Steven Havill - Bitter Recoil

“Sure,” Sterns said. “And when he gets up here and steps away from the edge, one rifle bullet through the head, he’s dead, and the girl’s safe.”

I didn’t like the sound of that either. I hefted the hailer again. “Finn-you have to let the girl go. Let us send an unarmed deputy down to bring her up.”

“No. Ruth…is…the…answer. She…remains…with…me.”

“What the hell is he talking about?”

“I don’t know. He calls her Ruth. Who the hell knows why.” I hefted the bullhorn. “Finn, nobody is going to hurt either you or the girl if you give yourself up.”

“Tell…Robert…that.”

“He means Arajanian,” I said to Tate. “That’s over, Finn. Come on up.”

“No. Face…to…face…with…you.” There was a pause. “And… you…know…why.”

I looked at Tate and said, “I do?”

The sheriff shrugged. “This guy’s a fruitcake.”

Apparently we hadn’t responded promptly enough, because Finn’s voice floated up.

“Don’t…play…games…Mister…Sheriff.”

“Finn, if you don’t send the girl up, we’re going to have to come down and get her. You know what that means.”

He knew I was bluffing. There wasn’t a drop of concern in his tone when he said, “Don’t…be…a…fool.” That calm, detached voice floating up out of the ground was enough to raise goosebumps. I sat back on my haunches. My shoulder hurt. My right ankle throbbed. I eyed the ladder. There was no way I could climb down that with only one good arm. Hell, if nothing else, my belly would throw me off balance and there I’d go.

“Any ideas?” I asked Tate.

“You want to go down?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no way I can climb down there.”

Sterns was eager. “We can lower you somehow. Use one of those ass slings like the search and rescue uses. One of my deputies is up on that stuff.”

“Um,” I said. I glanced at the hole. One of the deputies trotted toward us, his boots raising dust. Everyone else had been herded well away, behind the yellow plastic banner that ran from car bumper to bumper.

“Sir,” he said, “they found Mr. Begay. They’ll be here in just a few minutes.”

“All right,” I said. “Let’s find out what this hole looks like before we jump in it. See if we have any options.” I raised the bullhorn and said, “Finn, we’re going to find a way to get me down there. Give us some time.”

“Nothing…but…time,” he replied.

“That goddamned cocky son of a bitch,” I said. “Find me an elevator,” I said to Sterns, “and you’re probably going to need about a mile of 2,000-pound test rope. By the time you find that, we’ll have Begay…and one more thing. I want a small automatic with a good silencer.” Sterns looked puzzled.

“Bill’s right,” Tate said. “If you had to fire a gun down in that mine, the whole thing’s apt to collapse.”

“I’m going with you,” Parris said. I regarded him for a second. His face was covered with sweat and he looked like he was ready to faint.

“No,” I said flatly. I didn’t have either time or inclination to baby-sit. I motioned to one of the deputies. “Find him some shade somewhere.” I turned back to Sterns. “I’m not going down there unarmed,” I said. “Finn’s a master of one-way deals. And it’s not going to happen again.”

“We’ve got Arajanian’s Beretta in Albuquerque,” Tate said. “It’s in the evidence locker. You kept a hold on that through thick and thin.”

“Too big. I want something small…something that I can hide. I won’t use it unless I can get close enough to shove it up his ass.”

“Well, I’ll work on that,” Sterns said. He walked off, scratching his head.

Tate glanced at me. He didn’t have much faith in Edwin Sterns. “I know someone in Albuquerque who can get us anything we need. We’ll send one of the choppers in for it.”

I nodded and he gestured to his detective. For a moment I was alone at the rim of the shaft. I looked down into the hole and felt a chill.

Stubby Begay arrived about six-thirty-a short, scrawny man with badly bowed legs, a narrow, hawk-nosed face, and stone-black eyes. He had two teeth left, one snaggled right in front of his tongue so that he lisped. He talked so softly that in order to hear him I had to hunker down with him, his face no more than a foot from mine as he drew pictures in the dust.

According to Begay the vertical shaft of Floyd’s Number Two sank 785 feet below the headframe. We tested the depth with dinner.

Earlier Finn had agreed that we could send food down for the little girl. We considered spiking the food to put them both out, but I knew damn well that Finn wouldn’t fall for something that simple. And we had no way of knowing who might eat what…a dose necessary to knock out Finn would kill Daisy. So we played it straight. The small plastic cooler of sandwiches, fruit, and milk sank out of sight. The hundred yards of chalk line that we knotted to the cooler’s handle ran out and was tied to another ball of brown twine, and that reeled off for what seemed forever. Every inch of that 785 feet paid out before the cooler touched bottom.

We waited several minutes and then we heard Finn shout, “Pull…it…out!” We did so. There was no way we could touch the son of a bitch.

Begay enlarged his drawing in the dirt. “You got a drift on that side at 300 feet,” Begay said. “It’s an old pump station. And here, at 430, and another here, at 785. Right on the bottom.”

“Side tunnels, you mean?”

“They call ’em drifts.” His eyes twinkled.

“That’s where he must be then,” I said, tapping the bottom.

“I’d be right here,” Begay said and gouged his stick into the sand where he’d sketched the first side tunnel, or drift, 300 feet down.

“Why’s that?”

“’Cause the ladder goes right by it. No need to go to the bottom.”

“The food went all the way down.”

Stubby Begay grinned. His gums looked like plastic. “So you think he’s on the bottom.” He grinned even wider. “He takes the string and…” He made hand-over-hand motions as if he were pulling a bundle up. “He fake you out good that way.”

I frowned. “What about the other drifts? The deeper ones?”

He shrugged.

“There’s no way to reach them other than the ladder?”

Begay shook his head. “If it ain’t come loose.”

I looked up at Tate and Sterns. “Maybe that explains why we can hear him so well when he shouts,” I said. “If he’s only a hundred yards down in that first drift.”

“Only,” Tate said. He turned and watched two of the deputies unloading gear from the trunk of one of the patrol cars.

“So, Stubby, how about this. If I was lowered down in a sling seat, right along the ladder, I’d fetch up at this drift.” I tapped the dirt. “Where you say he’s got to be.”

“That’s what I say.”

“There’s nowhere else he might be?” Begay shrugged. “I mean except maybe the other side tunnels.” He shook his head.

I looked over at the climbing harness that one of the deputies was shaking loose. “There’s enough rope there?”

“Plenty,” Sterns said. He sounded confident. It wasn’t his ass in the sling.

As we made final preparations, the sun set. Spotlights from three cars converged on the shaft entrance, bathing it in harsh white light. Two big four-wheel-drive pickups had been recruited and parked thirty feet away, facing the shaft. Their floodlights added to the artificial daylight. The deputies attached the ropes to both front axles. They knew their job and took their time. When everything was finally ready, it was dark outside the circle of spotlights.