"Bill, did the radio pick that up?"

"Yes," Roche said. "But it sounded like the wind."

"It wasn't," Greene said. "It definitely wasn't." He wiped his hand on his pants and retrieved the flashlight. "It came from the western side of the fissure. I'm going to check it out."

The engineer turned slowly. Behind him, the roof of the fissure was only five feet high. He had to stoop in order to move inside. He was glad he wasn't claustrophobic. The mountain was just a foot to his left. It sloped toward him, forming the floor of the fissure. Two feet to the right was the inside of the ravine, with its snarl of roots, rocks, and worms.

He shined his light around. There was about seven feet of tunnel in front of him. After that it turned to the south, into the mountainside.

"Shit."

"What's wrong?" Roche asked.

"There's no one here."

"I told you," Roche said. "Now come on out. I just talked to Chelmow. She's sending a repair crew and a rock hound. They should be here in forty-five minutes."

"But I don't understand," Greene said. "I heard it."

"It was the goddamn wind-"

"And I'm telling you it wasn't!" Greene barked. He winced as bits of dirt and stone fell from the roof of the fissure, pelting his cap. He had to remember not to yell like that.Loud noises could bring down weakened pieces of roadway.

Just then, he heard the sound again.

"There it is," Greene said quietly. "It's definitely a cry. It's coming from around the turn in the fissure, just a few feet away." Crouching, Greene took small, shuffling steps toward me dark curve ahead.

"Stan, please," Roche said. "You're an engineer, not a spelunker. Wait for the damn rock hound!"

"No," Greene whispered, "I'm already down here. I'm just going in a little deeper." It was surprisingly muggy as he moved further from the sinkhole, especially since the opening had been relatively cool. And it smelled exponentially worse inside than it did outside. On top of that, Greene's pants were wet and uncomfortable, his backside was sore from the fall, and rainwater was dripping from his poncho into the tops of his boots and soaking his socks. Windy bridges and prickling sea spray were starting to glow brighter in his memory. But there was no way he could turn his back on someone who might be injured.

Greene had the flashlight in his right hand and the silent radio in his left. He reached the opening in the mountainside and rounded the corner. He shined the light inside.

"I'll be fucked," be whispered.

"What?" Roche said.

Before Greene could answer he felt a sharp, merciless pain along his upper torso. It shot from shoulder to shoulder and from the base of his skull to the small of his back. He screamed but be couldn't breathe, so there was no sound. His hands opened up and then his arms went limp. For an instant he felt extremely heavy and then he felt nothing at all.

He was dead before the flashlight hit the floor.

Roche beard the clunk of the radio followed by silence. It wasn't the open silence of someone being quiet but the solid silence of a radio that was no longer broadcasting.

"Aw hell, Stan," he said to himself. "What'd you do?"

Roche was standing by the driver's seat of the van. The engine was running, the door was open, and the radio was on. Roche had poured himself coffee from a thermos and was sipping it as he stood tapping his foot anxiously and listening to his partner.

Roche informed Marcy Chelmow that Greene's portable radio had died and that he was leaving the van to investigate. He kept the portable radio in case it came back on. Then, snatching his flashlight from the passenger's seat, he jogged up the road. The hard drizzle was more relentless than before, making the road even muddier. At least it was brighter now as the sun rose behind the clouds, turning the black hills deep brown.

The engineer slowed when he neared the weakened area of the sinkhole. He called Stan's name.

There was no answer. He moved closer.

"Stan!"

He listened. There was silence. He was willing to bet that Stan had been so anxious to reach whatever was down there that he'd hit his head or else slipped and fell.

"Stan, if you can hear me, moan or bang a rock or do something," Roche shouted down.

He listened hopefully but Greene didn't respond. He was going to have to go down.

Something cracked to his left He turned as several large rocks tumbled down the side of the mountain. He shined the beam up the mottled, moss-covered rock. He thought he saw something move on a ledge about twenty-five feet up, behind a row of ferns. Still holding the radio in case Greene tried to reach him, Roche used the back of his left hand as an extension of his baseball cap. He shielded his eyes from the rain.

Almost at once, Roche felt something strike his right side, just above the waist It was a hard, solid blow, as though he'd been whacked with a baseball bat. The engineer lost his radio and his breath as he staggered to the left. His right arm went numb and the flashlight seemed to vanish. When he tried to breathe pain ripped through his side, as though every rib were shattered. Wincing and gasping through his teeth, he turned to the right.

In the early morning darkness all Roche could see were two pale white lights, like twin moons glowing behind a thick haze. The lights were hip-high and about two feet away. He tried to reach out to them but while he could feel his right arm he couldn't move it. His first thought was that whatever hit him had broken it Then he looked down. He saw blood pumping onto the road. He reached over with his left hand.

The blood was coming from his shoulder. Roche's fingers moved up his side.

"Oh, no. No."

Roche couldn't find his arm. It was gone. His torso began shivering violently and his vision started to swim. Then something struck the engineer from the left. It came from above, hitting his head and snapping his neck. The back of his head hit his right shoulder blade. He died instantly.

Two glowing orbs hung above the body in the fine rain. They moved down and then away.

A moment later there was only the rain.

Chapter Four

Hannah Hughes stepped from the stall shower. She was headachy and tired as she cracked the bathroom door to let out the steam. Her eyes felt bloated, her round cheeks hurt, and her temples were making a chugging sound.

The rain didn't help. Gray weather, gray mood had always been a mathematical certainty in her life, along with other certainties like super-well-groomed guy, self-absorbed guy. Jocky guy, self-absorbed guy. Guy who drank, guy who overdrank. One day she'd write a book of certainties.

The petite young woman slipped a big towel from the hook behind the door and began drying off. The founder, editor, and publisher of The Coastal Freeway, Hannah was tired because she'd only slept for four hours after working eighteen hours straight. Senior reporter Jimmy Taubman had been trying to finish his feature on La Nina for today's edition and junior reporter Susan Crab had spent the previous day bopping between the drizzle-soaked Montecito Trails Foundation San Ysidro Saddleback Loop Trail Run and the Semana Nautica 1SK at San Marcos High School. That left only Hannah to write and edit the page-one stories and come up with the editorial. She always saved that for last; opinion pieces always had more teeth when she was tired and less inhibited.

But while Hannah wasn't quite ready to rumba, she had faith in what one of her journalism professors at Brown University used to call "the adrenaline rush of the world, the flesh, and the devil." Something would always come along to get her engine going.

Pulling on a white terrycloth robe, Hannah rubbed the steamy mirror with her sleeve, and began blow-drying her short, brown hair. As she did, she looked unhappily in the mirror.