With a quick thanks, we’re headed for our parking spot, and he’s back on his radio.
“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Viv asks. She’s sitting up slightly taller in the seat than yesterday, but there’s no mistaking the way she stares anxiously in her rearview mirror. When I was listening to Viv’s conversation with her mother, I said that strength had to be found from within. The way Viv continues to eye the rearview, she’s still searching for it.
“Viv, this place doesn’t have a single drop of gold in it, but they’re setting up shop like that scene from E.T. when the government shows up.”
“But if we…”
“Listen, I’m not saying I want to go down in the mine, but you have any better ideas for figuring out what’s going on around here?”
She looks down at her lap, which is covered with the brochures from the motel. On the front page, it reads, From the Bible to Plato’s Republic, the underground has been associated with Knowledge.
That’s what we’re counting on.
“All my friends’ dads used to mine,” I add. “Believe me, even if we do go in, it’s like a cave — we’re talking a few hundred feet down, max…”
“Try eight thousand,” she blurts.
“What?”
She freezes, surprised by the sudden attention. “Th-That’s what it says. In here…” she adds, passing me the brochure. “Before it was closed down, this place was the oldest operating mine in all of North America. It beat every gold, coal, silver, and other mine in the country.”
I snatch the brochure from her hands. Since 1876, it says on the cover.
“They’ve been shoveling for over a hundred and twenty-five years. That’ll get you pretty deep,” she continues. “Those miners who were trapped in Pennsylvania a few years back — what were they at, two hundred feet?”
“Two hundred and forty,” I say.
“Well, this is eight thousand. Can you imagine? Eight thousand. That’s six Empire State Buildings straight into the ground…”
I flip the brochure to the back and confirm the facts: Six Empire State Buildings… fifty-seven levels… two and a half miles wide… and three hundred and fifty miles of underground passageways. At the very bottom, the temperature gets to 133 degrees. I glance out the window at the road beneath us. Forget the beehive. We’re standing on an entire ant farm.
“Maybe I should stay up here,” Viv says. “Y’know… sorta just to keep lookout…”
Before I can respond, she glances back to her rearview. Behind us, a silver Ford pickup pulls across the gravel, into the parking lot. Viv anxiously eyes the driver, checking to see if he looks familiar. I know what she’s thinking. Even if Janos is just touching down right now, he can’t be far behind. That’s the choice: the demon aboveground versus the demon below.
“You really think it’s safer to be up here by yourself?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer. She’s still watching the silver pickup.
“Please just promise me we’ll be fast,” she begs.
“Don’t worry,” I say, swinging my door open and hopping outside. “We’ll be in and out before anyone even knows it.”
36
Lightly tapping the side of his thumb against the top of the Hertz rental car counter in the Rapid City airport, Janos made no attempt to hide his frustration with the South Dakota way of life. “What’s taking so long?” he asked the young employee with the skinny Mount Rushmore tie.
“Sorry… just been one of those busy mornings,” the man behind the counter replied, shuffling through a short pile of paperwork.
Janos looked around the main lounge of the airport. There were a total of six people, including a Native American janitor.
“Okay — and when will you be returning the car?” the man behind the counter asked.
“Hopefully, tonight,” Janos shot back.
“Just a quick visit, eh?”
Janos didn’t answer. His eyes stared at the key chain in the man’s hand. “Can I just have my key?”
“And will you be needing any insurance on the-”
Janos’s hand shot out like a dart, gripping the man’s wrist and swiping the key from his hand.
“We done?” Janos growled.
“I–It’s a blue Ford Explorer… in spot fifteen,” the man said as Janos ripped a map from the pad on the counter and stormed toward the exit. “You have a good day, now, Mr…” The man looked down at the photocopy of the New Jersey driver’s license Janos had given him. Robert Franklin. “You have a good day, now, Mr. Franklin. And welcome to South Dakota!”
37
Walking as fast as I can with my briefing book in hand, I keep up my Senator stride as we head for the red brick building. The book is actually the owner’s manual from the glove compartment of the Suburban, but at the pace we’re moving, no one’ll ever get a good look. On my right, Viv completes the picture, trailing behind me like the faithful aide to my Wendell executive. Between her height and her newly pressed navy suit, she looks old enough to play the part. I tell her not to smile, just to be safe. The only way to belong is to act like you belong. But the closer we get to the brick building, the more we realize there’s almost no one around to call us out and scream bullshit. Unlike the trailers behind us, the pathways over here are all empty.
“You think they’re underground?” Viv asks, noticing the sudden decrease in population.
“Hard to say; I counted sixteen cars in the parking lot — plus all that machinery. Maybe all the work’s being done back by the trailers.”
“Or maybe whatever’s up here is something they don’t want tons of people to see.”
I pick up my pace; Viv matches my speed. As we turn the corner of the brick building, there’s a door in front and a metal grated staircase that heads down and into an entrance on the side of the building. Viv looks my way. I agree. Sticking to the back roads, we both go for the stairs. As we step down, little bits of rock slide from our shoes through the grating and down to a concrete alley twenty feet below. It’s not even close to the drop we’re about to take. I look over my shoulder. Staring through the steps, Viv starts slowing down.
“Viv…”
“I’m fine,” she calls out, even though I never asked the question.
Inside the red brick building, we cross through a dark tiled hallway and enter a kitchenette that feels like it’s been picked over and left for dead. The vinyl floor is cracked, the refrigerator is open and empty, and a cork bulletin board sits flat on the floor, filled with brittle, yellowed union notices that’re dated at least two years ago. Whatever these guys are up to, they’ve only come back here recently.
Back in the hallway, I stick my head in a room where the door is off its hinges. It takes me a second to weave inside, but when I do, I stop midstep on the tile floor. In front of me are row after row of open industrial showers, but the way they’re set up, it’s like a gas chamber — the nozzles are just pipes sticking out of the wall. And though I know they’re just showers, when I think of the miners washing away another grueling day of work, it’s truly one of the most depressing sights I’ve ever seen.
“Harris, I got it!” Viv says, calling me back to the hallway, where she taps her pointer finger against a sign that says The Ramp. Below the words, there’s a tiny directional arrow pointing down another set of stairs.