Wormholes Read online

  “Damnit, this is my case and you’re not going into that hole, you hear?”

  Dacey ignored him, taking off her cap and deftly stepping into the leg loops of the climbing harness. She belted it firmly around her waist, tightening the loops around her thighs. She pulled on leather-palmed climbing gloves, efficiently twisted her ponytail into a tight rope atop her head and jammed on the helmet, fastening its strap beneath her chin.

  “Do you hear me?” The rescue chief moved around in front of her, considering whether to call up a couple of the men to restrain her.

  She clicked the helmet light on. “Am I lit?” she asked the rescue chief.

  He nodded in spite of himself. “Yeah, sure, but I’m not going to let you down there without a partner,” he announced with authoritative finality.

  But Dacey had already attached the rope to the Range Rover’s front winch.

  She reached up and switched on the camera, fiddling with the iPad to bring up the video image on the screen. She handed the iPad to the rescue chief, who found himself looking at his own image. “Okay, you’ll see what I see,” she said. “Just flick the switch to let me down, and when I tell you, flick it the other way to hoist me up.”

  “That’s it!” growled the rescue chief, with a wave of his hand that brought two burly rescue workers to his side. “You don’t hear what I’m saying, so I’m—”

  “Do you hear what I’m saying?” She glanced at the two confused rescue workers and pointed up at the rescue chief. Her blue-gray eyes flashed and her jaw tightened. With a sharp yank, she tied off the blue rappelling rope on her harness and pitched the coil down into the darkening chasm. “Your chief asked me to check out this hole and he didn’t say I had to answer to you. You talk to the chief. You tell him that poor lady’s husband … those children’s daddy … could still be alive down there, and I’m not waiting on one of your guys to figure out how to put on a harness. And if you do send these guys down there without me checking it out first, and you got an unstable soil structure, and it collapses, you’re gonna be digging more bodies out!”

  Before the apoplectic rescue chief could answer, she slipped over the side, the tools and carabiners on her belt clanking. The rope tightened and cut into the turf on the crater lip.

  She signaled the rescue chief to start the winch, and it whined to life, lowering her into the hole. She examined the layers as she went. Now she was in her element. Now she could bring into play her almost instinctive understanding of rocks and soil. She still saw in her mind’s eye the little girl’s somber, innocent face. She dug her fingers into the wall and pulled out chunks of soil and crumbled them, letting the bits fall away. She pulled a small geologist’s pick from her belt, prying out rocks and turning them over in her hand before pitching them away, too.

  “Ya got good compacted clay soil here,” she called up to the rescue chief, whom she couldn’t see over the rim. “It’ll keep the sides stable.” Finally she had descended out of the waning sunlight and into the shadows of the crater’s bottom. The winch had reached its limit, so she pushed off from the crater wall, swinging out and paying out the rope. She stepped lightly onto the ripped edge of the roof, testing it with her foot. Satisfied with its solidity, she let out the rope, walking across the roof, feeling with her boots for weak spots.

  She stopped and surveyed the side of the hole, looking for unstable areas. She sensed the sudden violence that had produced this hole, felt a dread here. It was so raw, so fresh; not the slow geological violence that thrust mountains up from the earth’s crust. Not even the ponderous, rumbling violence of an earthquake or a volcano. This was sudden, ferocious, somehow more powerful than any geological processes. This was not natural.

  She remembered the woman and her children, and sadly realized that amidst this violence, the husband and father could not possibly have survived. But if force of will could save him, she would have that force of will. She also resolved that she would learn what had happened here.

  She continued paying out the rope to give herself room to maneuver across the roof and tied off the rappelling knot so it wouldn’t slip. She crouched on the rough shingled surface, putting her ear against it. She called “Hello?” loudly several times and listened intently for a response. She pounded on the roof with her geologist’s pick and listened again. The reverberations of the roof gave her information about what was beneath, but it was confusing. The sound was too hollow to have dirt beneath it. She looked up and shook her head somberly. The few faces that poked over the crater’s rim watched her solemnly. Only the murmur of conversations filtered down to her.

  She raised her pick and took a wide swing, embedding it into the roof with a dull thunk. She pried up shingles and worked her way through the splintered underlayment, producing a small hole. With several more blows and pryings, she widened the hole, until at last she could peer in, shining a flashlight. An unsettling darkness swallowed the light. She looked up again and was about to shake her head to the people above.

  The roof lurched crazily, sending her sliding down almost to its edge, scraping her knees on the asphalt shingles. She recovered and stood up tense and still on the tilting roof. Her heart began to pound, her senses became razor-sharp. She took two steps as if walking on eggs. The roof slumped again, with a creaking, scraping sound, cocking itself into an angle that transformed it into a deadly vertical slide into oblivion. Dacey saved herself by leaping forward and just hooking her pick over the roof’s peak. She strained to pull herself up to reach over it to the other side. She heard the rescue chief shout for ropes to be thrown down. One rope fell wide of the roof to the left, and before another could be thrown, the roof plummeted away with the splintering crack of tearing wood and shingles, carrying her down with it.

  She rode the roof down, plunging into the darkness, then grunted painfully as her rope zinged to a lifesaving tautness. A viciously battering cascade of soil and rocks pummeled her, the choking dirt forcing its way into her eyes and mouth. She hung almost upside down, struggling to right herself, praying that the rope and harness would hold. Blinded and suffocating, she spat out the moldy-tasting dirt, grabbed the rope and curled into a blinded ball, swaying back and forth in the blackness, enduring the bombardment. Large rocks careened off the helmet and others struck her legs, leaving red welts. One small boulder glancing off her hip launched her into a slow spin.

  But even under the hammering deluge of earth and rock, she remained keenly aware that no sound had yet arisen from the roof’s impact. Then she heard it, a distant booming crash reverberating up from the utter darkness signaling the chamber’s immense depth.

  She clamped her jaw, the grit crunching between her teeth and hung on for her life as the rain of rocks dwindled to a trickle, then stopped, except for stray pebbles and occasional light spatterings of soil on her helmet.

  She unfolded and coughed raspily, spat and cleared her eyes with the backs of her gloves. She pushed panic down deep, stowed it away as useless. Down to business. She checked herself. Scrapes, bruises and some blood running down her leg, but she was basically okay. She could see nothing of the dark chamber by the waning light that filtered from the large hole above. She toggled the switch on the helmet light. It had been smashed. But the camera was still intact. Still swaying precariously back and forth over the unfathomable abyss, her legs dangling, she dug into a pouch and came out with a small flashlight, shining it up the rope to check whether the lifeline had been damaged. She saw a couple of abrasions. She had to get out quickly before the rope began to unravel. She examined her harness and found it basically sound.

  “Okay, you’re still alive,” she whispered to herself reassuringly. “Still kickin’, babe.” She jerked and twisted at the end of the rope to rotate, so she could shine the light around her. She could barely make out dark distant earthen walls in the huge cavern. But this was no time to explore. Later. This crater held many secrets. She brushed more dirt from her eyes, coughed again, bringing up more grit and peered upward at th
e light.

  “SAY, CHIEF!” she bellowed. “YOU WANNA START THAT WINCH AND PULL ME UP?”

  • • •

  The Tennessee state cop eased the patrol car through the darkened parking lot of the rest area. Over the past month, there had been two robberies and a rape in these isolated rest stops along Route 40 between Knoxville and Nashville. He and his partner figured that some sick itinerant son-of-a-bitch had decided to attack a few people before moving on to another state. Not on their damned shift, though.

  Traffic was sparse on the nearby freeway at three a.m. An occasional truck roared past, its red running lights outlining the large silver boxy form, its headlights pushing an island of brightness ahead of it in the enveloping gloom. A few cars whizzed past, too, probably carrying sleeping passengers and all too often, a nodding driver.

  The cop stopped the car at the restroom building and nodded to his partner, who understood his message from five years of working together.

  “Yeah, Leo, I know. It’s my turn,” he said tiredly, pulling himself from the car and trudging through the warm, humid night, through the fluttering moths madly circling the lights outside, and entered the men’s room. He walked along checking the stalls. He came out and went over to the women’s side of the red brick structure. He rapped on the metal door with his nightstick. The metallic clunking brought no response.

  “State police. Anybody in there?” No response. He repeated, then ducked in and checked the room out. He emerged, stopped and got a drink from the water fountain and walked back toward the car. He nodded to a bleary-eyed trudging couple who’d just gotten out of a Honda, as they split up to head for the restrooms. He paused before he got into the car, peering away down the parking lot into a shadowy area between the street lamps.

  He leaned down to the car’s window. “Leo, that van down there. There’s nobody out here for it to belong to.”

  “Yeah, Johnny-boy. That’s true,” said Leo scanning the area. “You stay out. Go around, come up from the front. I’ll block it.”

  Leo eased the patrol car down the lot and right up behind the dented old blue van. Johnny circled out into the grass, coming up in front, standing on the slight rise beyond the parking lot and peering through the darkened windshield. Leo keyed the plate into the car’s computer, but since it was a Massachusetts plate, he didn’t expect information on wants or warrants back soon.

  Leo got out, his eyes riveted on the van. He was a beefy man, but he moved smoothly and quickly when his adrenaline was up, and it was up now. He drew his revolver, a signal for his partner to do the same. No sense taking a chance. Aiming the revolver upward, Leo moved up to the van, took out his nightstick in his left hand and banged on the side, moving out of the line of fire of the back doors. Johnny would warn him if the front doors opened.

  “State police. Please come out slowly and keep your hands in sight.” After a long moment, the old van creaked and shifted on its springs from somebody moving inside. He banged again harder, the thunking sound rising above the roar of a passing truck.

  “Just a minute,” came a muffled reply, and the handle on the back door moved. The door swung open with a rusty scrape and a head stuck out.

  Leo always looked at the eyes first. The eyes told you whether the subject had in mind to cooperate or to go for a gun. But these eyes that squinted at the light were fathomless — like onyx marbles. The distant street lights cast shadows on the face. The man had long, unruly, curly dark hair and a dark beard and moustache. He pulled himself out of the back of the van and stood peering at Leo. He had a slim, taut-muscled body and the long arms were very white. He wore a t-shirt that was wrinkled from having been slept in, faded blue jeans and old white socks with toes flapping loose. No tattoos, prison or professional. No visible scars.

  “Sir, do you know it’s against the law to camp at a highway rest stop?”

  “No, sorry. I was tired,” the man mumbled blearily. “Thought I’d rest an hour.” He rubbed his eyes and focused them on the officer. “Why do you have your gun out?”

  “Just move away from the van. Let me see your driver’s license.” Leo kept his gun aimed skyward. The man obeyed and Leo saw Johnny’s flashlight click on as he began to inspect the van through the windows.

  “Where are you headed, sir?” Leo holstered his pistol and studied the license. It was Massachusetts. The name was Gerald Meier. Photo matched the face. He thought he’d known a sneak thief named Gerald Meier once.

  “I’m going to Oklahoma.”

  “Where in Oklahoma?”

  “Gillard.”

  “You got family there?”

  “No, business.”

  “What business?”

  “Uh … it’s too complicated to explain.” The man was awake now and a slight edge of indignation crept into his voice. Leo sensed that there was something very much more with this fellow than even his practiced eye could discern. But he couldn’t figure out what.

  “Try me.”

  “Look, I don’t have to tell you my business, do I?”

  “You better if you don’t want to find yourself in a lockup back in Knoxville while we check you out. We’ve had some robberies go down in this area.”

  “I’m …” The man paused and looked at Leo, sizing him up. “I’m looking for a job. I just finished one in construction up north. I heard there was an opening from my brother-in-law. I’m meeting him there.”

  Leo’s experience told him the explanation was being concocted on the spot. There were too many subtle hesitations.

  “Lemme see your hands.” The man offered his hands. They were smooth, no calluses. “Pretty good hands for a construction worker.”

  “I wear gloves. I do electrical work.”

  “Right. Anybody else in your van? Mind if we look?” Leo was still on the fence about this guy’s story, still trying to decide whether he believed this long-haired hippie-looking guy.

  There was another pause. “Nobody in there. Uh, go ahead.”

  Leo nodded to Johnny, who held his gun aloft, slid open the side and peered inside, rummaging around. Meantime, Leo stepped to the police cruiser, keeping the man in sight and radioing in Gerald Meier’s name. He returned.

  “Gillard, eh? Ever been in Oklahoma, Mr. Meier?”

  “Probably. I guess maybe passing through.” They waited while Johnny finished searching the van. The police radio crackled and emitted a message for him. He reached into the car and spoke into the microphone. The dispatcher told him no wants, no warrants on the guy or the vehicle. Leo still didn’t like it.

  “Piles of books and several computers in here,” reported Johnny. “Lots of electronics I can’t figure out. It’s kind of a mess. He sleeps in there, looks like. This was taped on the dashboard.” He handed Leo a Google News printout. The story was about a sinkhole in Gillard, Oklahoma, that had swallowed a house. The article included a picture of a young woman in climbing gear who’d gone into the hole. A very attractive long-haired young woman in shorts. Leo held the printout up to the man, who stiffened almost imperceptibly.

  “You interested in this, Gerald? You interested in sinkholes? Or are you interested in pretty girls?”

  “Officer, look. I’m sorry I stayed too long here. I’m not doing anything. Just let me go on my way.” The black eyes stared at him now in a smoldering anger, but the emotion was carefully controlled. The man reached out his hand for the clipping. Leo hesitated. Damn, he didn’t like this at all. But he handed the man the clipping.

  “All right. You go on now, Mr. Meier. But don’t camp in rest areas. There’s lots of motels along the highway.”

  “Thank you.” But the man said it with such flat intonation that the actual meaning might have been far more inflammatory.

  The two cops got into the car and Leo slowly backed it out of the way. The man cranked the van’s engine, which after some churning finally roared to clattering life. He backed the van out and proceeded with almost insolent slowness down the parking area and onto the freew
ay.

  Leo looked at Johnny and shrugged. “Hell, wasn’t a thing I could do.”

  Johnny nodded. “Think we ought to call the Gillard cops? Tell them about this guy and the clipping?”

  “We’d look like idiots.” Leo held up a pretend telephone receiver to his ear. “Hello, officer, we stopped a guy here who clips newspapers. And he sleeps at highway rest stops. Shoot to kill.” He chuckled wryly, but his face quickly became serious as he accelerated the patrol car onto the freeway and into the night. “Well, maybe there’s something we could do …”

  “Let it down,” Dacey instructed, waving her hand and watching the crane operator shove the lever forward. The steel mesh basket began to descend with a slight lurch and sway into the crater. She held onto the edge of the basket, staying in her corner to balance the three rescue workers lodged into the other three. From her vantage point, she did a full-circle scan of the craggy earthen walls, searching for signs of more collapses. It had taken a day to rig the crane with extra-long cable and move it into place, and she worried that the sides of the hole might have dried and become crumbly. But as the basket sank from the sunlight and the crowd of onlookers into the dank musty gloom of the cavern beneath the crater, she saw no evidence of further erosion. The last face she saw in the crowd was the drawn face of Anita, the man’s wife. She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, hoping for a miracle. The children were not there. Anita said they had been sent to their grandmother’s. The little boy, Brad, cried a lot. And the little girl, Jenny, had been having nightmares.

  Dacey promised herself she would find their daddy if he was there. This time they would see everything. One of the rescue workers switched on a floodlight, powered through a black electrical cable snaking down from the surface. The brilliant glare of the light revealed an enormous, ragged chamber that matched the sides of the hole, looking as if it had been ripped from the inside of the earth. Dacey directed the light to various quarters of the crater wall, recording the scenes on her helmet video camera for later study. She began to mentally chart the cavern’s shape. How could it possibly have been formed? Not by running water; not by the collapse of a mine. Water table was high here, but the chamber seemed to have a long undulating topography, roughly the shape of one of those ripply kid’s balloons. Water would have made a smooth straight chamber.