“The fact that’s it’s here,” said Kat. “Someone reached our depth, but didn’t get back out.”
All three turned to her, wide-eyed.
“Don’t panic. He might not have brought along enough provisions. He could have been injured. There could be any number of explanations. There has to be a way out. I felt a breeze along the lake. That can only mean another access to the surface. If we were cut off, we wouldn’t feel a stir.”
They nodded, looking a little less terrified, but only a little.
“We’ll hike along the shore, follow the breeze. There should be another tunnel somewhere. We’ll search until we find it. But first I think we should rest.”
“Rest?” said Pete. “I’m not tired.”
That triggered a nervous chuckle in Megan.
Pete rounded on her with narrowed eyes. “Well, I’m not. I can keep going until we climb back out of here.”
“Right,” said Megan, still giggling. “Superman. Except when an irate woman comes after you.”
Pete glowered, but refrained from comment.
“What you’re feeling right now,” said Ray, “is adrenaline. Because you’re—how do you say it—freaked. A near-death experience through the sump and then this skeleton. You’re high on fear and you’re frantic to keep going.”
“The hell I am,” Pete said.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” said Kat. “We all are. But if we don’t take a break, refuel, and particularly rehydrate, we certainly won’t make it out of here.”
She turned her back to them and staggered to where Ray had tossed her pack, by the placid waters of the lake. Despite sharing Pete’s frantic need to search for a way out—it prodded her with urgent fingers since the discovery of the skeleton—she couldn’t go on. She was entirely too bruised and battered, the pain inside still ebbed and flowed, and she hadn’t an ounce of energy left. She sank to the rock and removed her foam sleeping mat and an aluminum space blanket from her pack. Then she stripped out of her wet T-shirt and underwear and slipped into some polypropylene p.j.’s, while trying to ignore the hungry eyes feeding on her body. She knew they didn’t belong to Pete. He was a jerk, but he had no sexual interest in her. She’d chastised him far too often for treating the cave marvels so cavalierly. No, the eyes that constantly feasted on her belonged to someone for whom, deep down, she nursed a secret desire. But for some reason, she still maintained her distance.
Ray dropped his gaze and pulled out his own mat.
“Are you okay?” he whispered, nestling down disturbingly close to her.
“Never been better,” she said. “Trapped in the bowels of the earth with a skeleton and a rat.”
Ray chuckled. “And me?” he asked. “What category do I fall under?”
“Friend,” she said sternly, but maybe not sternly enough. Although his muscles tightened, he snuggled up to her back and draped his arm over her shoulder. She didn’t have the energy to cast it off. But as she slowly drifted to sleep, her last thoughts didn’t settle on Ray. They sought out a tall, trim man with olive eyes, rich brown hair, and a tilted smile that had hooked her the first time she’d laid eyes on him. Of course he wasn’t exactly the same anymore—the years of lab work, hospital rounds, and little exercise had softened his flesh and expanded his girth. His hair was thinning at the top and the tilted smile was rarely evident. Yet she still couldn’t stop thinking about him. Did he even care that she was buried and probably dying?
As she drifted back, she could see it. The shock in his eyes and the concern—yes, there had been concern—when the diagnosis had been made. He’d been pushing her for weeks to let him examine her, run tests, when she’d first felt the lump in her breast. But she’d been angry—she’d been angry for years—that he’d refused to join her on caving expeditions. And she’d been pushing him farther and farther away. Besides, his concern had been disproportionate. It was probably just a harmless cyst. So when she’d finally let another doctor take a look, she already knew what it was, and she was prepared for the recommendation of a lumpectomy and aggressive chemotherapy. But Mark didn’t agree.
Mark, with his revolutionary solutions.
“Just let me try, Kat. I can save you, and without excising a piece of your breast, either.”
“I’m not about to be your guinea pig,” she snarled. “I’ve survived the most treacherous environments on the planet. You think I’m going to allow a few aberrant cells to claim my life? But I’m not going to let you experiment just so you can save my breast.”
“That’s not what . . . ” He looked pained. “Kat, all I care about is saving you.”
“Really? I thought all you cared about was your latest invention.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Because when you cared about me, you joined me on my treks, no matter how dangerous. You shared the thrills with me. You loved it.”
“It’s— it’s not the same in caves.”
“Why?”
He stared at her, as if from a distant planet, then looked away. “It just isn’t.”
Her fists clenched as she watched him tightly concealing something. Why couldn’t he tell her? What was holding him back? Well, if he couldn’t share his pain with her, then she wasn’t about to let him share hers. Trust had to be mutual.
“I’m undergoing surgery and then chemo,” she said. She felt slightly vindicated when he winced, even though she knew the horrors that she now faced. She couldn’t stand his pleading, his tender ministrations, or his overwrought concern when she didn’t have his trust. She’d thrown him out during her darkest hour, leaving the door wide open for someone else to step into his life. And that hussy had been only too happy to oblige.
Chapter Seven
Mark tried to ignore the filth on his clothes and in the truck as Jorge wound through the hills and climbed increasingly steeper grades on the road, which was now nothing more than a dirt track. He tried to disregard the spasms in his back from the jolting ride, the jarring of his jaw, and the rattling of his teeth. Most of all, he tried not to heed the feeling of unease that Jorge’s behavior had elicited in his gut.
“We’ve crossed the border into Chiapas,” said Jorge. “Heading into the mountains.”
“The air feels a bit thinner,” said Mark. “Will we get to your village soon?”
Jorge grunted. “Soon enough. Tell me, doctor. Why did your wife come here? I heard rumors of some gringos poking around the forest. But why would a woman explore such a deep cave with all the risks involved?”
“That’s a good question,” said Mark. He gave Jorge a brief version of Kat’s scientific background, her interest in nanobacteria, and her obsession with cave exploration. Harding had told him that there were four members in her team, and Mark relayed this information to the guide. They would have more than one woman to rescue.
“May be a challenge to get them all out,” Jorge said. “Especially if they’re injured.” Mark wondered at the strange monotone of the man’s voice, as if the possibility that members of Kat’s team were injured didn’t bother him at all. Was he really interested in helping them? Or was he more interested in helping himself to Mark’s money? That potential problem loomed in Mark’s mind, but he tried his best to thrust it aside.
After two hours of traveling, they rolled into Amata, Jorge’s village. It was perched on the side of a steep mountain, and consisted of a series of clapboard and corrugated metal shanties and thatched huts surrounding a cobble-stoned central plaza. A few men in ponchos and sombreros, and some women in long cascading skirts, wandered about, alongside chickens and goats. No electric wires were visible, and some women were dipping clay jars into a mountain stream to collect water. It was hard to fathom the contrast to the delightful and well-kept town of Tapijulapa. Midway through the village, Jorge pulled over to the side—scattering a small gathering of bone-thin children—and leaped out of the truck.
“We’ll stop here for lunch,” he said.
Mark forced the truck doo
r open with a grimace. “I’m not really hungry.”
“You will be,” said Jorge. He winked and headed for the chewed-up wooden door that hung drunkenly from a clapboard shack.
Mark followed, somewhat relieved by this stop, since it would delay the moment he dreaded. Inside, three men sat on wooden benches around a small table, while a woman flipped tortillas on a wood-burning stove. No other furniture was evident, save a moth-eaten mattress tossed in the corner of the dirt floor. The men jumped to their feet and rushed toward them, greeting Jorge with holas, but raising their eyebrows at Mark.
The first one was a large hulking brute, while the other two appeared slighter, one almost to the point of emaciation. They all had the same copper skin, scimitar noses, and mahogany hair. Jorge spoke to them in a language that didn’t sound much like Spanish, particularly given the odd glottal click that punctuated it. Apparently he was explaining Mark’s presence and the situation.
“Mi compadres,” said Jorge, by way of introduction.
“Doctor, me llamo Chico.” The large man stepped forward, firmly grasped Mark’s hand and pumped it.
“Hi,” Mark said, wincing at the strength of Chico’s handshake. “Just call me Mark.”
“Doctor, me llamo Manuel,” said the second man, pumping just as painfully.
“Mark,” Mark insisted.
“Doctor, me llamo Sergio,” said the third. He grinned and exposed as many gaps as teeth in his tan face.
Mark gave up, just smiled, and nodded.
“They don’t speak English,” Jorge said.
“Ah,” said Mark. “Will they be joining us on our expedition?”
“Sí,” said Jorge. “Come. Sit, and have something to eat.” He muttered something to the short woman at the stove. Mark thought he caught her name—Margarite? Although sunken-eyed and malnourished, the woman wore a snow-white dress stitched with ornate designs of amazing artistry. Dressed for a ball but ready for a funeral, probably hers.
“I can’t eat your food,” said Mark, dismayed to be taking anything from this woman’s plate.
“Why?” asked Jorge. “You do already.”
Mark turned to the man, confused. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing,” said Jorge. “Sit. Eat. It will be your first real taste of Mexico.” A strange gleam appeared in his eyes. He gently pushed Mark down on the splintered bench and sat beside him. The other men leaned against the wall, with odd looks of fascination on their faces. Apparently they’d already partaken of the meal.
The feast that Margarite served matched the cracked ceramic plates: tepid, flaky corn tortillas and watery beans with insects floating in them. Mark couldn’t believe his eyes. Did they really expect him to eat this? Then she placed a dish of tiny chili peppers beside the tortillas. And he’d thought the egg burritos on the plane had been gut-roiling. The woman stood beside him, hands on her hips. He had no choice. Stuffing some beans and peppers into a tortilla, he intrepidly raised it to his lips, closed his eyes, and took a bite. There was a crunch—the protein part—and then the heat liquefied the hair in his nose and nearly seared his eyes out of their sockets.
“Good peppers, eh?” Jorge grinned and clapped him on the back. “We call them look-at-the-sky peppers.”
Riotous laughter erupted from Jorge’s compadres.
Mark choked, chewed, and swallowed. Tears streamed down his face, but the woman still glared at him with arms crossed, so he had to take another bite. His stomach clenched and gurgled, but he ate until the entire tortilla was gone. Jorge had grabbed a tortilla himself and devoured it in ten seconds flat.
“Well done, gringo,” said Jorge. “Didn’t think you had it in you. I guess I’ll take you to the cave now.”
“Please,” Mark gasped, trying to stir enough air with his hand to cool his burning face.
Jorge launched from the bench and strode out the rickety door, followed swiftly by his men. They paused just outside to load a few items onto the truck. Mark caught a glimpse of what looked like black fence posts—maybe walking sticks?—as they were thrust under the gear. He hastened after the men, the sweat still pouring off him in rivulets. When he arrived at the truck, Jorge’s compadres were already seated on the flatbed, Chico’s thick arm circled around the matted fur of the dog. Manuel and Sergio were diligently unwrapping Mark’s purchases and stowing the equipment in the waterproof backpacks. Good. At least they seemed to know something about caving. But why did he have this sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach—a feeling that had nothing to do with his ulcer-inducing lunch?
Wrenching the door open, Mark joined Jorge in the cab. Jorge put the truck into gear and backtracked to the relatively smooth federal highway. Half an hour later, he turned onto a rutted and mud-soaked dirt road.
At this point, Mark knew he had to find out more about this cave, and perhaps, about these men.
“You said you knew the cave when you spoke to me in Tapijulapa. Have you been in it before?” he asked.
Jorge didn’t answer right away, and Mark was afraid he wouldn’t. Finally he said, “I have traveled to the entrance. Not many know exactly where it is. Ever since the flood of scientists to la Cueva de la Villa Luz, near Tapijulapa, there have been people combing the hills for similar caves. They say that strange tiny beasts, microbes, they call them, thrive in the sulfur-rich caves and spawn extraordinary life. My people have harvested the fish for many years at the Cave of the Lighted House. No matter how bad the famine in our country, the fish never fail to be abundant at this cave. The people travel by boat for a festival every spring, and these cave fish are so thick they can scoop them up with their bare hands. It is deadly to go into the cave, though, at certain times. The scientists say the sulfur gas—hydrogen sulfide, I think it’s called—is too concentrated. But the caves are a great attraction for them regardless of the danger. So they search everywhere for more of these caves. But not many have found the one where we are going. It is recessed, hidden deep in the forest, and no native will guide the scientists there.”
“Why is that?” asked Mark.
Jorge glanced at him, then looked away. “You will find out.”
Mark had certainly gleaned from Harding that there was something mysterious about the cave, but Jorge’s behavior was conjuring all kinds of terrifying images in his mind. Why did the local people refuse to guide others to its location? Considering the obvious poverty of the region, one would think they’d jump at the chance to earn some extra cash. If there was something dangerous about it, why would Jorge agree to this expedition?
As he glanced at the stout Mexican driver, a jeep barreled from a side road and slammed to a stop in front of the truck.
“What the—?” said Mark, as Jorge jammed the brakes and sent him careening into the dashboard.
The truck rattled to a dead stop a meter from the jeep’s side door.
Mark sat up, his chest smarting, and gazed uncertainly at the vehicle barricading the road. Two men wearing khaki army uniforms and berets leaped out of it, brandishing rifles and sneering as they approached. One had a vivid white scar down the left side of his cheek and a predatory glint in his eyes. The other smoothed a very thick mustache and smiled coldly. He stuffed a cigarette in his mouth and took a long drag.
“Who are they?” asked Mark.
“Paramilitar,” said Jorge through gritted teeth.
Mark frowned. “What does that mean?”
“Bastards,” he said.
Chapter Eight
The man in army fatigues dropped his cigarette stub on the road, stamped it out, and ambled to the side of the truck. He leaned toward the open window, his rifle aimed at Mark.
“Identificación?” he said in an icy tone. Mark stared at the rifle and didn’t respond immediately, so the man growled, “Pasaporte!”
“Of course,” said Mark, quickly digging into his pocket for the little black book. He handed it to the man, who scrutinized it at length.
When he looked up he said, “Doctor?” with a questio
ning lilt to the Spanish word.
“Sí,” said Mark.
The man leaned closer so Mark was inhaling his sour smoke-laden breath. “That’s good, Señor. We need doctors in Mexico. Maybe you stay with us.” He grinned and slipped the passport into his pocket.
“Hey,” said Mark, but Jorge tapped him on the side of the leg with his boot. How stupid of him to protest into the barrel of a rifle. He clapped his mouth shut.
The man scowled at Jorge and demanded his ID and that of his three companions. Jorge removed a rumpled card from his shirt pocket and handed it to him, all the while eyeing the other Mexican, who stood stock-still in front of the truck with his rifle trained at the windshield.
Just take the ID and let us go, Mark pleaded silently.
The man continued to scan the papers, his eyes scrunched into narrow slots.
“Chiapas?” he said, his voice tinged with contempt. “Zapatista?”
“De ningún modo, el general,” said Jorge. “Labrador.”
Mark had no idea what they were talking about. What the hell was a Zapatista anyway? Was this man an army general? But he could see that the man with the rifle was getting riled up. It was bizarre, beyond imagining. He could picture this kind of harassment in a fascist South American country, but not in Mexico. It was supposed to be civilized—a prime vacation destination. Or maybe this had to do with Jorge. Maybe he wasn’t who he appeared to be. Whatever it was, the way the rifle-toting lunatic was shouting, they might wind up in jail at the end of the day instead of rescuing Kat. Or even worse.
The man jabbed his weapon at Mark and yelled, “Get out!”
Mark looked questioningly at Jorge, but the man’s face was stone. “Wh- what—”
“Do as he says,” said Jorge.
With trembling hands, Mark tried to open the door, but, of course, it wouldn’t budge.
“Get out!” the madman yelled again.
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