Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1) (19 page)

I slowed to improve my chances of going straight. If that bothered anyone, they could just pass me. Wouldn
’t be hard to do. I coasted through the turn into the city park, down the slope and into the museum parking lot.

Ford, swaddled in a bright yellow rain slicker, was riding the big lawn mower through the trees, using the attachment to suck up soggy fallen leaves. The vacuum on that thing could probably inhale a bowling ball. He waved, but I needed both hands on the steering wheel. The big mower had headlights, but he
’d still have to quit soon. The low clouds created a thick gloom. I thought the term was ‘socked in’.

The museum
’s closed Sundays and Mondays and seemed cavernous without the sparse but comforting human element. Tuppence’s nails clicked on the oak parquet floor as she chased scents along the high baseboard molding and sneezed repeatedly to blow dust from her nose.

She trotted behind me through the dark rooms and into the waiting patron-friendly elevator. This one had carpet and wood paneling, unlike the utilitarian freight elevator, and I never used it. Except today when every step required a rasping fight for air and my limbs shuffled instead of swinging in their usual cadence.

I slid to the floor with my back against the walnut burl. Just a little rest while the elevator hummed to the third floor. A subtle ding and whoosh as the doors opened announced it was time to exit. I rocked to my hands and knees and slowly stood. I hung on to the hand rail for a few seconds until the floor became perpendicular to my point of view. My throat felt as though it’d been scraped with sandpaper.

Tuppence loped along the hall and sat in front of my office door. I fumbled with the key until the lock jiggled loose. I let the dog in, flipped on the overhead light and squeezed my eyes shut.

When the overhead light became tolerable by peeking through my lashes, I swung around to the corkboard on the back of the door and ripped Greg’s borrowed book list from the thumbtack. Six books — two on Columbia River Gorge geology, one on regional Native American history, two on petroglyphs and rock art, and
The Journals of Lewis and Clark
.

“
What are you up to, Greg?” I whispered.

Tuppence cocked her head.

“Back to the truck,” I said, and Tuppence led the way.

A huge plop of water dropped down my collar as I stepped out of the museum. It trickled between my shoulder blades and soaked into my bra band. I shivered all over. My jacket was water-resistant but not waterproof. But I wasn
’t going back. Not now.

Tuppence was soaked, too, and left puddles on the seat as she scampered across to her place by the passenger window. I eased the truck into gear and drove slowly toward Betty
’s, almost missing her driveway in the dark, sheeting rain.

As I pulled up to the house, Betty
’s porch light came on, and her silhouette appeared in the kitchen doorway. That sixth sense. She’d probably made cookies.

“
Honey, what are you doing out in this weather?” Betty called. She bent to pat Tuppence just as the dog launched a jowl-flapping shake, spraying water droplets over an extensive radius. Betty wiped her face on her apron.

“
Sorry about that,” I said.

“
Not to worry, honey. I’m a farm girl, through and through. In fact, I should have given her a minute to make herself presentable before trying to pet her. Come in out of the wet.”

Tuppence and I started steaming the moment we entered the warm kitchen. I sneezed onto my sleeve. Nice.

“Oh dear,” Betty said. “How about some hot Tang? You need the vitamin C.”

“
I’d really love that, but I need to look in Greg’s room again.”

“
Of course, dear. I’ll get your Tang ready while you do that.”

I stepped into Greg
’s room and went straight to the pile of books, still on the bed where I’d left them. Four books. I compared them to Greg’s list. The petroglyph books were missing.

Petroglyphs. What was Greg searching for? Ancient artwork with spiritual or narrative meaning? A graduate student
’s dream. Something to impress Angie.

I returned to the kitchen and slid into a vinyl dinette chair. Betty pushed a warm mug into my hands. Neon orange liquid swirled, releasing a pungent tangerine scent.

“Want a cookie?” Betty asked. “Chocolate and orange are good together.”

I accepted a chocolate chip cookie, also warm
— the chips still melty. “Mmmm.” I chased the cookie with the Tang and cringed. Still, it tasted better than cough syrup.

Tuppence flopped under Betty
’s chair for a cranium massage.

“
What a sweet hound,” Betty said.

“
We need to get going. Thanks, Betty.”

“
You sure you can’t stay? It’s miserable out there.”

“
Yeah, we have things to do. I’ll bring Tuppence back on a nice day, get a tour of your farm.”

“
I’d like that. You take care, now. Drive safely.”

More like drive sober. I grimaced, reeling as I stood. A wave of dizziness and nausea washed over me. The sugar, citric acid and codeine weren
’t playing well together. I staggered out the door to the truck. Betty didn’t wave, but stood on the porch, arms folded across her chest.

Day Nine. I had to snap out of this haze. Concentrate.

Greg had made a plan, and it involved petroglyphs at the heritage marker past Lupine. Maybe something would come to me if I stood in the same spot. Get inside his skin. What was he thinking? I tossed the books onto the seat beside me and Tuppence nosed them.

East toward Lupine on a dark and rainy Monday night. Two cars passed going west. The steady pounding rain and whoosh of road spray, the thump-click-thump of the windshield wipers lulled me into a trance.

The third time my head snapped to attention — how long had I been dozing? — I turned on the radio. The public jazz station at Mt. Hood Community College was playing the Squirrel Nut Zippers. I tapped the steering wheel along with “Fat Cat Keeps Getting Fatter” which helped — for a couple minutes.

I straightened up as we rolled into Lupine
— the retail section of town closed for the night. A few lit signs splashed colorful reflections on the wet pavement. The tavern, with its flashing neon beer logos — some half burned out — and surging white rope lights outlining the flat facade, had a packed parking lot. Mostly dented 4X4 rigs raised on knobby tires. One diehard had ridden his Harley into town and parked it in the dry patch under the small overhang sheltering the windowless door. Monday night football viewing in the sticks.

And that was it. Lupine lasted four minutes. I turned the high-beams on and peered through the  rivulets streaming down the windshield for the heritage marker turnoff. I found it more by feel than by sight, grateful for the crunch of gravel under the tires. I set the parking brake
— hard — and got out.

The river was a dark abyss. I knew it was there, but I couldn
’t pick out any details between where I stood and a few lights winking through raindrops on the Oregon side. Tuppence’s tags jingled beside me.

I clicked on the flashlight, targeted the heritage marker in its beam, and shuffled over to stand near the familiar boulder. My head swam, and I blinked to clear my vision.

Where would someone go if they were looking for petroglyphs?

Down.

Dams had dramatically raised the level of the Columbia long after the petroglyphs had been carved into basalt by Native Americans who fished the river and established a thriving trading post here. The Dalles Dam submerged Celilo Falls, making this section of the Columbia traversable by boat. The white people’s towns had been relocated to safety when the dams were built from the New Deal through the 1950s.

Along the way, a few forward-thinkers and history buffs had saved a smattering of petroglyphs by chipping them out and removing the rock slabs ahead of the rising water, but most were submerged and probably eroded beyond recognition. Documented eye-witness history lost to the thirst for increased commerce.

“What do you think, old girl?” I asked.

Tuppence bumped my leg with her nose and snorted.

“He’s not going to make it if we don’t find him soon. He might not —”

Tuppence whined.

“I know. Not yet.” I wiped water out of my eyes. “I can’t think that yet.”

Where would a curious graduate student go looking for petroglyphs?

Down.

CHAPTER
18

I played the flashlight over the cliff edge. Short of falling, there appeared to be no way to get down to the river.

“Well, girl, where is he? Go find Greg.”

Tuppence wagged and snorted but stuck to my side.

Should I wait for daylight and assistance? I patted the cell phone in my pocket. This was just a whim, a hunch at best — not worth bothering Sheriff Marge about. But Greg didn’t have much waiting time left, if any. Nope — now or never. I wasn’t going to let him down again.

I turned left and cut wide swaths with the flashlight as I crept along the edge. A couple stones dropped and plinked against the cliff
’s side as they tumbled down. Steady. I passed the spot where Greg’s car had gone over. Then my feet fell on rough turf — the end of the gravel parking area.

Tuppence trotted ahead around a knoll, nose skimming an inch off the ground. She made her usual hoovering sounds.

“That’s right, old girl. Go find him.”

I bumped into the dog
’s back end, and Tuppence yelped.

“
Sorry. Why’d you stop?” I ran the light beam along Tuppence’s back to her head and saw what she was sniffing — a crumpled Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket.

“
No distractions, not tonight.” I nudged Tuppence then walked around the dog when she didn’t budge.

The ground sloped downward at a mild grade from the heritage marker viewpoint. Boulders left behind by thousands of years of erosion loomed at odd angles. I didn
’t know where I was going, but I kept my feet heading downhill. That meant squeezing between two boulders and taking a sharp turn to the right.

The ground was rutted into a channel caused by spring runoff. I needed to follow the trail of water, from small to big as gravity collected it into growing flows.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but I was beyond soaked. Tuppence caught up, and we slogged through mud.

I panned the flashlight ahead, taking my eyes off the ground for one second, and slid down a short embankment, landing hard on my rump with a gooshing, kissing sound in the sticky mud. Tuppence stuck a wet nose in my ear.

“I know. If I had four legs, I’d be better at this.”

As I picked myself up, the flashlight beam wavered over the way we
’d come, and I realized we’d been making switchbacks down large steps that marked separate lava flows from ages past. Over the years dirt had blown or been washed into crevices and corners of the steps. Grass rooted and held it there, creating ramps or slides from one level to the next. If I’d been able to see the whole thing from the start, I probably would have made the entire descent on my backside.

The river lapped against the bank below, but it was at least one more thick lava layer down. I hoped there was a ledge or at least large rocks to balance on. I didn
’t want George to have to fish my body out of the water in a few days.

My sinuses ached, and my hands shook like I had three-espresso jitters making the light beam bounce all over. Was it because I was cold and wet or because the codeine was wearing off? Codeine was supposed to be slept off, not used to mask physical ailments while launching an ill-advised search. I tried to sigh but couldn
’t breathe that deeply. I coughed instead. My ears crackled.

Tuppence shuffled forward, nose to ground. She disappeared around a rocky outcropping. Then she sneezed and I followed.

Tumbled rocks blocked a narrow chasm — probably the remnants of an old rock slide. The exposed fronts of the lava shelves were vertically striated into eerie columns created as the lava had cooled. This chasm looked as though a crack had formed between columns, or maybe it had been there all along — maybe something deep in the shelf had created a wedge the lava flowed around. I’m no geologist, but that’s my best guess. The next shelf up formed a ceiling of sorts, back in behind loose rocks. Tuppence was on top of the rock pile, waiting for me.

“
You want to go back there?”

Wag wag.

“That’s up, not down.”

Wag wag. Shnuffle.

“Your score card is pathetic lately. Rodents, bullfrogs, one cat and a KFC bucket.”

Snort. Tuppence descended the rock pile on the other side, tail in the air.

“Gonna leave me behind, huh?” I muttered. My throat hurt.

Tuppence made it look easy, but I weigh twice as much and am half as nimble. I shoved the flashlight in my back pocket and felt my way forward on the pile. I shifted on chunks, seeking footing while grabbing for something sturdier ahead. A rock the size of a softball caromed off my thigh before nicking my opposite calf as it fell.

“Uhghh.”

Then whatever I was hanging on to with my left hand let go and I slid, scraping a raw streak into my palm and forearm. I lay panting at the bottom, grateful for the codeine
’s residual pain-killing effects.

Tuppence whined from the other side.

“I’m coming,” I said, but I still laid there for a few minutes, waiting for my sight to return to single vision. A nap would be nice.

No. No, no, no. No nap. Besides, the flashlight lump under my right hip was not comfy.

I rolled over and crawled toward the wall. Maybe the side of the rock pile would be easier. My hands pressed against the basalt columns, finding grips in their crevassed surface. I inched sideways, like a crab, leaning on the wall for support when the rocks shifted underneath. Baby steps in the dark.

Shrubbery scratched my face. Hardy bushes clinging to the cliff
’s side. I grasped a branch, tugged, found it firmly rooted and pulled myself up, hand over hand. The shrub saved me from a cracked skull when my body slid away on the other side of the sudden crest in the pile.

My shoulders felt as though they were being pulled out of their sockets. It
’s awfully hard to breathe when you’re hanging from a branch, when your esophagus is jammed into your lungs even though you’re stretched to twice your normal length. It just doesn’t work, so I let go. I have a little extra backside, so the fact that some of it came off in the slide won’t be a long-term problem. It hurt like crazy, though, regardless of codeine.

Tuppence whined and licked my chin. Then she head-butted my side.

“Yep. Alright.” I  felt around to my back pocket and pulled out the flashlight. It clicked on instantly. Thank you, Maglite.

Tuppence wheeled and headed into the chasm. I looked back at the rock pile for a second, but we
’d come too far to give up now. With my right hand against the basalt wall and my left holding the flashlight, I followed.

Rocky debris littered the path, forcing me to examine every step. The uneven ground separated between narrow fissures. I tried not to step on the cracks. A plunking staccato sound
— water dripped into puddles which then leaked into ragged cracks.

Water
— fresh water — was leaking through the lava layers. I remembered the threes. Three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food. The running rainwater was an excellent sign and spurred me on.

But it was rough going, my breathing raspy and fingertips raw from feeling forward along the rock wall. Even Tuppence stumbled, emitting soft grunts. I wondered if they made headlamps for dogs.

Tuppence sneezed, and the noise echoed at odd angles toward us and away. But that could have been my ears. They were still plugged and returning my own dampened heartbeat.

What was that?

Tuppence cocked her head too, lifting her long, floppy ears as much as she could. We both froze, not breathing.

Gone. It was gone.

The chasm narrowed unevenly to a slit. The ground dropped away too. We were going down again. Tuppence barged into the opening, then stopped, her back end blocking the bottom half.

“
What’s in there, Tupp?”

I aimed the flashlight over the dog
’s head. More rock — a dark void.

“
Come on, let me through.” I pulled on Tuppence’s tail, and she backed out.

I squeezed into the channel, keeping my flashlight hand ahead. I stepped on something that cracked under my weight. Glass and plastic shards reflected in the flashlight beam. With my foot, I scooted the pieces behind me, slid out of the channel and knelt to examine them. Tuppence stuck her nose in, too, and wagged her whole body.

Grey lenses and cobalt blue frames. Sunglasses. The ones Greg wore had blue frames.

Last summer when we
’d gone out to check the lighting for the museum’s sign at the park entrance, Greg switched to prescription sunglasses. He’d told me he knew about wiring, but we couldn’t find the fuse box, and I wasn’t about to let him fiddle with the connections while they were live. He’d shoved the sunglasses up on his head while peering under the sign. I realized he must be nearsighted.

Yeah, the sunglasses were his, or just like his.  It would have been easy for the sunglasses to fall off his head or out of a loose pocket while he was shimmying through. He was skinny, but those long limbs would have had to be folded awkwardly.

Tuppence snorted.

“
You were right,” I said. “He’s close.”

Close. My heart jumped into overdrive. Could he hear us? Time to holler.

I crawled over to the opening and pressed in as far as my shoulders allowed.

“
Greg!”

Echoes.

“Greg!”

Was that a moan? The same sound as before, soft and distant. Could be anything.

There was one way to find out. If Greg could get in there, so could I.

The last time I
’d had a choice, I’d chickened out and a dead man had been pulled from the water. I was going in.

But I was going to call the cavalry first. I backed out of the cavern, picking out spots where I
’d stepped before. Suddenly there was a ticking clock in my head. Now that I knew Greg was in the cavern, I had to reach him, and fast. Maybe just knowing help was on the way would give him the strength to hang on.

I called Sheriff Marge. No answer. Unusual, but not unheard of. I left a message and, on second thought, set my phone on a boulder at the base of the rock pile. It wouldn
’t get a signal in the cave and maybe it had one of those GPS tracker things. I didn’t know for sure. Still the phone would do more good out here than inside. I ducked back into the cavern and scrabbled to the narrow chasm.

The opening was widest at the bottom. But not wide enough for my shoulders to pass through. If I laid on my side, I could wriggle past.

“You stay here,” I told Tuppence.

The loose stones were sharp, like shards chipped off the walls. They cut into my skin as my jacket rode up. I squirmed, propelling my body through the opening. A sideways inchworm maneuver.

I sat on my haunches in the second room of the cave and tried to catch my breath.

Tuppence whined through the crevice.

“No, you stay.”

The words caught in my throat, and I coughed until my eyes watered. The codeine had definitely worn off.

I panned the flashlight around the small chamber. Cracks as wide as my hand crisscrossed the floor. Rapid water drops spattered into an unseen puddle. I touched the glistening wall. Water ran in rivulets down the basalt. Fresh water. Puddles. Still the best news I’d had in a week.