Lisa Gardner - The killing hour

“Snakes?” Kimberly asked weakly.

“Yes, ma’am. At least there are no bats. Orndorff’s Cavern is dying, sad to say. And even if the bats had still found it an acceptable hibernaculum, this time of year they’re out eating bugs. October through April, it’s another story. Never a dull moment being a caver.”

“I thought you guys were called spelunkers.”

“No, ma’am. We’re cavers. Cavers rescue spelunkers. So don’t you worry. Just let us do our thing, and we’ll find your missing person. She got a name?”

“Karen or Tina.”

“She has two names?”

“We don’t know which victim she is.”

“Ah man, I really don’t want to know more about your case. You do your thing. We’ll do ours.”

Shudt walked back to his pile of gear, snapping on his coveralls, while Mac and Nora Ray finally came running over. Everyone made curt introductions, then Mac, Kimberly, and Nora Ray were left standing awkwardly to the side while the three men finished suiting up, strapped on packs, then donned thick hiking boots and tough leather gloves.

They had piles of brightly colored rope among them. In deft movements they coiled up the various heavy-duty lengths, then looped them over their shoulders. They seemed to be down to final adjustments then, testing out multiple light sources, adjusting their hard hats. Finally Shudt grunted approval at each man’s gear, returned to the back of his truck, and pulled out a long backboard.

For transporting the victim out of the cave. In case she couldn’t walk on her own. Or in case she was dead.

Shudt looked over at Mac. “We could use a spotter to help man the ropes up top. Ever worked with a belay?”

“I’ve done some rock climbing.”

“Then you’re our man. Let’s go.”

Shudt turned one last time toward Kimberly.

“Keep talking down the pipe,” he told her quietly. “You never know.”

The men turned and walked into the woods. Kimberly sank back down to the ground. Nora Ray joined her in the dust.

“What do we say?” the girl murmured.

“What did you want to hear most?”

“That it was going to end. That I was going to be okay.”

Kimberly thought about it a moment. Then she cupped her hands and leaned over the pipe. “Karen? Tina? This is Kimberly Quincy again. The search-and-rescue workers are on their way. Do you hear me? The tough part is over. Soon, we’ll have you home to your family again. Soon, you’ll be safe.”

Tina had gouged as much as she could gouge. She had started at knee level, digging holes up as far as she could reach. Then, as an experiment, she’d crammed her muddy toes into the first two rough holes, gripped other ragged edges with her hands, and climbed up a whole two feet.

Her legs shook violently. She felt at once light as a feather and as heavy as an anchor. She would rocket to the top like a human spider. She would plummet to the ground and never get up again.

“Come on,” she whispered through her parched, cracked lips. And then she started to climb.

Three feet up. Her arms now shook as violently as her legs and her stomach contracted with a painful cramp. She rested her head against the blanket of dense green vines, prayed not to throw up, and resumed climbing again.

Up toward the sun. Light as a feather. Be like Spiderman.

Six feet up, she came to an exhausted halt. No more handholds and she still didn’t trust the vines. Awkwardly, she tried to support herself with her feet, straining up on her tiptoes as she reached above her head with her right hand and blindly dug in her nail file. The ancient wood crumbled beneath the fumbling metal and gave her fresh courage. She gouged wildly, already envisioning herself at the top.

Maybe she’d find a lake on the surface. A vast blue oasis. She would plunge in headfirst. She would float on tranquil waves. She would dive low, letting the water wash the mud from her hair. And then she would swim to the cool depths in the middle of her fantasy lake, and drink until her belly swelled like a balloon.

Then when she reached the other side, she would be greeted by a tuxedoed waiter, bearing a silver platter piled with fluffy white towels.

She giggled out loud. Delirium didn’t bother her so much anymore. It seemed the only chance of happiness she would get.

Wood rained down on her head. She was reminded of her task by the sudden, fierce pain in her overexerted arms. She explored the hole she’d made with her fingertips. She could curl her fingers into the rough opening. Time to move again. How did the old TV theme song go? Had to keep moving on up, to the top, where she would finally get a piece of the pie.

She painfully pulled her body up another step, her butt sticking out precariously, her arms shaking violently from her efforts. She moved four more excruciating inches. And then once more she was stuck.

Time for another hole. Her left arm ached too badly to bear her weight. She switched to hanging on with her right hand, while digging at the wood with her left. The motion felt awkward. She had no idea if she was working one spot, or carelessly ripping up the whole board. Too hard to look.

She clung to the wall with her trembly legs and worn-out arms. Soon she had the next hole done and it was time for another step. She made the mistake of looking up then, and almost wept.

The sky. So high above her. What, a good ten to fifteen feet? Her legs already ached, her arms burned. She didn’t know how much longer she could do this and she had only made it eight feet. She had spidey hands and spidey feet, but she did not have spidey strength.

She just wanted her lake. She wanted to swim through those cool waves. She wanted to step out the other side and fall into her mother’s arms, where she would weep piteously and apologize for anything she’d ever done.

God give her strength to climb this wall. God give her courage. Because her mother needed her and her baby needed her and, please God, she did not want to die like a rat in a trap. She did not want to die all alone.

One more hole, she told herself. Climb up, dig one more hole, and then you can return to the muck to rest.

So she made it one more hole. And then she made it another. And then she promised herself, through her labored breathing, that she just needed to do one more. Which turned into two more, then three more, until finally, she had gone ten or twelve feet up the wall.

And it was scary now. Definitely no looking down. Had to just keep pushing up, even if her shoulders felt curiously elastic, as if the joints had pulled apart and now dangled loosely. And she swayed sometimes, having to catch herself with her fingers which made her shoulders shriek and her arms burn and she cried out in pain, though her throat was so dry it came out more like a chirpy croak, a sandpaper sound of protest.

Moving on up. To the top. Gonna finally get a piece of the pie.

She was weeping with no tears. She was clinging desperately to rotted timber and fragile vines and trying hard not to think of what she was doing. She hurt beyond pain. She pushed herself beyond endurance.

She pictured her mother. She pictured her baby and she pushed and she pushed and she pushed.

Fifteen feet up. The top ledge so close she could finally see an overhang of bushy grass. Surface vegetation. Her parched mouth watered at the thought.

She stared too long. Forgot what she was doing. And her exhausted, dehydrated body finally gave out. Her hand reached up. Her fingers failed to connect.

And then she went backwards.

For a moment, she felt herself suspended in midair. She could see her arms and legs churning, like one of those silly cartoon creatures. Then reality reasserted itself. Gravity took over.

Tina plummeted down into the muck.