Hazen leading, the others moved down the dark slot in the ground. As they descended, the sounds of the storm became muffled, far away. They opened the unlocked door, switched on their infrared lights and night-vision goggles, and began descending the stairs. Within moments the silence became complete, broken only by the sound of dripping water. They were entering another world.
Fifty-Seven
The Rolls scraped and bumped up the dirt track, the headlights barely penetrating the screaming murk, hail hammering on the metal. When the vehicle could go no farther, Pendergast stopped, turned off the engine, tucked the rolled map inside his suit jacket, and stepped out into the storm.
Here, at the highest point of land in Cry County, the mesocyclone had reached its highest pitch of intensity. The ground looked like a battlefield, littered with jetsam scattered by the ruinous winds: twigs, plant debris, clods of dirt picked up from fields many miles away. Up ahead, the still-invisible trees fringing the Mounds thrashed and groaned, leaves and limbs tearing at each other with a sound like the crashing of surf on rocks. The world of the Ghost Mounds had been reduced to sound and fury.
Turning his head and leaning into the wind, Pendergast made his way along the track toward the Mounds. As he approached, the roar of the storm became more intense, occasionally punctuated by the earsplitting sound of cracking wood and the crash of a branch hitting the ground.
Once in the relative shelter of the trees, Pendergast was able to see a little more clearly. Wind and rain boiled through, scouring everything with pebbles and fat pelting drops. The great cottonwoods around him groaned and creaked. The greatest danger now, Pendergast knew, came not from rain and hail, but from the possibility of high-F-scale tornadoes that could form at any time along the flanks of the storm.
And yet there was no time for caution. This was neither the time, nor the manner, in which he’d intended to confront the killer. But there was no longer any choice.
Pendergast switched on his flashlight and arrowed it into the gloom beyond the copse of trees. As he did so, there came a terrific splitting noise; he leapt to one side as a giant cottonwood came tumbling out of the darkness, hurtling down with a grinding crash that shook the ground and sent up a maelstrom of leaves, splintered branches, and wet dirt.
Pendergast left the trees and stepped back into the teeth of the storm. He moved forward as quickly as he could, eyes averted, until he reached the base of the first mound. Placing his back to the wind, he played his light carefully around its flanks until he had fully established a point of reference. And then—in the pitch of night, in the howling storm—he straightened, folded his arms across his chest, and paused. Sound and sensation alike faded from his consciousness as, from a marbled vault within the Gothic mansion of his memory, he took up the image of the Ghost Warriors. Once, twice, three times he ran through the reconstructed sequence from his memory crossing—where they had first emerged from the dust, where once again they had vanished—carefully superimposing this pattern upon the actual landscape around him.
Then he opened his eyes, let his hands fall to his sides. Now—walking slowly, taking precise steps—he moved across the central clearing to the far side of the second mound. Soon he stopped before a large limestone outcrop. He moved slowly around it, back to the storm, oblivious to the wind and pelting rain, inspecting rocks with great care, touching first one, then another, until he found what he was looking for: a half dozen small, loose boulders, casually lying caught in a crack of the rock. After examining them for a moment, Pendergast rolled the smaller boulders aside, one by one, exposing an opening. He rapidly shifted more rocks. The ragged opening exhaled cool, damp air.
The route through which the Ghost Warriors had first appeared, then vanished. And—unless he was sadly mistaken—the back door to Kraus’s Kaverns.
Pendergast slipped through the hole, flicking his beam back around to the inside face of rockfall, behind and above him. It was as he suspected: the smaller opening was inside what had once been a much larger natural opening.
He turned away, raking his light into the passageway that sloped downward. Pebbles rattled away into the listening dark. As he started descending, the appalling fury of the storm faded away with remarkable quickness. Soon it was nothing more than a memory. Time, the storm, and the outside world all ceased to exist in the changeless environment of the cave. He had to reach Corrie before the sheriff and his impromptu little SWAT team did.
The passageway broadened as it descended, leveled out, then turned abruptly. Pendergast moved carefully up to the turn and waited, listening, gun drawn. Total silence. Quick as a ferret, he spun around the corner, illuminating the space ahead with his powerful flashlight.
It was a giant cavern at least a hundred feet across. An astonishing but not unexpected sight met his view. The only moving things in the cavern were his pale eyes and the beam of his flashlight, passing back and forth over the bizarre spectacle that lay before him.
Thirty dead horses, in full Indian battle dress, were arranged in a kneeling position in a ring at the center of the cavern. They had shriveled and mummified in the air of the cave: their bones stuck out of their hides, their dried lips were drawn back from their yellow teeth. Each was decorated in the Southern Cheyenne style, with streaks of brilliant red ochre on their faces, white and red handprints along their necks and withers, and eagle feathers tied into their manes and tails. Some carried beaded, high-cantled Cheyenne rawhide saddles on their backs; others had a blanket merely, or nothing at all. Most had been sacrificed by a massive blow to the head with a studded club, leaving a neat hole punched directly between each pair of eyes.
Arranged in a second circle, inside the first, were thirty Cheyenne braves.
The Ghost Warriors.
They had laid themselves out like the spokes of a wheel—the sacred wheel of the sun—each one touching his dead horse with his left hand, weapon in his right. They were all there: those who were killed in the raid as well as those who had survived. These latter had been sacrificed like the horses: a single blow to the forehead with a spiked club. The last one to die—the one who had sacrificed the rest—lay on his back, one mummified hand still clutching the stone knife that stuck from his heart. The knife was identical to the broken knife found with Chauncy’s body. And each brave had a quiver of arrows exactly like the arrows found near the body of Sheila Swegg.
They had been here, bearing witness beneath the earth of Medicine Creek, since the evening of August 14, 1865. Those warriors who survived the raid had sacrificed themselves and their horses here, in the darkness of the cave, choosing to die with dignity on their own land. Never would the white men herd them off to a reservation. Never would they be forced to sign a treaty, board railroad cars, send their children to distant schools to be beaten for speaking their own language, to be robbed of their dignity and culture.
These Ghost Warriors had seen the inexorable roll of the white men across their land. They knew what the future looked like.
Here, in this great cavern, was where they had hid in ambush. From here they had issued forth during the dust storm, as if out of nowhere, to wreak havoc and destruction on the Forty-Fives. And here was where they had returned to seek eternal peace and honor.
In both his oral recollections, and at far greater detail in his private journal, Brushy Jim’s great-grandfather had said the Ghost Warriors seemed to rise up out of the ground. He had been exactly right. And—though in 1865 the mounds would have been covered in dense brush—Harry Beaumont, in the moments before his death, must have realized where the warriors came from. He had cursed the ground for a very specific reason.
Pendergast paused only long enough to examine his map. Then he hurried past the silent tableau toward the dark tunnel that led deeper into the cave system.
There was very little time left—if there was any time at all.
Fifty-Eight
Hazen followed Lefty and the dogs as they proceeded along the wooden walkway of Kraus’s Kaver
ns. Unlike the last pair, these beasts were hot on the trail. They seemed a little too eager: pulling on their leashes, straining forward, issuing growls from deep within their chests. Lefty barely had them under control, being jerked this way and that as he whined and cajoled. They were big dogs, ugly as shit, with enormous puckered assholes and giant balls that hung low like a bull’s. Presa canarios, dogs bred to kill dogs. Or anything else on two or four legs, for that matter. Hazen wouldn’t want to face them, not even with a brace of Winchesters loaded with double-ought buck. He noticed that the troopers seemed to be hanging back, too. If he had any sense, McFelty would fall to his knees and pray for mercy the moment these ugly mutts turned the corner.
“Sturm! Drang!” Lefty shouted.
“What kind of dog names are those?” Hazen asked.
“No idea. The breeder names them.”
“Well, slow ’em down, Lefty. This isn’t the Indy 500.”
“Sturm! Drang! Easy now!”
The dogs paid only the scantest of attention.
“Lefty—”
“I’mtaking them asslowly as I can,” Weeks answered, his voice pitched high. “I’m not exactly dealing with a couple of Pomeranians here, in case you didn’t notice.”
With the overhead lights off, the night-vision goggles illuminated the cave in a flat red wash. Hazen had never worn the goggles before and he didn’t like the way they reduced the world to a monochromatic, creepy landscape. It was like watching an old TV. The wooden boardwalk ahead swam in the crimson light, like the pathway to hell.
They passed by the Krystal Kathedral, the Giant’s Library, the Krystal Chimes. Hazen hadn’t been in the cave since he was a kid on a school outing, but they used to come every year and he was surprised how much he remembered of it. Winifred had always done the tour. She hadn’t been such a bad-looking woman back then. He remembered his friend Tony making vulgar gestures behind her back as she hammered out some tune on the stalactites. She’d turned into a queer old hag, though.
They reached the far end of the tourist loop, and Lefty, with a great deal of trouble, reined in the dogs. Hazen stopped well short, keeping a good ten feet between himself and the animals. The dogs were looking intently into the darkness past the Infinity Pool, growling, their tongues like big red diapers hanging out of their mouths. Dripping saliva showed red in the goggles, like blood.
Hazen waited for the troopers to assemble behind him, then he spoke in a low tone.
“I’ve never been beyond this point. From now on, silence. And Lefty, do you think you can get the dogs to tone it down?”
“No, Ican’t, okay? Growling’s instinctual for them.”
Hazen shook his head and signaled Lefty forward. He followed with Raskovich; Cole and Brast came next; Larssen brought up the rear.
They splashed through the pool, climbed down the far end, and then followed Lefty along a tunnel that narrowed, then rose again and took a sharp turn to the right. On the far side of the bend was a second iron door.
It was ajar, the iron padlock lying nearby on the ground.
Hazen gave them a thumbs-up, signaled Lefty on.
The dogs were growling even more insistently now, deep throaty snarls that prickled the hair on the back of Hazen’s neck. There would be no taking McFelty by complete surprise, but maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. The growling was enough to inspire even Rambo to throw down his weapons.
On the far side of the door, the tunnel widened into a cavern. The dogs snuffled ahead eagerly, dragging Lefty along. Hazen gestured for the group behind him to wait. Then he and Raskovich fanned out to the left and right, shotguns at the ready, scanning the room in infrared.
Bingo: the bootleggers’ nest. Hazen panned his goggles slowly across the large space. An old table; candle stubs; battered lanterns; broken crockery and bottles. At the far end, the still itself rose out of the reddish murk, a cauldron big enough to boil a horse. So big that it must’ve been brought into the cave in pieces and soldered in place—no wonder it never left.
When Hazen had satisfied himself that the room was empty, he waved the rest forward and approached the still. The smell of smoke still hung faintly in the air, mixed with other, less pleasant odors. He leaned over the cauldron and looked inside. There was something in the bottom, small and vague in the night-vision goggles.
It was a human ear.
He turned, feeling a thrill of vindication mingling with disgust. “Don’t anybody touch anything.”
The others nodded.
Hazen continued examining the cavern. For a moment, he thought this was the end of the line—that the cave was empty and that McFelty had already escaped. But then he made out a low archway in the side wall, a mere patch of gray leading to deeper darkness. “It looks like there’s another room that way,” he said, pointing. “Let’s go. Lefty, lead with the dogs.”
They passed through the low archway into the next cavern. This had once been the garbage dump for the moonshiners, and it was still filled with rotting trash, broken bottles, scraps of paper and tin cans and refuse of every kind, all pushed up against one wall. He paused. The room was cold, and in an especially chill series of niches along one wall he could see a stock of recent food supplies. A larder of sorts. He shined his light in to reveal sacks of sugar, cereal, beans, bags of potato chips and other snacks, loaves of bread, packages of beef jerky, tubs of butter. There was also a stack of candles, boxes of kitchen matches, a broken lantern. At the far end, a trash heap of discarded sacks and butter wrappings and cans and candlebutts showed that McFelty had been down here a surprisingly long time.
Continuing to pan with his night-vision goggles, Hazen saw that the passageway continued, leading to another cavern beyond. McFelty, if he was in here at all, would have heard them by now and would be in that room, maybe with a gun drawn, waiting to surprise them.
He put a hand on Lefty’s shoulder and spoke low into his ear. “Unleash the dogs and tell ’em to flush out the next room. Can they do that?”
“Of course.”
Sheriff Hazen positioned his men around the mouth of the passage, ready to collar anyone who came out. Then he nodded to Lefty.
Lefty unhooked the bullsnaps from the collars and stepped back. “Sturm, Drang.Clear. ”
The animals took off instantly, disappearing into the darkness. Hazen crouched by the opening, shotgun at the ready. He could hear the dogs in the next room, growling, snuffling, licking their wet chops. A few moments passed. The sounds grew fainter.
“Call ’em back,” said Hazen.
Lefty gave a low whistle. “Sturm, Drang.Return. ”
More snuffling and slobbering.
“Sturm! Drang!Return! ”
The dogs came back, reluctantly. In the glow of the goggles they looked like the hounds of hell.
Hazen was now convinced McFelty had gotten out. And yet it wasn’t a complete loss; quite the contrary, in fact. They’d find plenty of physical evidence to prove he’d been in the cave and to connect him to the crimes: fingerprints, DNA. And what was no doubt Stott’s ear was a terrific find as well, itself worth the trip down. With this kind of evidence against McFelty it would be a piece of cake to plea-bargain the guy and nail Lavender.
Hazen straightened up. “All right, let’s go see what’s in there.”
They entered the third cavern. It was smaller than the others. Hazen stopped in surprise. It looked like it had been used as some kind of living quarters, but as his eye traveled around the room he wondered just who it was who’d been living there. There was a bed against the wall, rotting and broken, the mattress ticking spilling out, but it was very small: a kid’s bed. Above the bed was a broken picture of an apple tree, and another of a clown. A few broken wooden toys, rotting and furred with mold, sat in a corner. There was a wooden bureau, once painted fire-engine red, buckling and listing to one side, the drawers sprung. Some rotten clothing could be seen inside. At the far end, the cavern narrowed to a tiny crack.
Jesus, what a place.
Hazen hiked up his pants, fished in his pocket for a Camel. “Looks like our bird flew. We probably just missed him.”
“What’s all this about?” Raskovich asked, shining his light around the room.
Hazen lit the cigarette, put the match in his pocket. “Something left over from moonshine days, I’d say.”
There was a long silence. Everyone stood around, looking disappointed.
Hazen sucked in a lungful, exhaled. “Back there, in the pot, is Stott’s ear,” he announced quietly.
As expected, this perked them up.
“That’s right. We’ve done well, men. We’ve got proof the killer was down here, proof this is where he boiled Stott. Proof this was his base of operations. This is a major break in the case.”
Everyone nodded. There were some excited murmurs.
The dogs began to growl.
“We’ll get the SOC team and forensic guys down here tomorrow to work the place over. I think our work’s done for the night.” Hazen took another deep drag on his Camel, then pinched off the glowing ash and dropped it into his pocket. “Let’s go home.”
As he turned, he noticed that Lefty was trying to pull the dogs away from the crack in the far wall. The dogs would have none of it: they were straining toward the crack, deep growls rumbling in their chests.
“What’s with them?”
Lefty gave their leashes another savage jerk. “Sturm! Drang!Heel! ”
“For chrissakes, let ’em check it out,” said Hazen.
Lefty walked them over. With a yelp the dogs suddenly piled into the crack, jerking the protesting Lefty along behind them. In another moment they were gone.
Hazen stepped over and peered in. He saw the crack made a ninety-degree turn and ran sharply downhill for a few feet before coming to what looked like a dead end.
And yet it went on. Ithad to. He could hear Lefty’s voice echoing back from the unknown darkness beyond, strangely distorted, calling uselessly for the dogs to heel.
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