vanishing into the void beyond.
Pat ran over to Pitt’s body, which had skidded to a stop and was sprawled on the ground. She would have sworn he had killed himself, but he looked up at her, blood streaming from a gash on his chin, and grinned like a madman. “Let’s see Evel Knievel try that one,” he said.
Pat stared down at him in amazement. “I can’t believe you didn’t break every bone in your body.”
“None broken,” he muttered in pain, as he slowly rose to his feet. “But I think I bent a few.”
“That was the craziest thing I ever saw,” mumbled Marquez.
“Maybe, but it worked better than I expected.” Pitt, clutching his right shoulder, nodded at the hole in the brick wall. He stood there, getting his breath and waiting for the pain from bruised ribs and a dislocated shoulder to ease, while Marquez began pulling away the bricks loosened by the bike’s passage to enlarge the entry.
The miner peered around the fractured wall and aimed his miner’s lamp inside. After a few seconds, he looked back and said, “I think we’re in deep trouble.”
“Why?” asked Pat. “Can’t we get out that way?”
“We can get out,” said Marquez, “but it’s going to cost us big time.”
“Cost?”
Pitt limped painfully to the opening and peered inside. “Oh, no,” he groaned.
“What is it?” Pat demanded in exasperation.
“The motorcycle,” said Pitt. “It crashed into the wine cellar of the hotel restaurant. There must be a hundred broken bottles of vintage wine flowing down a drain in the floor.”
6
SHERIFF JAMES EAGAN, JR., was directing the rescue operation at the Paradise Mine when he received the call from his dispatcher informing him that Luis Marquez was being held in custody by the Telluride town marshal’s deputies at the New Sheridan hotel for breaking and entering. Eagan was incredulous. How was this possible? Marquez’s wife had been adamant in claiming her husband and two others were trapped inside the mine by the avalanche. Against his better judgment, Eagan turned over command of the rescue operation and drove down the mountain to the hotel.
The last thing he expected to find was a mangled motorcycle sitting amid several cases of smashed bottles of wine. His astonishment broadened when he stepped into the hotel’s conference room to confront the confessed culprits and found three damp, dirty, and bedraggled people, two men and one woman, one of them wearing a torn and tattered diver’s wet suit. All were in handcuffs and in the custody of two deputy marshals, who stood with solemn expressions on their faces. One of them nodded at Pitt.
“This one was carrying an arsenal.”
“You have his weapons?” Eagan asked officially.
The deputy nodded and held up three Para-Ordnance .45-caliber automatics.
Satisfied, Eagan turned his attention to Luis Marquez. “How in hell did you get out of the mine and wind up here?” he demanded in complete bewilderment.
“It doesn’t matter!” Marquez snapped back. “You and your deputies have got to go down the tunnel. You’ll find two dead bodies and a college professor, Dr. Ambrose, who we left guarding a killer.”
There was a genuine feeling of skepticism, almost total disbelief, in Sheriff Jim Eagan’s mind as he sat down, tipped his chair back on two legs, and pulled a notebook from the breast pocket of his shirt. “Suppose you tell me just what is going on here.”
Desperately, Marquez gave a brief account of the cave-in and flooding, Pitt’s fortuitous appearance, their escape from the mysterious chamber, the encounter with the three murderers, and their forced entry into the wine cellar of the hotel.
At first the details came slowly, as Marquez fought off the effects of strain and exhaustion. Then his words flowed faster as he sensed Eagan’s obvious doubt. Frustration swelled and was replaced by urgency, as Marquez pleaded with Eagan to rescue Tom Ambrose. “Dammit, Jim, stop being stubborn. Get off your
Pat ran over to Pitt’s body, which had skidded to a stop and was sprawled on the ground. She would have sworn he had killed himself, but he looked up at her, blood streaming from a gash on his chin, and grinned like a madman. “Let’s see Evel Knievel try that one,” he said.
Pat stared down at him in amazement. “I can’t believe you didn’t break every bone in your body.”
“None broken,” he muttered in pain, as he slowly rose to his feet. “But I think I bent a few.”
“That was the craziest thing I ever saw,” mumbled Marquez.
“Maybe, but it worked better than I expected.” Pitt, clutching his right shoulder, nodded at the hole in the brick wall. He stood there, getting his breath and waiting for the pain from bruised ribs and a dislocated shoulder to ease, while Marquez began pulling away the bricks loosened by the bike’s passage to enlarge the entry.
The miner peered around the fractured wall and aimed his miner’s lamp inside. After a few seconds, he looked back and said, “I think we’re in deep trouble.”
“Why?” asked Pat. “Can’t we get out that way?”
“We can get out,” said Marquez, “but it’s going to cost us big time.”
“Cost?”
Pitt limped painfully to the opening and peered inside. “Oh, no,” he groaned.
“What is it?” Pat demanded in exasperation.
“The motorcycle,” said Pitt. “It crashed into the wine cellar of the hotel restaurant. There must be a hundred broken bottles of vintage wine flowing down a drain in the floor.”
6
SHERIFF JAMES EAGAN, JR., was directing the rescue operation at the Paradise Mine when he received the call from his dispatcher informing him that Luis Marquez was being held in custody by the Telluride town marshal’s deputies at the New Sheridan hotel for breaking and entering. Eagan was incredulous. How was this possible? Marquez’s wife had been adamant in claiming her husband and two others were trapped inside the mine by the avalanche. Against his better judgment, Eagan turned over command of the rescue operation and drove down the mountain to the hotel.
The last thing he expected to find was a mangled motorcycle sitting amid several cases of smashed bottles of wine. His astonishment broadened when he stepped into the hotel’s conference room to confront the confessed culprits and found three damp, dirty, and bedraggled people, two men and one woman, one of them wearing a torn and tattered diver’s wet suit. All were in handcuffs and in the custody of two deputy marshals, who stood with solemn expressions on their faces. One of them nodded at Pitt.
“This one was carrying an arsenal.”
“You have his weapons?” Eagan asked officially.
The deputy nodded and held up three Para-Ordnance .45-caliber automatics.
Satisfied, Eagan turned his attention to Luis Marquez. “How in hell did you get out of the mine and wind up here?” he demanded in complete bewilderment.
“It doesn’t matter!” Marquez snapped back. “You and your deputies have got to go down the tunnel. You’ll find two dead bodies and a college professor, Dr. Ambrose, who we left guarding a killer.”
There was a genuine feeling of skepticism, almost total disbelief, in Sheriff Jim Eagan’s mind as he sat down, tipped his chair back on two legs, and pulled a notebook from the breast pocket of his shirt. “Suppose you tell me just what is going on here.”
Desperately, Marquez gave a brief account of the cave-in and flooding, Pitt’s fortuitous appearance, their escape from the mysterious chamber, the encounter with the three murderers, and their forced entry into the wine cellar of the hotel.
At first the details came slowly, as Marquez fought off the effects of strain and exhaustion. Then his words flowed faster as he sensed Eagan’s obvious doubt. Frustration swelled and was replaced by urgency, as Marquez pleaded with Eagan to rescue Tom Ambrose. “Dammit, Jim, stop being stubborn. Get off your
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