Fatal Justice (Jack Lamburt #1)(16)

He hit knees first and continued tumbling as his momentum sank him towards the bottom. He fought his way free from the plastic. In the pitch-black darkness, and with all the turning he had done to get out of the plastic, he wasn’t sure which way was up. He reached out and felt the stone wall. He heard a loud splash coming from one direction. That had to be the surface. But what were the splashes? Was it another body? The thought of sharing a hole with one of his goombahs freaked him out. He heard another splash. Shit. Not good.

He felt the bulk of a bowling-ball-sized rock brush against him as it made its way to the bottom of the well. He realized his killer was throwing rocks at him. What a piece of shit!

He reached out and grabbed at the wall and pulled himself lower in the water to protect himself. He heard what he thought were muffled gunshots echoing through the well, and he felt the vibration of the bullets as they burrowed into the water. His lungs were burning for air, but he didn’t dare surface. In between gunshots, he heard the faraway sound of tinkling metal. It was the shell casings ricocheting off the rock wall on their way down before plopping into the water.

He stayed under as long as his lungs could stand, surfaced just long enough to grab a fast breath, and went back down underwater as quick as possible.

On his way back down, his heart sunk as it dawned on him that there was no moonlight coming in at the top of the well. It was pitch black.

He was entombed.

He followed the stone wall back to the surface and took another deep breath. The well was pitch black and eerily quiet, the only sound besides his chattering teeth that of the occasional drip of water that echoed inside the rock-lined chamber.

Hot flashes and nausea threatened to render him helpless. This was like a bad dream that he couldn’t wake up from, and he had to fight to keep his claustrophobia from taking over. The water was cold but still warmer than the freezing outside air above ground. He lowered himself until his lips were just above the water and felt around in the dark for the diameter of the well to get a feel for its width. He estimated that the well was less than four feet wide.

He probed the rocks that lined the well to see if he could wedge his fingers in and get a good grip to climb out, but the spaces between the rocks were too small, so he canned that idea. Instead, he placed his back against one side of the well and braced himself against the other side with his feet. If this worked, he could inch his way up. He had to move slowly in the pitch-black darkness, and it would take a long time for him to reach the top, but it wasn’t like he had any choice. He got to work.

He reached down with his hands to about waist level, planted his palms on the rocks, and straightened his arms to push his torso up about a foot. He moved one of his feet up about six inches, set it firmly against the wall, and brought the other one up to meet it.

His ostrich boots were slippery on the wet rock, requiring even more leg strain to hold their grip, and his back was already sore from being forced into the uneven and sometimes pointy rock wall. But it was a start.

After struggling for what seemed like an eternity, he finally felt his butt clear the water and his boots drain. Fuck, this was gonna take a long time, but at least his little two-shot Derringer pistol in his right boot was out of the water now.

His Boy Scout training kicked in, and he reached down and felt around for the plastic sheet he had been wrapped in. It was floating near the surface of the water. He grabbed it and looped it through his belt. He’d need it later to help him survive the cold.

Mental focus was never one of his strong points, and he had three thoughts that kept interfering with his concentration of the task at hand.

How far did he have to climb? In the dark, he had no idea how far he’d progressed.

How much did that freakin’ stone that sealed him in weigh? Sure, he was strong, built like a bull, but in the awkward position he’d be in when he reached the top of the well, he might not even be able to move thirty pounds.

And if he got out, how would he survive the frozen night while soaked to the bone?





17





At least London was happy to see me. When I pulled up, I spotted his gray-and-black face looking through the living room window. He was backlit by a nightlight that Debbie had been kind enough to leave on for me. Or that she had forgotten to turn off before she stormed out.

His tail was shaking so hard his head shook. Not the normal vision you had when someone mentioned “German Shepherd,” but the superaggressive European guard dog of old had been bred down over the last few generations and turned into a great family dog. They’re still fearless and the best guard dogs money can buy. Smart, too.

I pulled into my garage and entered the house through the mudroom. London hit the wall switch and the hallway lit up. I’d taught him how to do that in about ten minutes.

I let him out the back door and he ran around for a while, took care of some business, and tried to make friends with a couple of rabbits that were eating breakfast. They decided they’d rather hide under the shed until the scary black beast with the giant paws went away instead of risking life and limb for some wide-bladed grass or three-leaf clovers, so he was left friendless.

He lay down under my hammock, a favorite resting place of his. Those rabbits really tired him out. After a few minutes he caught on that I wouldn’t be coming out to relax at my prized napping venue. He trotted into the house, his big brown eyes happy to see me.

I spooled up the Keurig—hadn’t gotten around to teaching him that yet—and made a cup of dark-roasted Colombian. London followed and lay down at my feet. He was still out of breath from frolicking with the rabbits and I made a mental note to take him back to the vet. On our last visit, the Doc commented that his heart murmur was getting louder, and that we needed to keep an eye on it. Not sure what we could do, London being almost ninety in human years and all…