butt and go see for yourself.”
Eagan knew Marquez and respected him as a man of integrity, but his story was too far-fetched to buy without proof. “Black obsidian skulls, indecipherable writings in a chamber carved a thousand feet into the mountain, murderers roaming mine shafts on motorcycles. If what you tell me is true, it will be the three of you who will be under suspicion for murder.”
“Mr. Marquez has told you the honest truth,” said Pat slowly, speaking for the first time. “Why can’t you believe him?”
“And you are?”
“Patricia O’Connell,” she said wearily. “I’m with the University of Pennsylvania.”
“And what is your reason for being in the mine?”
“My field is ancient languages. I was asked to come to Telluride and decipher the strange inscriptions Mr. Marquez found in his mine.”
Eagan studied the woman for a moment. She might have been pretty when attractively dressed and made up. He did not find it easy to believe she was a Ph.D. in ancient languages. Sitting there with her wet, stringy hair and mud-smeared face, she looked like a homeless bag lady.
“All I know for sure,” said Eagan slowly, “is that you people destroyed a motorcycle, which might be stolen, and vandalized the wine cellar of the hotel.”
“Forget that,” pleaded Marquez. “Rescue Dr. Ambrose.”
“Only when I’m sure of the facts will I send my men into the mine.”
Jim Eagan had been sheriff of San Miguel County for eight years and worked in harmony with the marshals who policed the town of Telluride. Homicides were far and few between in San Miguel County. Law-enforcement problems usually centered around auto accidents, petty theft, drunken fights, vandalism, and drug arrests, usually involving young transients who passed through Telluride during the summer season and attended various affairs such as the bluegrass and jazz festivals. Eagan was respected by the citizens of his small but beautifully scenic domain. He was a congenial man, serious in his work, but quick to laugh when having a beer at one of the local watering holes. Of medium height and weight, he often wore a facial expression that could berate and intimidate. One look was generally all it took to cower any suspect he had arrested.
“May I ask you a small favor?” said the bruised and fatigued man in the torn diver’s wet suit, who looked as though he had been dragged through the impellers of a water pump.
At first glance, he looked to Eagan to be forty-five, but he was probably a good five years younger than the tanned and craggy face suggested. The sheriff guessed him to be about six feet three inches, weight 185 pounds, give or take. His hair was black and wavy, with a few strands of gray at the temples. The eyebrows were dark and bushy and stretched over eyes that were a vivid green. A straight and narrow nose dropped toward firm lips, with the corners turned up in a slight grin. What bothered Eagan wasn’t so much the man’s indifferent attitude—he’d known many felons who displayed apathy—but his bemused kind of detached interest. It was obvious that the man across the table was not the least bit impressed with Eagan’s dominating tactics.
“Depends,” Eagan answered finally, his ballpoint pen poised above a page in the notebook. “Your name?”
“Dirk Pitt.”
“And what is your involvement, Mr. Pitt?”
“I’m special projects director for the National Underwater and Marine Agency. I was just passing by and thought it might be fun to prospect for gold.”
Inwardly, Eagan seethed at being at a disadvantage. “We can do without the humor, Mr. Pitt.”
“If I give you a phone number, will you do me the courtesy of calling it?” Pitt’s tone was polite, with no trace of hostility.
“You want to speak to an attorney?”
Pitt shook his head. “No, nothing like that. I thought a simple call to confirm my position and presence might be helpful.”
Eagan thought a moment, then passed his pen
Eagan knew Marquez and respected him as a man of integrity, but his story was too far-fetched to buy without proof. “Black obsidian skulls, indecipherable writings in a chamber carved a thousand feet into the mountain, murderers roaming mine shafts on motorcycles. If what you tell me is true, it will be the three of you who will be under suspicion for murder.”
“Mr. Marquez has told you the honest truth,” said Pat slowly, speaking for the first time. “Why can’t you believe him?”
“And you are?”
“Patricia O’Connell,” she said wearily. “I’m with the University of Pennsylvania.”
“And what is your reason for being in the mine?”
“My field is ancient languages. I was asked to come to Telluride and decipher the strange inscriptions Mr. Marquez found in his mine.”
Eagan studied the woman for a moment. She might have been pretty when attractively dressed and made up. He did not find it easy to believe she was a Ph.D. in ancient languages. Sitting there with her wet, stringy hair and mud-smeared face, she looked like a homeless bag lady.
“All I know for sure,” said Eagan slowly, “is that you people destroyed a motorcycle, which might be stolen, and vandalized the wine cellar of the hotel.”
“Forget that,” pleaded Marquez. “Rescue Dr. Ambrose.”
“Only when I’m sure of the facts will I send my men into the mine.”
Jim Eagan had been sheriff of San Miguel County for eight years and worked in harmony with the marshals who policed the town of Telluride. Homicides were far and few between in San Miguel County. Law-enforcement problems usually centered around auto accidents, petty theft, drunken fights, vandalism, and drug arrests, usually involving young transients who passed through Telluride during the summer season and attended various affairs such as the bluegrass and jazz festivals. Eagan was respected by the citizens of his small but beautifully scenic domain. He was a congenial man, serious in his work, but quick to laugh when having a beer at one of the local watering holes. Of medium height and weight, he often wore a facial expression that could berate and intimidate. One look was generally all it took to cower any suspect he had arrested.
“May I ask you a small favor?” said the bruised and fatigued man in the torn diver’s wet suit, who looked as though he had been dragged through the impellers of a water pump.
At first glance, he looked to Eagan to be forty-five, but he was probably a good five years younger than the tanned and craggy face suggested. The sheriff guessed him to be about six feet three inches, weight 185 pounds, give or take. His hair was black and wavy, with a few strands of gray at the temples. The eyebrows were dark and bushy and stretched over eyes that were a vivid green. A straight and narrow nose dropped toward firm lips, with the corners turned up in a slight grin. What bothered Eagan wasn’t so much the man’s indifferent attitude—he’d known many felons who displayed apathy—but his bemused kind of detached interest. It was obvious that the man across the table was not the least bit impressed with Eagan’s dominating tactics.
“Depends,” Eagan answered finally, his ballpoint pen poised above a page in the notebook. “Your name?”
“Dirk Pitt.”
“And what is your involvement, Mr. Pitt?”
“I’m special projects director for the National Underwater and Marine Agency. I was just passing by and thought it might be fun to prospect for gold.”
Inwardly, Eagan seethed at being at a disadvantage. “We can do without the humor, Mr. Pitt.”
“If I give you a phone number, will you do me the courtesy of calling it?” Pitt’s tone was polite, with no trace of hostility.
“You want to speak to an attorney?”
Pitt shook his head. “No, nothing like that. I thought a simple call to confirm my position and presence might be helpful.”
Eagan thought a moment, then passed his pen
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