Excerpt
THE ASHES OF EVE
“You got the line ready, Mel?”
“I got it.” Mel grabbed both fists tight around the yellow cable. He looked down the hole. Fifty-foot drop. Nothing to grab hold of. “All set!”
Art nodded and let himself drop backwards into the black pit. He bounced his feet against the rock wall to control his descent. You didn’t want to go too fast because you didn’t know when bottom was going to come up and bang you, and you sure as hell didn’t want to start spinning. It took a full three minutes before his toes touched bottom. He heaved a sigh. This cave was definitely a little more than they had bargained for. “Okay!” he yelled up and squinted into the sun until he saw Mel block the light. He stepped back and held the cable tight. “Set!” He felt the sudden jerk on his arms. They should have brought the other equipment. If they’d only known it was going to be this deep --
Mel hit the ground next to him. “Whew!”
“Yeah. Quite a drop, huh?”
Mel nodded and uncurled the cable from his waist. He flicked on his helmet light. “So this is the cave your professor picked?”
“Yeah. I guess being Professor of Archaeology he knows every cave around these parts.”
LUCIFER‘S CANDLE
“You know we came all ther way here from San Bernardino. That’s in California in case you flunked American Geography. And we are here only because your ad on TravelNet said this was the best damn resort in the whole Montana Rockies.” J.T. Ross jabbed his finger at Tom, the desk clerk. “But from where I stand this is nothing more than a damn two-story log cabin”
“--That stretches the equivalent of two city blocks.” Tom pointed out with a practiced smile. “And with every available accommodation to make your stay as perfect as possible.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, I want to be accommodated by a Jacuzzi in the bathroom and martini makings in the bar and a box of Kleenex on every damn table. My Crystal here has got sinus problems.”
“Yes, sir. That’s all been done as you specified on your reservation.”
“You sure?” The plump man with a face too full of worry wrinkles for a fifty-year old stuffed his hands into his pockets. That’s what J. T. did when he couldn’t find anything else to bitch about.
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