The Death in the Willows

by Forrest, Richard;

“Right, if Raven doesn’t mind helping?”

  “Hell, no. This is great material. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Okay, after you drop Kim off, meet us at the Holiday Inn in Bryson City, North Carolina.”

  “Then you do think the reels are in Nantahala Gorge?”

  “Our first problem is to get out of the hotel undetected. It’s still possible that Hilly is watching us. I’m sure Attkins has others keeping us under scrutiny, and Croft MacKenzie and his men are also lurking around.”

  “We could hold a convention.”

  “Their sheer numbers will help us. I want Raven and Kim to leave the hotel by way of the balcony, climb down to the parking lot, and take the car Bea and I rented to Orlando.”

  “They’ll see it’s not you before we’re halfway there,” Raven said.

  “Probably, but in the meantime we’ll have time to get out a different way.”

  “Sounds good,” Kim said. “Raven and I go over the balcony dressed in your clothes and take your car.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Just one thing,” the black woman said. “If we’re going to do this, might I suggest that we do it at night? Otherwise, I have the feeling it’s not going to work.”

  Once they reached the outskirts of the city, Lyon stopped and made a phone call to Connecticut.

  “You want it on the plane tonight,” Rocco grumpily acknowledged.

  “Or first thing in the morning so that it arrives in Atlanta early.”

  “I’ll have to go through Pat.”

  “Whatever you have to do, Rocco. It’s important.”

  It was daylight when they arrived in Atlanta and checked into a motel. They left a wake-up call for ten, and both fell onto the bed fully clothed and slept.

  The phone awoke Bea. She thanked the operator for the call and shook Lyon.

  He groaned and turned over. “Wake me in an hour.”

  “We’ve got things to do.”

  He sat up. “Right. I have some shopping to do before I get to the airport.”

  “And I make phone calls,” she said as Lyon went into the bathroom to throw water on his face. “You think I should try the local colleges first?”

  “I think that would be the best bet. I’ll be back in two hours.”

  As they drove toward northern Georgia, the red clay of the lowlands turned to the rolling hills heralding the beginning of the Appalachian Mountains. Bea drove, weaving past tractors on the shoulder of the road, while Lyon sat next to her, holding tightly to the package Rocco had sent air express.

  She glanced at the package. “And that’s the map in there?”

  “I hope so.”

  “And the stuff in the back seat?”

  “A pack, canteen, nylon ropes, ice ax, pitons, flashlights.”

  “We’re going climbing?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “When was the last time you climbed rocks?”

  “I had a course in the army once.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Then there was the time my balloon went down on Talcott mountain.”

  “The rescue squad brought you down.”

  “Well, my ankle was broken.”

  “I hope this guy I called at the college is the man you want.”

  “An assistant professor at North Georgia College in Dahlonaga, and he has the other qualifications?”

  “So he claims.”

  Assistant Professor of Geology Kai Nordstrom was a vague man. His small office was located in one of the older buildings on the campus. A large window ran the full length of the rock-cluttered room near a rolltop desk whose surface was covered with more rocks of all sizes and shapes and a pile of uncorrected student themes. He leaned back in the ancient swivel chair with his hands clasped behind his head and smiled at them.

  “You’re the Worthingtons, right? Tiger Worthington, funny name. I expected to see you drive up on a motorcycle or at least a skateboard. Suppose you’re interested in North Georgia rocks. We have diamonds up here, did you know that? I can show you where to look, if you’re interested. Or do you want to pan for gold? No money in it, but it’s fun. Give me your map and I’ll show you where to go, Mr. Worthington.”

  Lyon shook the professor’s hand. “Wentworth. Lyon Wentworth.”

  “Well, I was fairly close.” He looked out the window and put his feet on the desk. “They shouldn’t let girls wear such short-short shorts on campus. Disconcerting, very disconcerting. They tell me that if I got married, I wouldn’t notice such things. What kind of rocks are you looking for?”

  Bea had a strong sense of dèjá vu, and the feeling that perhaps her husband was not as unique as she had thought. She looked from Lyon to Nordstrom, and found that although the teacher was a few years younger, they were very similar in appearance. My God, the man didn’t wear socks either.

  “We’re not looking for rocks,” Lyon said. “But I wonder, if you looked at this, could you tell me what it’s a map of?” He unwrapped the package he had picked up earlier at the airport and handed Nordstrom the copy of The Wobblies’ Revenge that he and Nick Pasic had inscribed for Mark.

  The geologist looked at the book, puzzled, until Lyon opened it to the flypiece and the odd drawing below Pasic’s inscription to his grandson:

  “Uh huh,” the geologist mumbled.

  “You are an officer of the National Speleological Society?”

  “Yes, I am.” He examined the drawing again.

  “If I mentioned the name Willows, Kentucky, would that help?”

  “Oh, sure. The Willows. I’ve been in it.”

  “Can you read the map for me?”

  “You mean, tell you what the symbols mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure.” He spread the book on the desk and his whole manner seemed to change. The distant quality that had struck Bea so forcibly when they entered disappeared as he bent over the carefully drawn cave map. He found a pair of dividers under the uncorrected papers, and calibrated various portions of the drawing. Standing, he went to a file drawer in the corner and pulled a larger drawing from the bottom drawer and spread it across the floor. He looked first at the larger drawing and then back to Pasic’s smaller rendition.

  “The small drawing in the book is a partial cave map, and my guess is that it’s a passage in the Willows Cave. The approach is through an internal shaft from the main passage. That’s this symbol.” He indicated the configuration .

  “This particular tunnel has a stream and siphon in it. This grouping here indicates a rock fall. There are stalagmites, and on the other side of the siphon is a pillar on a ledge. This x mark near the pillar could mean anything.”

  “You say an internal shaft. How deep is it?”

  The professor examined the larger cave map. “Thirty feet, according to my elevations. Not a bad climb.”

  “And the siphon, that means the stream goes under rock, but the passage enlarges on the other side? Can we get through that siphon?”

  “Oh, sure. It’s only about ten feet, and there’s a ledge on the other side.”

  “Could that x next to the pillar beyond the siphon mean someone hid something there?”

  “It could mean anything whoever drew this map wanted it to mean.”

  “Can I get to that spot?”

  “Sure, if you were an experienced caver.”

  “Could a neophyte make it?”

  “I suppose, although a siphon is a scary thing for someone not used to them. You have to understand that the Willows is not a show cave.”

  “Show cave?”

  “One that’s generally open to the public. Show caves like Monmouth, Carlsbad Caverns, and so forth, have tour guides, interior lighting, and paths. The Willows has only one known entrance, and that’s on private property. It’s not really a spectacular cave when you consider others in the area.”

  “Then not many would enter it in a given year?”

  “A dozen maybe. Fewer yet would
go past the siphon. There’s no real reason to go in the area marked on your map. As you can see, the stream widens out again, but then the passage stops. It’s a dead end that would be of no real interest to a caver.”

  “Would Pasic put the computer reels in a cave?” Bea asked.

  “What better place than a location with a constant cool temperature? Mr. Nordstrom, could you give us directions as to how to find the location of that shaft?”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  The man in the black Chevrolet, far down the road past the campus gates, yawned and lowered his high-powered binoculars. The glasses gave him a clear view of the Wentworths standing near a large window in the geology building. He imagined they’d leave soon in their car to wherever they were going.

  The device he had attached under their car would allow him to stay back. Within a few-mile radius, the signal device would alert him if they veered from the road or changed direction. He yawned again. It would be a simple tail. He checked the road on either side. His eyes swept past a small boy on a big wheel toy and discounted any danger. He was careful, always careful, and that had allowed him to survive.

  “Why do you want to go into the Willows, son?” The old man rocked slowly on the porch. His face was grizzled and the overalls were spotted, but his eyes were clear and inquiring.

  Lyon stood before the porch with one foot on the bottom step. “We’re looking for something, Mr. Bartram.”

  “My brother died in the Willows. Did that professor tell you that?”

  “No, sir. He didn’t.”

  “Yep. Back in ’08. He was playing in there, and he ran back from the entrance and fell down one of them holes and broke his neck. My Pap put rocks in the entrance, and for twenty years no one went in the Willows.”

  “It’s very important to us, Mr. Bartram.”

  “It’s your neck. The professor tell you the price?”

  “I brought it with me.” He handed a paper bag to the outstretched hands of the old man. The thin fingers lifted the bottle of bourbon by the neck. He squinted at the label.

  “This bond?”

  “Best there is.”

  “All right. Here’s the key.”

  “A key to a cave?” Bea asked.

  “Ten years ago I put a fence across the entrance. Didn’t want no kids going in there. I keep it locked. You take the key and bring it back to me when you come out. If you don’t bring it back, and I got to go up there and lock the gate again, no one else goes in the Willows—forever. Now, when you people be back?”

  “Not later than six.”

  “Hold you to that. If you aren’t out by six, I go to Ledley’s place down the road and call the sheriff to come find your bodies.”

  “That’s reassuring,” Bea said.

  “Mr. Bartram, if the gate is locked, you would have had to give the key to anyone else going into the Willows.”

  “Only way in we know of.”

  “In the past two weeks or even the past month, has anyone else gone in?”

  “Nope. A group went in last summer. They were the last.”

  Lyon turned from the porch in disappointment. “Are we still going in?” Bea asked.

  “May as well since we’re here. I don’t see how I could have been wrong.” He shouldered the pack. They waved to the old man on the porch and began the long walk up the hill toward the cave entrance, which was shrouded in brush and trees at the top.

  “Six, or we come after the bodies,” the old man yelled after them.

  Their breath came in short gasps at the unaccustomed exertion of climbing the steep embankment. Scrub pine and heavy brush dotted the landscape, although there was a stand of willow trees flanking the cave entrance. As they neared the top, they saw the heavy wire mesh stretched across the narrow cave opening. Long spikes had been sledged into the limestone cliff and secured the fence on either side of the opening. A wooden door frame with a sturdy gate had been built into the mesh.

  Lyon let the pack slip from his shoulders and ran ahead. He stood by the gate and examined the lock before turning toward Bea who trudged up the last of the hill.

  “The lock’s been jimmied. It’s broken, Bea. Someone has been in here since last summer.”

  They stood before the open gate and looked in the entrance. Afternoon light from the west fell through the willows over their shoulders and lit the entryway for a dozen feet. Lyon dug two waterproof flashlights from the pack and handed one to Bea.

  She switched on her light and strode into the cave. Her light bobbed up and down, casting patterns across the floor and walls as the passageway began a downward slope. The walls were bare and mostly smooth, while the flooring seemed to be composed of a mixture of sand and dirt.

  She stopped and turned off her light. The blackness was complete. The passageway, in addition to its downward incline, had also veered away from the entrance.

  Where was Lyon? She switched the light on and pointed it toward the rear. “Lyon!” Her shout died without echo. She called again, “Lyon!”

  He rounded a distant bend carrying his head thrust forward between hunched shoulders. The flashlight, clenched tightly in one hand, shone directly at his feet. When he shuffled forward in his awkward gait, she could hear the rasp of his breathing, each intake of air making a sharp cutting sound. He passed her, his gaze intent on the passage floor immediately to his front, each step a measured mechanical placement of one foot before the other. She let her light pass across his face and saw that his eyes were wide, nearly glazed, and small beads of perspiration studded his forehead.

  Bea knew that her husband was in the throes of deep terror. She ran after him and nearly tripped on the now uneven surface that was dotted with small rocks and boulders. Her hand touched his arm without response until she shook his shoulder.

  “Lyon, what is the matter?”

  He mopped his brow with a bandanna without taking his eyes from the floor. When he spoke, his voice was low. “I don’t know how much further I can go.”

  “You’re …” She could not use the word. “You look very uncomfortable.”

  He laughed with a hollow sound. “Understatement, my dear. Quite an understatement.” The rasping breath continued.

  “Sit down.”

  They sat with their backs against the wall. She found the canteen in his pack and drank, passed it to Lyon, and watched him take a long drink. He seemed to make a conscious effort to control his breathing until it gradually returned to normal.

  “I didn’t think it would be this bad.”

  “This is why you wanted me along on this trip?”

  He nodded.

  “We shouldn’t have come.”

  “It has to be done.”

  “Someone else could have come in here. We could have called Rocco, Kim, and Raven, anyone else. I never knew you had this feeling.”

  “You ever hear me suggest a spelunking holiday?”

  “You’ve always known?”

  Lyon leaned against the rock and closed his eyes. “If I pretend, perhaps I can fantasize that I’m in my balloon.”

  “How did this happen?”

  “I’ve never cared for close, narrow places, even as a child, but it became worse in Korea. It was toward the end and I went up to Rocco’s forward position for a game of poker. We were in a bunker when a large shell landed. It burst near the entrance and collapsed the whole damn thing on us. We were in there two days before they got us out.”

  She jerked to her feet. “Okay, back we go.” She reached for his hands. “No macho bit, let’s just get out of here. I don’t like flying and you don’t like caving.”

  He turned toward the descending tunnel. “We have to get those reels.”

  “Let some trained spelunkers do it.”

  “It has to be us.” He shuffled down the passage.

  Bea stood looking at the retreating light then hurried to catch up.

  Lyon stopped and shone his light on the large cave map Nordstrom had given him. The pas
sage had narrowed considerably, and ahead he could see where the bedding plane lowered toward the floor creating a squeeze slightly more than a foot high. He checked the scale on the map and looked up toward the narrow opening. Bea caught up to him, looked at the squeeze and then at her husband.

  “You think we’ll fit?”

  “Map says we do.”

  She slipped the knapsack from his shoulders, extracted a thin nylon line, and tied it to a pack strap. She hunched over in the passage to make her way into the squeeze and looped the line to her belt. She lay on the floor and began to work her way awkwardly through the squeeze. It was difficult to grip the light and crawl, and now she knew why experienced cavers often wore miner’s hats.

  It was a long squeeze that lasted fifty yards, although the passage opened slightly to a height of nearly two feet. Her scrabbling movement slowly pushed her forward as sharp protuberances nicked her knees and elbows.

  She paused for breath and shone the light ahead. The squeeze ended a few yards ahead and opened into a large cavern room. Bea exited from the narrow aperture and stood erect. She swiveled her light across the larger space.

  The room was thirty to forty feet in width and nearly that in height. Flashing her light ahead, she could not make out the extent to which the cavern room extended. Pencil-thin stalactites hung in Christmas-tree-like rows from the ceiling, while stalagmites grew from the cavern floor and reached toward their dripping partners on the ceiling.

  She found it breathtaking, and slowly walked along the side of the room studying a group of calcite crystals growing on the walls in myriad shapes and forms. They seemed to wink in her light and cast a blue shadowy glow along the walls.

  The rasp behind her made her turn. Lyon had made it to the room and was huddled in the corner with the wavering light held in his shaking hand.

  “This is ridiculous. We can’t go on,” she said.

  His hand, trembling over the map, waved at her. “At the end of this room there is a phreatic tube on the right. We take that for nearly a quarter of a mile until we reach another room similar to this. There will be three shafts in that room. The third one is where Pasic’s map begins.”

  “How far?”

  “We’ll be a mile in and eight hundred seventy-five feet down.”