
Hannah cranked down the window. "What's up?"
"He just arrived," said the photographer.
"Thanks," Hannah said.
The Wall didn't have to say who "he" was. It was the man who was unofficially dedicated to overthrowing the free press and overprotecting the rights and lives of the rich who had financed and helped to elect him. The chief Santa Barbarian himself, Sheriff Malcolm Gearhart.
"You cool, Chief?" the Wall asked protectively.
"Completely."
"You sure?"
"Yes!" Hannah snapped.
The Wall scowled at her. "Uh-huh."
"Go away," Hannah said. "You made your point."
The Wall returned to the sinkhole and Hannah took several deep breaths to calm herself. Saving the draft of her story, she set the laptop on the passenger's seat-amidst the crumbs of countless Wheat Thins, a box of which was always kept in the glove compartment-and grabbed her audiotape recorder. Then she touched her lucky dog tags and stepped out into the cold rain. She didn't take an umbrella on assignments like these because she didn't like to be encumbered. She also believed that if you were thinking about staying dry or warm you weren't thinking about the story.
Hannah slogged toward the sinkhole as Malcolm Gearhart approached from the west. The sheriff and Singer acknowledged one another with nods. Gearhart tipped his hat to Dr. Thorpe. He acknowledged Hannah and the Wall by ignoring them. He couldn't order them away because there was no clear and present danger and this wasn't a restricted crime scene.
"Where did you find the blood?" Gearhart asked Singer.
Singer pointed a gloved ringer to the northeastern side of the pit. "It was right there."
"What do you mean 'was'?"
"We were setting up a little shelter there when the section of road where we found the blood just crumpled. It happened about two minutes after we got here. There was nothing we could do. The sinkhole just expanded outward and that was that."
Sheriff Gearhart didn't look happy. "What about the rest of the road? Is it safe?"
"I ran an ultrasound check. There's solid rock under the rest of the road for about two hundred yards in each direction. It's not going anywhere."
"Why didn't we know about the weakened condition of this section?" Gearhart asked.
"Because we just don't do routine surveys like that," Singer said. "Why don't you know about killers before they kill?"
"I do," Gearhart said. "The law just doesn't allow me to do anything about them."
Singer made a face then excused himself. He raised the radio to his mouth and pressed a button on the side. A small green light glowed above the mouthpiece grid. When there was an incoming call, a red light came on. During a two-way conversation, both were lit.
"This is Caltrans emergency crew calling Stan Greene and William Roche," Singer said. "Greene and Roche, if you're receiving, come in. If you're receiving, come in. Over."
The silence was disturbing.
The sheriff turned and walked slowly along the pit. He studied the ground, ignoring the Wall as he followed taking pictures. Then he stopped at the ravine and looked down. He used the toe of his boot to move the foliage around before walking back along the western rim of the pit.
"You found no footprints at all?" Gearhart asked Singer.
"Nothing," Singer said. "The rain washed away everything, even the footprints by Roche's van."