Sherlock rolled her eyes. “At least we don’t have to worry about getting permission from the Park Service.”
Savich said, “I bet it wouldn’t have been a problem. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Maitland has a golf crony who’s a higher-up in the Park Service.” He shot a look at Ruth, thought of how close she’d come to death. “You’re not going to be out of my sight in that cave, Ruth.”
Ruth looked pleased about that. She said, “Oh yeah, Sheriff, Mr. Maitland has four boys.”
Dix crossed himself.
“Oh dear,” Ruth said, “I’ve got to cancel all my credit cards. I left my backpack and my wallet in my car.
”
CHAPTER 11
WINKEL’S CAVE
MONDAY MORNING
RUTH SAID, “OKAY, guys, we won’t have any stretches of nice electrical lights the Park Service provides for their caves, and there won’t be any well-marked paths. You’ve got backup flashlights in your belts, but right now we’ll only need our head lamps.”
The ceiling was high enough for a while so they could walk upright. With Ruth in the lead, they took several steps around the first corner, a couple of steps down some jagged rocks, and stopped for a moment in complete darkness, except for the light from their head lamps. The cave was eerily quiet, their breaths the only sounds they heard.
“Take a look at the cave formations here,” Ruth said, pointing to a sweep of spectacular draperies, and then panning her head lamp toward a towering stalagmite. “Don’t touch anything, and try not to bump into any of these formations. They’re really fragile. Stay close.”
Since they didn’t need lug soles in Winkel’s Cave, they wore hiking boots. Still, each of them slipped a couple of times, but not badly. “Coming up on the left is a nice drop-off, maybe ten feet down, so stay in my footpath. The map was real specific about this, so maybe one of them took a header here. See that slab of limestone that looks like a commode?” All their head lamps swung to the right. “It’s distinctive, so they drew it on the map. We’re headed in the right direction, I’m sure of it. Okay, all of us except maybe Sherlock will have to bend down some starting soon, and then we veer slightly to the left for another ten feet or so. Sherlock, your head should clear okay. It’s narrower, too, but don’t worry, it’ll widen out again.”
“It’s so dark,” Sherlock whispered. Her voice echoed back to her like a hollow reed. “It’s like we’re the only people in the world.”
“We are, in this world,” Dix said. “I’ve never particularly liked caves.”
“Thank goodness Winkel’s Cave isn’t at all hairy, at least where we’re going,” Ruth said. “Like I said, you’re not even going to get your feet wet. Mr. Weaver told me there’s a stream, but it’s in a lower passage, some twenty-five feet down. He said he’d heard it but never seen it. I, for one, wouldn’t want to get lost down there.” Her laugh echoed through the huge vault they were walking through. “If you want to freak out, I’ll show you a copy of American Caving Accidents—people have fallen into pits, got tangled up in ropes, died of hypothermia from crawling in muddy water, even drowned. Now that I’ve scared you, caving isn’t dangerous if you know what you’re doing. Scrapes or bruises or sprains, that’s usually the worst of it.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dix said, “you’ve shown how careful you are in unexplored sections of unfamiliar caves around here. I’d call that pretty dangerous.”
“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” Ruth said. “Okay, we’ve got about twenty more feet to go before we crawl a bit to the right through a passageway that leads to pretty near where I think I ended up.”
Dix cursed.
Savich said sharply as he swung his head lamp around, “What is it?”
“Stumbled on one of Ruth’s loose rocks. It’s okay. I have a little trouble with all this darkness.”
“We’ve got an overhang coming up; lower your heads, guys.” The men nearly doubled over.
“Another ten feet or so and it’ll get bigger again and we’ll be able to stand up.” But after five more steps, Ruth stopped cold. “Hello, what’s this?”
They moved up to huddle around her, training their head lamps straight ahead. A huge pile of debris blocked the low passage, chunks of limestone and dolomite, dirt and rocks. Ruth said slowly, “This isn’t just a cave-in, it’s the result of a blast. Look at how far some of these rocks were thrown.”
Dix made his way to the heaping pile, tested it with his hands. He pulled out a couple of rocks, knelt down, and pressed against it with his shoulder. “It feels solid. I don’t think we’re going to get through here at all, not without some heavy equipment.” Still, he and Savich put muscle into it.
“You’re right, it’s solid,” Savich said.
For several moments, they could think of nothing to do but stare at the obstacle in their path. Dix said, “I guess someone’s pretty serious about keeping you out of here, Ruth. They must have blown it at night when no one was around.”
Dix looked back at them, and thought they all looked like rejects from a B movie, with gas masks attached to their belts, staring at the huge pile of rock in front of them. “You know,” Dix said, “maybe I’
ve got a better idea than bringing in bulldozers, not that that’s even possible. My father-in-law, Chappy Holcombe. He grew up here, used to tell me he knew the caves in this area, said he’s explored most of them. He may know another way through here, another way in other than the main entrance.”
“You’re right, no way to get any big equipment in here to dig through this mess,” Savich said. Sherlock said, “I say we go talk to Dix’s father-in-law. If he knows a back way into the cave, that would make things a lot easier.”
Ruth said, “Sounds like a good idea to me. Let’s go see him. Oh, and we’ve got to pick up more catsup. Rafe said we pigged it all down last night with the rest of the stew.”
“Rafe likes catsup on his scrambled eggs,” Dix said. “He had to do without this morning. Yeah, let’s go. I think we’d all feel better getting out of here for a while, anyway.”
“Let’s do it then,” Savich said, “before I get a permanent bend in my back.”
TARA
NEARLY AN HOUR later, on the opposite side of Maestro, Dix pulled his Range Rover through massive iron gates, impressively scrolled with the word Tara. They drove a quarter of a mile on a well-graveled road with stone fences running alongside, lined with oaks and maples, snow piled high on either side. They climbed steadily until Ruth saw what must have been the biggest house within fifty miles. It resembled a Southern plantation, a huge expanse of white with Doric columns lining the front.
“Some spread,” Ruth said. “How old is Tara?”
Dix turned into the circular driveway large enough to park twenty vehicles. “Chappy built it in the late fifties for his bride, Miss Angela Hastings Brinkman of the New Orleans Brinkmans. He had the architect copy the descriptions of Tara from Gone With the Wind.”
Sherlock asked, “It’s obvious he’s got money. How’d he make it all, Sheriff?”
As they walked up the wide set of six deep-set stairs, Dix answered, “He learned banking at his daddy’s knee, he told me when I first met him. He owns a privately held bank, Holcombe First Independent, with a dozen branches in the area. He and his wife, Angela, had two children, my wife, Christie, and a boy, Anthony. Tony and his wife, Cynthia, live here with Chappy. Angela died when Christie was ten, of what I don’t remember.”
Sherlock asked, “Is Chappy into any other kinds of businesses?”
Cops, Dix thought, they had to know everything. He grinned at her vivid face framed by a head of curly red hair.