Years earlier, when the new highway bypass was built, the roadway had been carved out of the series of undulating limestone cliffs that covered the hillside. The mounds of cliffs were separated by steep gullies. During rainstorms those washes turned into cascades of fast-running water. Bone dry at the moment, they offered a natural but rough stairway leading up through otherwise impassable terrain. Pulling a pair of binoculars off her belt, Joanna scanned the mountainside.
When Anglos had first arrived in what was now southeastern Arizona, the Mule Mountains had been covered by a forest of scrub oak. The trees had been cut down to provide firewood for home use as well as for smelting the copper being mined underground. As a girl, Joanna had hiked these hills with her father. Back then most of the scrub oak had been little more than overgrown bushes. Decades later those same slow-growing shrubs had matured into genuine trees, growing here and there in dense clusters.
Joanna was still scouring the hillside with her binoculars when Spike and Terry popped out from behind the cover of one of those groves of trees. They remained visible for only a matter of moments before resuming their climb and disappearing into another clump of scrub oak a few yards farther on. Even from this distance Joanna could see that Terry was struggling to keep up with his agile dog. Spike, nose to the ground and intent on his quarry, lunged forward with his brushy tail plumed out behind him.
Joanna knew that Terry Gregovich prided himself on being in top physical condition. If this was proving to be a tough climb for him, how had Junior managed it? The missing man was in his early sixties. He was naturally clumsy and anything but a natural athlete. Joanna was hard-pressed to imagine Junior making the same climb, especially alone and in the dark. Still, she also understood that the trail didn’t lie. Junior’s scent had to be there because that’s what Spike was following.
“Did there happen to be a full moon last night?” Joanna asked.
“Yes, ma’am, there was,” Deputy Stock answered. “Out between here and Tombstone it was almost as bright as day.”
Just then Joanna heard the dog. Spike’s excited, purposeful barks alerted everyone within earshot that he had located his target. Almost a minute later, Terry reappeared, popping out of the second grove of trees. As Deputy Gregovich came into view, Joanna’s phone rang.
“I found him,” Terry said urgently.
“Where?” Joanna asked. “Is he all right?”
“I can’t tell if he’s all right or not,” Terry replied. “I can see him, but I can’t reach him. I called to him, but he didn’t respond. He doesn’t appear to be breathing.”
“Where is he?”
“At the bottom of a glory hole inside a cave of some kind. I always heard rumors about a series of limestone caverns under the mountain, but I never really believed it. The narrow opening that leads into it is hidden in the trees directly behind me.”
Joanna knew that the Mule Mountains were riddled with natural caverns and man-made glory holes—small test holes that had been drilled into the earth by prospectors and left abandoned when no ore was found.
“Which is it?” Joanna asked, “a glory hole or a cave?”
“A little of both,” Terry replied. “The cave itself is natural, but there’s a small glory hole inside it that someone must have worked for a while. The tailings outside the entrance are hidden under the trees. If I’d been on my own, I would have missed the opening completely. Fortunately, Spike didn’t. Someone put an iron grate across the entrance to keep people out. Junior evidently crawled under it. So did Spike and I. The glory hole is a few feet inside the cave, and it’s a big drop-off. I can see Junior facedown at the bottom of that, lying on top of a layer of loose rock and boulders where it looks like the side of the hole collapsed. There’s a cat or kitten stuck down there, too. It’s on an outcropping halfway between where I was and where Junior is. I can’t see it, but I can hear it crying. I’ll bet that’s what happened. Junior was following the kitten, and they both fell.”
“Can you get to him?” Joanna asked.
“Not me, not without ropes and a winch.”
“Okay,” Joanna said. “I’m on it. Calling for help right now.”
About the Author
J. A. JANCE is the New York Times bestselling author of the J. P. Beaumont series, the Joanna Brady series, the Ali Reynolds series, and four interrelated thrillers about the Walker family, as well as a volume of poetry. Born in South Dakota and brought up in Bisbee, Arizona, Jance lives with her husband in Seattle, Washington, and Tucson, Arizona.
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