Fatalis

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Grand and the Wall drove their vehicles out of the campsite and back onto Pendola Road. They pulled off on the nearest shoulder where Grand took out the flashlight and started up the slope. The Wall followed with his own flashlight and cameras.

Hannah was scared but excited. She felt the way she did just living in Southern California, where the earth could shift and cause the seas to swell over Santa Barbara or the mountains to rain down. Only more so. If they were right and Gearhart were wrong, there wasn't going to be a doorway where they could hide or high ground they could run to.

Though Hannah had to be cautious and conservative in print, she refused to embrace Gearhart's parochial view of what was happening here. Not just because it was Gearhart's view but because Hannah had learned-in these hills, in fact;-that nature could surprise you.

When she'd first moved to Southern California, the young woman had come up to this very place. Because she was such a beach baby she had to see the sea at dawn from someplace high. So she'd climbed up one of these hills, and as the sun rose behind her she looked out at the ocean. It was whitecapped and green and filled the world to its ends. The hills smelled of the sea and she felt safe. It was a spectacular experience. But what was most unforgettable about that morning was that when she started back down the mountain she happened upon a field where monarch butterflies were hatching. There were thousands of them with their brown wings, dark veins, and matte-black borders with white spots. Some soared with the joy of new flight, some rested. But the wings of each one were moving, catching the light, changing from moment to moment. The sense of safety was replaced by a sense of fragility, her individual life less important than the awesome cycle she was witnessing. She felt less permanent than a butterfly's wings.

Right now she felt even less permanent than that. Not just from the possible danger but from the exertion of the past few days. The young woman's ankles began to hurt almost at once from pushing her heels into the soft earth. But she wasn't going to let that slow her down.

Grand had told them not to speak. The wind was moving up the mountain. An animal would smell them but a human wouldn't. A human would have to hear them.

"Unless, of course, we've got to phone him for help," the Wall said.

Grand had said he was going to lead the group around the side of the mountain as they climbed. He said he wanted to bring them back on the camp side just above the helicopter searchlight. He didn't want Gearhart seeing them and calling them back.

They made their way up the steep mountainside, Hannah in the middle. She could tell the Wall was unusually anxious. They weren't going up to track the killer, and none of them expected that he or it would still be there. They were only going up to look for more footprints or fur samples. But Hannah didn't blame the Wall for his anxiety. She was usually so determined to get her story that she bulldogged ahead without always factoring in all the what ifs. That was how she'd almost burned to death at the wharf fire, trying to talk to fire fighters on the line. And he'd had to pull her from a sea cliff that was collapsing in Goleta during the storms of 1997. She'd wanted to know what it was like to be banged around by winds and rain. In addition to taking pictures, it was the Wall's job to reign Hannah in.

The mountainside was alternately rocky and muddy, with thick grasses in some places and none in others, steep inclines in spots and gentle slopes in others. The first and last time Hannah had been up here it wasn't the rainy season, which made a big difference. It also wasn't nighttime then, where every click, hooo, and crunch wasn't a potential danger. When the wind was refreshing and not a gentle betrayer.

As they climbed, Hannah watched Grand in the glow of the Wall's flashlight. The scientist moved with such poise and balance that it was suddenly difficult to picture him sitting still in a chair back in that small room at the university. Yet he had seemed at home there too. Also when he was wisecracking about Gearhart running for governor.

Outer and inner strength, humor, and intelligence, Hannah thought. And from the way Grand smiled each time he mentioned her name, still very much in love with his late wife.

Hannah had never met anyone quite like him. She felt safe around him, something she'd never felt around Sheriff Gearhart.

They continued up and around the slope, sometimes ascending so steeply that they were literally on their hands and knees going up. As they climbed, Grand occasionally pocketed large, flat stones. She was curious about them but didn't want to talk and break her concentration on the climb.

Eventually they saw the edge of the spotlight. There was enough light spilling over so they could see, and Grand had them shut off their flashlights so that they wouldn't be noticed from the ground or, possibly, from whatever was above. Then he led them around the arc, toward the slide path. It was interesting feeling her way: Her other senses truly did compensate for not being able to see as well, her sense of touch in particular. She was much more aware of the stability, texture, and even the temperature of each rock or ledge or tree trunk she used to climb.

The air was cooler and the wind nippier as they ascended. Hannah could see the moon-speckled ocean in the distance, the white clouds, the stars, the misty lights of Santa Barbara.

They passed the boulders and followed the slide path straight up.

Suddenly, Grand stopped and pointed ahead. "Look."

About forty or fifty feet up the mountain leveled off. It was as though a massive piece had been sliced from the top. A forest of oaks had grown there, the outermost trees slanting sharply outward, bent and shoved but not dislodged by decades of rain. The slide path started at the edge of those woods, bounded on both sides by boulders that hadn't come free. They were too low to see whether or not there was an opening.

Grand started climbing again. So did Hannah. With a deep sigh, so did the Wall.

They reached the summit ten minutes later. Breathing heavily, her hands cold, swollen, and throbbing. Hannah stood beside Grand as he looked down a sinkhole. He turned on his flashlight, using his body to shield it from the campsite. The sinkhole wasn't as large as the one by Painted Cave, only about four feet across. Like the hole in the creek bed, this one sloped away sharply inside. The interior was studded with root tips and rocks, many half-buried in the wall. The soil was dark, rich, and damp.

Grand turned and shined his flashlight into the thick woods. So did the Wall. The twin beams met on a dirt path that led to this point, which was probably a scenic stop for hikers. The narrow, deeply rutted path slanted toward the ledge; rainwater had obviously followed it down, backed up behind the boulders, and created the sinkhole. They couldn't see very far into the woods as ground fog and clouds merged to form a misty cloak.

But they discovered that this hole had something they had not found at the other holes. Something they saw when Grand's light moved slowly across the woods, along the heavy cover of leaves and high grasses.

Another set of eyes, watching it.