rainwater.
Now the bucket hung halfway down the well. Just out of reach.
“Going to need your help again,” Trish said.
Ally struggled erect.
Her bare feet were bloodied, her stylish dress as shapeless as a flour sack, her arms and shoulders scored with scratches. Brambles gleamed in disheveled hair, matted with dirt and dust.
Still she voiced no complaint. “What can I do” she asked simply.
Wonder Woman’s partner, Trish thought with a smile.
“See that bucket I’ll make like a footstool. You stand on me and pull it down.”
Kneeling, Trish braced herself, hands spread. A blade of sciatica twisted through her sacroiliac as Ally stepped onto her back.
“Got it.” She climbed off.
Trish tugged the line until it was taut. “Okay. We’ve got to shimmy up.”
For once she’d found a use for her academy training. Like the other recruits, she had practiced rope climbing regularly as part of a conditioning program.
Grasping the rope with both hands, tucking it between her knees, she began to climb.
The distance was short enough, and the line seemed to be taking her weight without undue strain, but even so Trish felt a cool caress of relief when she reached the rim of the well.
Cautiously she raised her head, aware that she was an easy target for a sniper.
Nothing happened.
She climbed higher, then swung her legs over the rim and lowered herself to the ground. Pain flared in her sore ankle.
For a moment, just one moment, she surrendered herself to the warm night air fragrant with summer blossoms, the whisper of leaves, the trill of a mockingbird running through a series of whistling calls.
It was so good to be out from underground. It was like returning from the dead.
Later she would savor the feeling. Later.
Now there was work to do.
“You next,” she whispered, leaning weakly on the rim.
Ally started to shimmy up, gasps of exertion echoing in the shaft. The rope twirled giddily. Starlight painted her face as a pale smear.
Trish followed the girl’s slow progress, her gaze shifting intermittently to the dangerous darkness on every side.
Climbing the rope was not much of a physical challenge, but Ally’s strength was nearly gone.
Come on, kiddo, Trish urged silently. You can do it.
“No medals for quitters,” she called into the well.
Ally, halfway up, produced an interrogative grunt. “What”
“No medals for quitters, I said.”
“Screw you, Trish.” But she climbed faster. Three quarters of the way now.
From the windlass-a sudden creak.
The knot securing the rope was coming loose.
Instinctively Trish closed both hands over the line.
But the gesture was useless. Should the knot fail, the cord would slither through her clutching fingers, branding her with rope bums. She could never hold on.
Ally was nearly to the rim.
“Hurry,” Trish breathed.
“Hey, like I said, screw …” Then Ally saw how Trish gripped the rope, and she understood.
She shimmied faster, gulping air.
It would be a twelve-foot fall. Concrete floor. Broken arm, broken leg-at a minimum. Then Ally would be trapped in the well, unable to climb out or to take refuge in the caves.
Trish thought of the rabbit skull in the grotto, the scatter of bones.
How many hunted animals had died here in the dark
Ally was less than a yard from the well head.
Trish looked at the knot-unraveling still faster.
Another second, and the rope would spring free.
“Take my hand!”
Leaning forward, she thrust her right arm down.
Ally grasped her wrist, and the knot undid itself, the line lashing like a snake as it dropped away.
The wrenching tug of gravity nearly cost Trish her balance. With her left hand she clutched the rim of the well, digging her shoes into the dirt.
“It’s okay,” she gasped. “Got you.”
Straining, she pushed away from the well, carrying Ally with her, and abruptly Ally’s bare feet were scrabbling on the rim, finding purchase, and she was out.
“Oh, God.” Ally shook all over, a rag doll in a terrier’s mouth. “Oh, God, this is bad, this is bad.”
“It’s nearly over.” Trish fought the violent trembling of her knees. “Is the lake nearby”
Ally brought her breathing under control. “Yeah. That way.”
A wide strip of pavement was visible through a gap in the trees. Trish recognized the path she’d taken when she left the dock and entered the Kents’ backyard.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
They reached the macadam in seconds, then headed downhill, both of them hobbling.
Trish’s ankle screamed with every step. She gritted her teeth against swirls of lightheadedness and limped on.
Couldn’t let pain stop her. Somehow she sensed with premonitory certainty that death was rapidly closing in.
51
The Porsche roared alive with a crank of the ignition key.
Gage slammed the passenger door as the car took off, accelerating from zero to sixty in five seconds.
Tyler muscled the coupe through a tight turn, then steered across the manicured lawn, past sprays of roses and stands of eucalyptus.
“Your brother told me you never killed anybody,” he said over the motor’s throb.
Gage swallowed. “Right.”
Squeal of rubber, and the Porsche swung onto the driveway, skidding momentarily because Tyler had let off the throttle.
When he opened it up, the coupe found its footing and barreled forward, streaking between the house and garage into the rear yard.
“Not gonna freeze up on me,” he said evenly, “are you, man”
Indignant: “No way.”
His high beams stabbed the back gate, already open. He had slapped the wall switch after leaving the cellar.
The gate shot past. Gone.
“Because,” Tyler said, “if you are-“
“Hey.” The gold earring flashed. The kid’s mouth trembled, but his eyes were hard. “She might’ve killed Blair. Okay”
Tyler looked at those eyes, flat and stubborn as nail heads, and for the first time he was not unhappy to have at least one of the Sharkey boys on his crew.
“Okay,” he answered with a nod.
He rolled down the windows and unholstered his Glock.
