Together they began working the bar back and fourth until slowly it began to loosen in its socket. Stone chips and dust rained down from the ceiling. After two minutes’ work the bar fell free, striking the floor with a clang that echoed through the tunnel. Sam grabbed the bar and dragged it back through the gap. He examined the ends.
“It’s been cut,” he murmured, then showed it to Remi.
“Acetylene torch?”
“No scorch marks. Hacksaw, would be my guess.”
He shone his flashlight into the bar’s empty floor socket and could see, a few inches down, a stub of metal.
Sam looked at Remi. “The plot thickens. Somebody’s been here before.”
“And didn’t want anyone to know about it,” she added.
After taking a moment so Sam could get a bearing on his compass and sketch a rough map in his moleskin notebook, they squeezed through the gap, refitted the bar in its upright position, and continued on. The tunnel began zigzagging and narrowing, and soon the ceiling was at four feet, and Sam’s and Remi’s elbows were bumping along the walls. The floor began sloping downward. They put away their flashlights and turned on their headlamps. The floor steepened until they were sidestepping their way down a thirty-degree grade, using rock protrusions as hand- and footholds.
“Stop,” Remi said suddenly. “Listen.”
From somewhere nearby came the gurgling of water.
Sam said, “The river.”
They descended another twenty feet, and the tunnel flattened out into a short corridor. Sam shimmied ahead to where the floor began sloping upward again.
“It’s nearly vertical,” he called back. “I think if we’re careful, we can free-climb-”
“Sam, take a look at this.”
He turned around and made his way back to where Remi was standing, her neck craned back as she stared at the wall. In the beam of her headlamp, an object about the size of a half-dollar bulged from the rock.
“It looks metallic,” Sam said. “Here, climb aboard.”
Sam knelt down, and Remi climbed on his shoulders. He slowly stood up, allowing Remi time to steady herself against the wall. After a few seconds she said, “It’s a railroad spike.”
“Say again?”
Remi repeated herself. “It’s buried in the rock up to the cap. Hold on . . . I think I can . . . There! It’s tight, but I managed to slide it out a few inches. There’s another one, Sam, about two feet up. And another one. I’m going to stand up. Ready?”
“Go.”
She rose to her full height. “There’s a line of them,” she said. “They go up about twenty feet to what looks like a shelf.”
Sam thought for a moment. “Can you slide out the second one?”
“Hold on . . . Done.”
“Okay, climb back down,” said Sam. Once she was back on the ground, he said, “Good show.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I can think of only one reason they’d be that high off the ground.”
“So they’d go unnoticed.”
She nodded. “They look fairly old.”
“Circa 1973?” Sam wondered aloud, referring to the year Lewis King disappeared.
“Could be.”
“Unless I miss my guess, it looks like Bully, or some other phantom spelunker, built himself a ladder. But to where?”
As Sam’s words trailed off they panned the beams of their headlamps up the wall.
“One way to find out,” Remi replied.
8
CHOBAR GORGE, NEPAL
As a ladder, the vertical alignment of the spikes would make Sam’s ascent awkward-if, in fact, he was able to reach the first rung. To that end, he uncoiled his rope, tied a slipknot in one end, and spent two minutes trying to lasso the second spike. Once done, he used a bit of parachute chord to secure a stirrup-like prusik knot to the rope to climb-and-slide his way up the wall.
With one foot perched on the lowermost rung and his left hand wrapped around the second rung, he untied the slipknot and clipped it to his harness. He then reached up, slid out the third spike, and started upward. After five minutes of this he reached the top.
“Not that I’d care to try it,” Sam called down, “but there are just enough handholds to make the ascent without the spikes.”
“It would have taken some skill to set them, then.”
“And strength.”
“What do you see?” Remi called.
Sam craned his neck around until his beam shone over the rock shelf. “Crawl space. Not much wider than my shoulders. Hang on, I’ll drop you a line.”
He withdrew the second-to-last rail spike and replaced it with a SLCD (spring-loaded camming device), which locked itself into the hole. To this he attached first a carabiner, then the rope. He dropped the coil down to Remi.
“Got it,” she said.
“Wait there. I’m going to scout ahead. There’s no sense in both of us being up here if it’s a dead end.”
“Two minutes, then I’m coming after you.”
“Or if you hear a scream and a thud, whichever comes first.”
“No screaming or thudding allowed,” Remi warned.
“Be back in a flash.”
Sam adjusted his position until both his feet were perched on the uppermost spike and his arms were braced against the rock ledge. He took a breath, coiled his legs, and pushed off while levering with his arms, launching his torso onto the ledge. He inchwormed forward until his legs were no longer dangling in air.
Ahead, Sam’s headlamp penetrated only ten to twelve feet. Beyond that, blackness. He licked his index finger and held it upright. The air was perfectly still, not a welcome sign. Getting into caves was usually the easy part, getting out often harder, which was why any spelunker worth his salt was always on the lookout for secondary exits. This was especially true of unmapped systems like this one.
Sam brought his watch to his face and started the chronometer. Remi had given him two minutes, and knowing his wife as he did, at two minutes and one second she’d be on her way up the rope.
He started crawling forward. His gear clanked and rasped over the rock floor, sounding impossibly loud in the cramped space. “Tons.” The word appeared, unbidden, in his mind. There were countless tons of rock hanging over his body at this very moment. He forced the thought from his mind and kept going, this time more slowly, the primal part of his brain telling him: Tread carefully, lest the world collapse around you.
He passed the twenty-foot mark and stopped to check his watch. One minute gone. He kept crawling. The tunnel curved left, then right, then began angling upward, gently at first, then more steadily, until he had to use a modified chimney crawl to keep moving. Thirty feet gone. Another time check. Thirty seconds to go. He crossed over a hump in the floor and found himself in a wider, flat area. Ahead, his headlamp swept over an opening almost twice as wide as the crawl space.
He craned his neck and called over his shoulder, “Remi, are you there?”
“I’m here!” came the faint reply.
“I think I’ve got something!”
“On my way.”
He heard her crawling up behind him as her headlamp washed over the walls and ceiling. She gripped his calf and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “How’re you doing?”
While Sam wasn’t clinically claustrophobic, there were moments in particularly tight spaces when he had to exert strict control over his mind. This was such a time. It was, Remi had told him, the downside of having a fertile imagination. Possibilities became probabilities, and an otherwise stable cave became a death trap ready to collapse into the bowels of the earth at the slightest bump.
“Sam, are you there?” Remi asked.
“Yep. I was mentally practicing Wilson Pickett’s ‘In the Midnight Hour.’”
Sam was a fair hand at the piano, and Remi at the violin. Occasionally, when time permitted, they practiced duets. While composer Pickett’s music didn’t readily lend itself to classical instruments, as lovers of vintage Am
erican soul, they enjoyed the challenge.
“What’ve you found?” Remi asked.
“That it’s going to take a lot more practice. And my blues voice needs more-”
“I mean, ahead?”
“Oh. An opening.”
“Lead on. This crawl space is too tight for my liking.”
Unseen by Remi, Sam smiled. His wife was being kind. While Sam’s male ego wasn’t a fragile thing, Remi also knew that offering a little face-saving was a woman’s prerogative.
“Here we go,” Sam replied, and started crawling forward.
It took only thirty seconds to reach the opening. Sam inched forward until his head was through. He looked around, then said over his shoulder, “A circular pit about ten feet across. I can’t see the bottom, but I can hear water gurgling-probably a subterranean offshoot of the Bagmati. Directly across from us is another opening, but about twelve feet higher.”
“Oh, joy. How are the walls?”
“Diagonal stalagmites, the biggest about as thick as a baseball bat, the rest about half that.”
“No conveniently placed spike ladders?”
Sam took another look, panning his headlamp along the pit’s walls. “No,” he called back, his voice echoing, “but dangling directly over my head is a spear.”
“Pardon me? Did you say-”
“Yes. It’s affixed to the wall by what looks like a leather cord. There’s a piece of cord hanging below the spear with a shard of wood attached.”
“Trip wire,” Remi commented.
“My guess as well.”
They’d seen similar traps-designed to foil intruders-in tombs, fortresses, and primitive bunkers. However old this spear trap was, it had likely been contrived to plunge into the neck of an unsuspecting interloper. The question, Sam and Remi knew, was what had the booby trap been intended to protect?
“Describe the spear,” Remi said.
“I’ll do you one better.” Sam rolled over on his back, braced his feet against the ceiling, and wriggled forward until his upper torso was jutting through the opening.
“Careful . . .” Remi warned.
“. . . is my middle name,” Sam finished. “Well, this is interesting. There’s only one spear but two more attachment points. Either the other two spears fell away or they found victims.”
He reached up, grasped the spear’s shaft above the point, and pulled. Despite its half-rotted appearance, the leather was surprisingly strong. Only after Sam wriggled the shaft back and forth did the cordage give way. He maneuvered the spear around, twirling it like a baton, then slid it back along his body toward Remi.
“Got it,” she said. A few seconds later: “This doesn’t look familiar. I’m no weapons expert, mind you, but I’ve never seen a design like this before. It’s very old-at least six hundred years, I imagine. I’ll get some pictures in case we can’t come back for it.”
Remi retrieved her camera from her pack and took a dozen shots. While she was doing this, Sam took a closer look around the pit. “I don’t see any more booby traps. I’m trying to imagine what it must have looked like by torchlight.”
“‘Terrifying,’ is the word,” Remi replied. “Think of it. At least one of your friends had just taken a spear to the back of the neck and plummeted into a seemingly bottomless pit, and all you’ve got is a flickering torch to see by.”
“Enough to turn away even the bravest of explorers,” Sam agreed.
“But not us,” Remi replied with a smile Sam could hear in her voice. “What’s the plan?”
“Everything depends on those stalagmites. Did you bring up the rope we left behind?”
“Here.”
Sam reached back until he felt Remi’s outstretched hand, grabbed the carabiner, and pulled the coil up to him. He tied first a slipknot into the loose end, followed by a stopper knot; to this, for weight, he clipped the carabiner. He maneuvered his body until his arms were free of the opening, then tossed the line across the pit, aiming for one of the larger stalagmites a few feet below the opposite tunnel opening. He missed, retrieved the rope, tried again, this time laying the slipknot over the tip of the protrusion. He jiggled the line until the knot slid down to the base of the stalagmite, then cinched the knot tight.
“Care to help me with a stress test?” Sam asked Remi. “On three, pull with everything you’ve got. One . . . two . . . three!”
Together, they heaved on the rope, doing their best to rip the stalagmite from the wall. It held steady. “I think we’re okay,” Sam said. “Can you find a crack in the wall and-”
“I’m looking . . . Found one.”
Remi slid a spring-loaded cam into the crack and fed the rope through it, then through a ratchet carabiner. “Take up the slack.”
Sam did so, heaving on the rope as Remi slid the carabiner up to the cam until the line was as taut. Sam gave it a test pluck. “Looks good.”
Remi said, “I suppose it goes unsaid-”
“What, be careful?”
“Yes.”
“It does. But it’s nice to hear anyway.”
“Luck.”
Sam wrapped both hands around the rope and shimmied forward, slowly transferring his weight onto the line. “How’s the cam look?” he asked.
“Steady.”
Sam took a steadying breath, then pulled his lower legs free of the crawl space. He dangled in the air, not daring to move, gauging the sag in the rope and listening for the sound of cracking rock, until ten seconds had passed. He then pulled his legs up, hooked his ankles over the line, and began inching across the pit.
“Holding steady on this end,” Remi called when Sam reached the halfway point.
Sam reached the opposite wall, transferred first one hand, then the other, to the stalagmite, then swung his legs up and braced his right heel against another protrusion. Testing his weight as he went, he contorted his body until he was sitting perched atop the stalagmite. He took a moment to catch his breath, then slowly stood up until he was level with the opening. A quick boost with his hands and a shove off the stalagmite, and he was inside the crawl space.
“Be right back,” he called to Remi, then scrabbled inside. He was back thirty seconds later. “Looks good. It widens out farther on.”
“On my way,” Remi answered.
In two minutes she was across, and Sam was pulling her into the opening. They lay still together for a few moments, enjoying the feeling of solid rock beneath them.
“This reminds me a lot of our third date,” Remi said.
“Fourth,” Sam corrected her. “The third date was horseback riding. The fourth was the rock climbing.”
Remi smiled, kissed him on the cheek. “And they say guys don’t remember those things.”
“Who’s they?”
“They who haven’t met you.” Remi shone her headlamp around. “Any sign of booby traps?”
“Not yet. We’ll keep a sharp eye, but if your estimate on the age of that spear is accurate, I doubt any trip mechanisms would still be working.”
“Famous last words.”
“You have my permission to put it on my tombstone. Come on.”
Sam started crawling, with Remi right behind him. As Sam had promised, a few seconds later the crawl space opened into a kidney-shaped alcove roughly twenty feet wide and five feet tall. In the opposite wall were three vertical clefts, each no wider than eighteen inches.
They stood up and stoop-walked to the first cleft. Sam shone his headlamp inside. “Dead end,” he said. Remi checked the next: another dead end. The third cleft, while deeper than its neighbors, also petered out a half dozen paces inside.
“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Sam said.
“Maybe not,” Remi murmured, then started toward the right-hand wall, her headlamp pointing at what looked like a horizontal slash of darker rock where the wall met the ceiling. As they drew closer, the slash seemed to grow taller, rising into the ceiling, until they realized they were looking at a slot-like tunnel.
; Standing side by side, Sam and Remi peered into the opening, which rose away from them at a forty-five-degree angle for twenty feet before rounding over a jagged bump in the floor.
“Sam, do you see what-”
“I think I do.”
Jutting over the ridge in the floor was what appeared to be the sole of a boot.
9
CHOBAR GORGE, NEPAL
The lack of treads on the boot’s sole told Sam and Remi they weren’t looking at a modern piece of footwear, and the skeletal toe poking through a rotted patch in the boot told them the owner had long since departed the earthly plane.
“Is it strange that this sort of thing doesn’t shock me anymore?” Remi said, staring at the foot.
“We’ve stumbled across our fair share of skeletons,” Sam agreed. Such surprises were part and parcel of their avocation. “See any trip wires?”
“No.”
“Let’s take a look around.”
Sam braced his legs against one wall, his back against the other, and let Remi use his arm to pull herself up. He made his way up the slope and over the hump in the floor. After panning his headlamp around the space, he called, “All clear. You’re going to want to see this, Remi.”
She was beside him in an instant. Kneeling together, they examined the skeleton.
Protected from the elements and predators, and entombed in the relative dryness of the cave, the remains had partially mummified. The clothes, which appeared to be made mostly of laminated and layered leather, remained largely intact.
“I don’t see any obvious signs of trauma,” Remi said.
“How old?”
“Just speculating . . . at least four hundred years.”
“In the same range as the spear.”
“Right.”
“This looks like a uniform,” said Sam, touching a sleeve.
“Then that makes more sense,” replied Remi, pointing. Jutting from what had once been a belt sheath was the hilt of a dagger. She panned her headlamp around the space, then murmured, “Home sweet home.”
“Home, perhaps,” Sam replied, “but sweet? . . . I suppose everything’s relative.”
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