Chapter 7

"In our follow-up segment ... authorities in Colorado still have no idea where fugitive Miles Underwood might be hiding." It has been months since he eluded a group of local and Colorado state lawmen and, indeed, there have been no confirmed sightings of the man in all that time.

"There are rumors coming from the Administration tonight that Federal authorities will assume the lead role in the manhunt. Sources tell us United States Marshal David Owens, one of the most senior individuals in that agency, will reportedly be named as the head of a large scale manhunt using Federal officers from a number of agencies. The taskforce will be augmented by state, county, and local police."

KSAA Channel Nine
"Late Night Wrap Up"
April 12

The sun shown brightly into the big cavern for hours before Miles crawled out of the little tent. For a few minutes, he experimented, moving each limb carefully in succession to work out the tightness and finishing up with some energetic neck rotations to loosen an inability to turn his head all the way to the right. He strolled to the lip of the cavern floor and focused on the stream below.

There was no apparent increase in the depth of the water--if there had been a flood crest, it had already passed, but he doubted there had been one. There were no signs the river had been over its banks at all. It had been forty or forty-five feet across yesterday and so it was this morning. Obviously he was safe this high above the water.

He strolled along the edge in the general direction of the stone house tucked into the northern corner of the cavern. In front of the terrace wall, the slight downslope of the cavern's rock floor increased until he was leaning back and taking shorter steps to avoid losing his balance and tumbling over the edge.

On the northern side of the house, just past the terrace, Miles found a trickle of water running through a narrow channel in the rock. His interest was captured by the conduit's straight course to the closest edge of the cavern. It couldn't be natural. Nature didn't allow straight lines. Looking closer, he saw tool marks in the raw stone. It had been cut into the stone at some time in the past.

The source of the slow flow of icy water down the channel was easily determined. The house, Miles found, was not flush against the cavern wall, and that cavern wall was not also the northern wall of the house ... not quite. The distance between the wall of the house and the cavern was a scant eighteen inches or so at the front of the house, but there was a distinct separation.

Stepping sideways, he squeezed between the stones of the house and the solid rock of the cavern wall. Three or four feet inside, the convex curvature of the rock opened the space and he could turn his body to walk normally down the side of the stone building.

And here he found he had to change his mind again. The far back corner of the northern side of the stone hut actually did incorporate a portion of the cavern wall in its structure. It looked like three or four feet of the northwestern part of the cave also served as a rounded corner for the interior of the home ... for whatever reason the builder may have had.

The source of the water was a small opening in the bottom of the house's wall a few feet this side of the point where the building wall blended into the cavern's rock face. The inconspicuous little half-inch square opening was nothing more than a tiny chink between the rocks and adobe mortar of which the flat wall was constructed.

Cocking his head to the right--the catch in his neck hadn't completely worked itself out--he tried to imagine a reason for the strange architecture. The house didn't seem to be using the granite wall for support where they met--it was just ... there. It didn't appear the house was modern enough to have running water. So where was the water coming from?

Too many questions and too few answers.

Shaking his head in defeat, he walked back to the front of the building and sidestepped through the narrow opening until he was again outside, leaving all the questions he had for later. There might be a clue inside the home.

His belly growling, he climbed back up the slope to his tent for his canteens. The water in the narrow channel was cold, clear, and sweet. Just what he needed to wash down a little brunch.

"Command Post ... Major Winters." The tent was crammed full of radios set to the various frequencies used by the search teams from as many state and federal agencies. For the moment the Major was alone, both communication specialists having trotted hastily for the short row of Porta-Potty cubicles fifty yards down the hill. Something from last night's dinner had everyone feeling a little queasy.

The secretary on the other end of the line asked him to hold for Deputy Attorney General of the United States Carl Brady and the Colorado State Patrol officer quickly agreed. His feet came off the desktop where they'd been comfortably parked while he read yet another field report and he sat up in a respectful posture.

The hoarse voice on the other end of the line was nearly impossible to understand. Its rasping, harsh intonations alternated with sibilant wheezes and stumbling halts. The pitch rose and fell without warning. It grated on the ear, wearing out the listener even as he strained to understand. He waited, more or less patiently, while the voice tried to form words.

"No, sir," he replied to a question he barely understood. "We haven't located Mr. Underwood yet. Search teams are still ... no, sir, they haven't found any trace since ... no, sir ... nothing whatsoever." The major waited through a short silence.

When the voice continued in a loud whisper, he involuntarily hunched his shoulders to concentrate all the better. The whisper was more understandable than the attempts to speak normally but now the voice had a distinct note of viciousness that hadn't been clear before.

"Yes, sir. I can assure you we are not going to rest until this fugitive is found and brought to justice," Winters assured the distant caller. "I ... yes, sir ... I can call you as soon as we find out anything. Yes, sir. I ... thank you, sir." He hung up and leaned back in his chair. A frown clouded his sunburned face.

The voice had asked, though it was plain the request was an order, for Major Winters to call the Deputy Attorney General's office if there was any sighting of Underwood. He would do that after telling his boss, of course.

It was several minutes before the significance of the caller's name struck him. The frown deepened. The term "conflict of interest" had been coined for situations like this.

In Washington D.C., the man to whom the Colorado officer had been talking punched a button on the phone set to terminate the call and slammed the handset into its cradle while he massaged his throat with his other hand. His voice was still not ready for the demands he was placing on it and it rebelled from time to time.

He slapped at the intercom switch to summon his secretary and made motions for a glass of water. The ceremony where the President had officially introduced him to the world as the number two man in the Department of Justice had only been the week before but the entire staff had quickly caught on to his needs.

While he waited for the girl to return with the cooling drink, he seethed. The anger burned so hot it threatened to gag him. It happened every time he thought of Underwood ... and he thought of Underwood often.

He forced himself to relax as the glass of water with a few tinkling ice cubes was placed in front of him. He waited until she closed the outer door before fumbling a pain killer from the prescription bottle. It wouldn't do for her to see him so furious. He was a federal official now, cool and remote ... a powerful man immune to minor irritations. He swallowed, the capsule hurting as it slid down his throat.

He fingered the red scar on the left side of his throat and the rage returned full strength. Over the past few months, when he bothered to examine the emotion at all, he surprised himself with the fury that built within him every time he thought of the confrontation with the fugitive ex-Army NCO.

He'd not been attacked physically since that unfortunate incident in the fourth grade and his parents had promptly dealt with that. The bully had been expelled from the academy within the week and the private school had gained a grant for a new wing on the library. Brady hadn't thought of that boy for many years.

Though a healthy youngster, he'd been too slight to participate in sandlot football games as a child. He'd been too uncoordinated to play baseball and even Sally from two blocks over had run faster than he had. His one sports injury had been a twisted ankle caused by an unseen croquet ball left behind on the back lawn. He'd never had to endure much pain before and certainly not for such an extended period. But these days, the pain from the neck wound was always there, grinding down his endurance and inflaming a surly temper he hadn't known he had.

Father and Mum were no longer around to straighten out such things now. He was personally going to see that Miles Underwood got what was coming to him. Oh, yes ... he was going to make sure the insolent thug was well taken care of. Waiting for the analgesic to take effect, he smiled for the first time that morning.

Mid-morning came and went before Miles was without some critical need he had to address. Shelter had been taken care of by the spacious cave but survival depended on him finding food too. A quick search along the river revealed some bushes carrying full loads of ripe berries. He picked about a quart of the ripest and stored them in the fanny pack while he explored the riverbank south of the cavern.

Scrambling over wet rocks to get beyond the southern cliff point, he found some tall cattails growing in the slow moving water of a wide bend there and harvested a half dozen of the youngest. On the way back, he found a patch of wild onions growing up against the cliff and pulled a number of them from the loose earth. By the time he got ready to climb the slope back up to the cavern, he was carrying an overflowing fanny pack of wild fruits and vegetables and there were more in the hat he was carrying now instead of wearing.

Brunch consisted of berries, raw cattail root, and strips of deer jerky washed down with mouthfuls of cold water. There were enough onions and leftover cattail roots for supper and at least breakfast tomorrow. With tonight's food and shelter already provided for, there was nothing he absolutely had to do for the time being. He relished the sensation of being rested, comfortably full, and having nothing in particular that required his attention.

The stone house caught his eye. A loose shutter on the side window flapped idly in the breeze, seeming to wave him over. So he did. Capping the canteen, Miles grabbed his flashlight and strolled over to the debris-filled terrace to examine the ruin of the stone house.

It was immediately clear there wasn't very much ruin to it. Everything looked as solid as the day it was built. Most of the 'debris' on the terrace was nothing more than broken and dead branches from pine or fir trees. Most of them had already crumbled into dust, but a couple still had a fragile integrity--enough to show what they'd once been. With a good shovel and broom, he could clear everything off in half an hour.

He thumped one of the vertical posts that supported what had been a roof with the heel of his hand. If the stout beam gave at all, he couldn't see it.

Miles rubbed his abused hand with the other. This wooden column wasn't about to crumble anytime soon ... as in this millennium.

He had some really crazy dreams last night; in his mind's eye, he could see the supports that ran from column to column and column to house overlaid with aromatic pine boughs. Rebuilding the overhead roof with limbs hacked from trees he could see just across the river would give him a shaded terrace in late afternoons and it'd be a snap to do.

His eyebrows rose in surprise. Where the hell had that idea come from? Until this moment, he hadn't thought of staying in the little valley any longer than it took to find a way out. He considered the house more closely.

What if he did stay here for a while? The valley had enough fish and other game to keep him well fed for some time. He could enjoy living in the sturdy, primitive house for a while.

He squinted, imagining himself sitting in a chair on the front terrace of this old house, kicking back and gazing out over the stream and the valley floor beyond. The picture had more than a little appeal. It would be good to stay in one place for a while--kind of like a home away from home.

Shaking off the vision, Miles climbed the broad steps from the cavern floor up to the terrace and shuffled through the remains of the tree limbs. The flat stones had been fitted together in the little courtyard as tightly as had the ones in the stone house itself ... and whoever had done it had made the patio as horizontal as anyone could wish.

The door was made of rough, thick boards split from whole tree trunks and bound together with rusty iron straps attached with crude nails. Large, clumsy iron hinges were bolted to the left side near the top and bottom. The overall impression was one of unsophisticated solidity. It wasn't pretty, but the door undoubtedly did the job it was designed for.

Miles put his hands on the right side of the door and pushed tentatively. It moved inward a little, and then stopped. When he pressed harder, the door gave a bit more but was obviously blocked by something he couldn't see. He pushed harder and heard wood creak loudly in protest, but the door didn't move any further. He stepped back to look things over.

On the right side of the door near the top, a small hole caught his eye. Protruding from it was a short, narrow length of rawhide. He didn't know what it was, but it fairly begged to be pulled. Shrugging, he pulled gently on the thin leather string. Miles could hear and feel something rasping against the wood as it moved on the inside of the door. He pulled several inches of the rawhide through the hole in the door before the dried-out strip broke just above his fingertips.

"No!" The shout echoed crazily around the cavern as Miles' left hand flew up to catch the string before it disappeared. Slapping at the hole in the door with an open palm, he captured the last inch of the rawhide strip between his little finger and the door.

Carefully, he used the fingernails of his right hand to pry the string from the surface until he could get a good grip. He got a secure hold on the brittle rawhide at the entrance to the hole and lifted as he pulled to reduce the friction between the rawhide and the wood. Slowly he nursed it out, careful to avoid jerking on the fragile remnant. He was rewarded with the sound of something rubbing against something else behind the door.

Abruptly the scraping noise ceased and the door swung inward. It opened slowly on squealing rusty hinges and bright sunshine lit the interior. Assured the entry was open, Miles released the rawhide and watched a bar fall through an arc on the inside of the door. If the door had been closed, it would have been captured and held by a U-shaped piece of iron he could see attached on the inside of the doorframe.

The latch was crude, but effective, he mused. It wouldn't have been strong enough to keep him out if he'd put the full weight of his body into forcing the door open, but he hadn't known that from the outside. There was a larger iron hook a couple of feet above the latch and another one below. Presumably, companion pieces on the other side were hidden behind the door. They were big enough to hold bars much thicker and stronger. They would have undoubtedly provided greater security.

"Interesting," Miles remarked. "So you were just keeping the rain out huh? Mind if I come inside for a bit?"

The door creaked as it opened wider.

Miles' eyes widened at the apparent reply to his question. Then he shook it off. He grinned. The breeze had pushed against the door. It had ruffled the shorthairs on the back of his neck too, giving him a chill before it died. That was all it was.

"We be telling ghost stories 'round the camp fire tonight," he joked to himself. In passing, he wondered what had happened to the resolution to quit talking to himself. He never quite managed to stop.

He stepped across the threshold to find the cabin surprisingly well lit. The sun shone brightly through the large, open doorway and less brightly through the windows too.

The rock and adobe walls were stout--easily a foot thick, maybe more. The inside of the walls were covered with a coating of light tan-colored adobe that had been carefully worked to be smooth and appealing. The interior of the hut was cool and promised to be comfortable through the warmest summer days.

A table was pushed into the corner of the house on his left, behind the door, where light from both windows would provide the best light when the door was closed. A crude chair was shoved against the table, its back to the interior of the house. Between the table and the door, there was a sturdy wooden peg holding a heavy coat. Brown and shaggy, it looked like a furry rug. Miles let his fingertips brush across the coarse hair, but he didn't dare take it off its hook.

On the other side of the room, nearly in the middle of the northern wall, was a large elevated fireplace. The wide stone hearth that wrapped completely around it was a couple feet off the floor. A big upended kettle, well blackened from frequent use in open fires, sat there as if it had been recently washed and set aside to dry. The pothook, upon which the kettle would be hung, stood ready to swing into the fireplace. Above the fireplace mantle, an old flintlock rifle rested on pegs set into the chimney. He palmed his flashlight and clicked it on to probe the far corners of the room.

The reason for the stone house sharing a corner with the cavern wall was obvious now. A slow flowing spring in the corner delivered water from a crack in the living rock to a natural stone tank whose upper surface was almost waist high.

A channel had been chiseled into the stones of the cabin's outside wall to carry the overflow from the tank down to a small hole bored through the side of the house. This was obviously the source of the trickle of water outside. Whoever had built the house had ingeniously assured themselves of a ready supply of running water that didn't have to be carried up the long grade from the river.

Between the water reservoir and the fireplace stood a delicate little table with a dust covered marble top about eighteen inches on a side. It was the only piece of professionally finished furniture in the room. A large shallow bowl and a pitcher made of fired clay sat on the table. They were arranged meticulously in the middle of the top surface, ready for instant use. A dingy mirror with an intricately carved frame hung on the wall behind the table and a narrow marble shelf was mounted immediately below. It had obviously been built as a companion piece to the table below. The fragile, almost dainty, appearance of the washstand and mirror was startlingly out of place in the primitive dwelling. Miles grinned. It made the unknown builder more human.

Staring hard into the shadows, he was sure he saw an old fashioned straight razor laying on the marble shelf. He rubbed the whiskers on his face and chin and resolved to check out the razor soon.

Against the back wall was a bunk with a pile of faded blankets heaped on it. One end was only a few feet from the water cistern. Pegs on the wall at the foot of the bed still held some crumbling, tattered scraps of clothing. There was a pile of paraphernalia on the floor at the foot of the bed between it and the southern wall. A large ax stood out, but he couldn't tell what the other things were.

"Excellent," he breathed, smiling happily. He was going to have fun sorting through all the treasures in the little hut. From surprise at himself for thinking to stay in the valley for any length of time, he'd shifted to eager anticipation. This was a good place. He liked it.

Across from the fireplace, on the southern wall, were more shelves and pegs holding instruments and gear that Miles couldn't identify. He did recognize an old "coal oil" lantern perched on the topmost shelf. A large tin sitting next to it had probably contained a supply of the flammable liquid at one time ... he doubted there would be any in it now.

Completing his circuit around the room, he found another set of pegs and more shelving set into the wall on either side of the side window. These were empty, waiting for garments or equipment to be hung there.

He suppressed a quick urge to fill the shelves and hooks with his own gear, and do it now--make this house his home.

Miles snapped off the flashlight. His eyes were adjusted to the comparative dimness and he could see well enough inside the house now. He wanted to conserve the batteries as much as he could too. When the cells he had with him expired, there would be no more.

He walked deeper into the little one-room dwelling and spun around slowly in place. His eyes were drawn to the table under the front and side windows where a slim book sat framed in a dusty shaft of sunlight.

Miles tapped the flashlight against the tabletop a couple of times and then used a bare knuckle to rap on the surface. There was a solid thump in return both times. Squatting low, he saw the tabletop was a good two inches thick. The undecorated but functional legs were double that.

The rough chair seemed sturdy enough, though not as heavily constructed as the table. Carefully, Miles pulled the chair away from the table and gently lowered himself onto the hard wooden seat. It screeched a little in protest at the burden of his two hundred-odd pounds, but didn't immediately collapse.

Wiggling his hips a little, Miles felt a little sway to the chair that he didn't like at all. The thing could fall apart at any moment. As he grabbed the edge of the table to haul himself up, his fingers touched the book on the table in front of him.

More intrigued by the book than he was concerned about the chair coming apart with him in it, Miles eased himself back down. Mindful of its fragile condition, he was careful not to put much stress on the crude chair by dropping back down into it.

Wiping his hands on his pants, Miles cautiously lifted the cover of the volume to find a folded piece of paper lying inside. He lifted the sheet carefully to reveal the front page. It was blank except for a brief handwritten proclamation.

"Zebidiah Cross, his Jurnal," it read.

"Zebidiah ... Zebidiah," Miles repeated the name a couple of times. Not a name you ran across a lot these days, he reflected. Wasn't it something out of the Bible? What the hell did old Zebidiah mean by 'jurnal.' What was a 'jurnal?' Then he had it.

"Journal! Okay ... I see ... creative spelling." Pleased to have deciphered the cryptic lettering, Miles frowned in concentration. "But why call it a journal? Miles shrugged his shoulders. The man had been entitled to call it whatever he wanted.

"Okay, Zebidiah, old man ... what do we have here?" Miles asked the empty air. He cautiously unfolded the sheet of paper that had been placed inside the cover of the journal. The single page felt brittle and ready to crumble.

He opened the top half of the folded piece of paper gently to find a few lines of script followed by what must have been Zebidiah's signature at the bottom. There was a brownish stain at the bottom, something spilled on the paper that was permanent now. Turning the book so the light from the open door fell on it more fully, he read what Zebidiah had written.

To the Pilgrim who fins this

I, Zebidiah Cross Bornd Juli 18, 1806 an Kilt by a

dam ol' Bar in Aprl in the year of our Lord 1852. I figger I aint goin to make it throuh the Niht what with a brok Leg and bustd up bad insid lik the bar lef Me. I go to the Lord hopin he'll receev me in his flok.

Everthin I got in this werld is rite heer in Ston Howse and you kan heve it all Jest git me a decint Christon Buriel whenevir you can and if aint to much truble. I cut all the Animuls loos so they cud get to gras and watre. Take ker of Scar hes a fin old ridin Hors. Cain an Abel are gud pak horses to. Thay will serv You well if You treet em rite.You ken hav all the shinee Stuff an al my Posibles. If you ken let my Sister Abigal Johnson know of my passin. She's livin in Fancy Pennsilvania nowdays. She s a Good womin

Zebidiah Cross By his hand

It took a while for Miles to puzzle through the words old Zebidiah had written but when he did, he had a good time line on the house and its furnishings. If the old man's writing was accurate, he'd been dead for more than a century and a half. That explained the condition of the courtyard outside.

On the other hand, the things left inside the stone house were in pretty good shape. Evidently, the stone building had protected the interior from weather and animals. The dry conditions in the cavern must have helped preserve things that might have otherwise deteriorated.

Well, most things ... he had serious doubts about the seating arrangements. Miles experimented with a cautious wiggle and was rewarded with loud, protesting creaks.

He wanted to lean back to think better but checked himself. The ancient furniture complained about sudden movements. Miles grinned and watched dust motes dancing in the sunlight that spilled through the open door.

One heck of a tough man, Miles considered. It wasn't everyone who had the balls to announce his own death and have enough presence of mind to write out what he wanted done with his property and his body while he was dying. The old man had lived here before the before the airplane had been invented--even before the Civil War.

"Wonder what he would have thought about men walking on the moon," Miles mused. He smiled to himself. "Probably would have labeled anyone claiming to have seen that a damned liar." He reread a couple of the lines in the paper to see if he could make more sense of them.

The will, at least he assumed that's what it was meant to be, wasn't very clear at all. What was the 'shiny stuff' he talked about leaving to the person who found him.

Possibles? Was that a noun--a plural one at that--back in those days? Miles didn't have a clue. He let that go while he pondered the rest of what the old man had written. Suddenly he stopped reading. Zebidiah had asked for a Christian burial. How had that been accomplished ... and who had done it?

The shorthairs on the back of Miles' neck, unusually long in the absence of a haircut for many weeks, began to rise. Miles could feel the ripple of goose bumps forming on his forearms and he shuddered as a chill ran down his spine. His grandfather had referred to it as a rabbit running over his grave. He suppressed the disquieting thought. He looked out of the corner of his left eye, then the right. There was nothing there.

He twisted around, ignoring the chair's protests, to find nothing behind him either. The shadows in the corners of the little hut mocked him. They seemed to say they were hiding more than he knew. He fumbled the flashlight out of his hip pocket and stabbed at the switch. The bright light eliminated the shadows. He couldn't see under the old bunk but it didn't look like anything could hide there. He froze.

"Oh shit," he breathed. He'd assumed the cot held only a pile of old blankets. He hadn't checked them closely. In the flashlight's beam, Miles saw the finger bones of a human hand protruding from a corner of the covers and lying quietly alongside the mound he'd taken as nothing more than a pile of blankets.

Like most Americans, Miles had never seen an actual human skeleton. He'd seen any number of dead bodies in Afghanistan, but all the bones had been decently covered. Skeletons were something else again. The gaping jaws and empty eye sockets of skulls were somehow more evil and repulsive than even the remains of a soldier killed in action.

He didn't get the impression of a serene passing from the thin dried finger bones that were, it seemed, pointed accusingly at him. The blanket twitched in a sudden breeze that blew in through the open door.

Miles lunged out of the old chair, sending it careening across the small room to slam against the back wall. The abused piece of furniture finally gave up its attempt to stay together. Two legs splintered at the contact with the rock and the chair broke up; the seat bounced across the room and over the hearth into the fireplace.

He wasn't there to see the chair's final destruction. Miles bolted for the door and was in the process of getting out of the house as fast as he could. His right boot slipped in the dust on the floor and he nearly fell. Regaining his balance, he found traction and catapulted out the door, banging his left shoulder against the doorframe as he passed through.

He caught himself at the low wall, skidding to a stop before he could run right off the cliff. He slumped on the old wall, suddenly drained of energy. He massaged his sore shoulder and watched the doorway, half expecting a pursuit. After a bit, he remembered to switch off the flashlight.