“It looks like fabric. A shirt, maybe.”
“Yeah,” Dalton says. “From a special tailor who does only custom work and has this guy’s address on file.”
“You read too many mysteries,” I say. “That never actually happens.”
“Which is my point, Butler.”
“I know. I’m just poking you, seeing as how you can’t reach in here to poke me back.”
He grumbles, but it’s lighter as he relaxes.
“Whether this fabric can lead to a killer or not, I need to get it. Just give me…” I wriggle and stretch. Still about six inches short.
“It’s not going anywhere,” Dalton says. “We’ll bring something back to fish it out.”
“If I can just crawl down—”
“No.”
“It’s a crevice, not a hole. I can’t fall through. I’ll just shimmy—”
“No.”
“Casey?” Anders says. “Just reach for it, okay? We don’t know how deep that drop goes. If you can’t get it, we’ll come back.”
He’s right. It’s just that I see a potential clue, and I already screwed up, leaving some behind when we took Nicole, and now they’re gone, and I really need this one. Except I don’t. It’s not going to be a shirt with a name helpfully ironed in the collar. Hell, it could be a shirt covered in hairs, and that still wouldn’t help. We don’t have a crime lab here.
I take a deep breath and wriggle down another couple of inches and stretch as far as my fingers will reach. They brush the fabric. I just need another inch. I wriggle … and I slip. I hit a smooth section of rock, and my hip slides, and then I’m unwedged and falling. I hear Dalton’s “Casey!” and Anders’s curse, and I’m plunging headfirst down the crevice, body scraping the sides, arms and legs wildly trying to get a purchase, but the crevice has widened, and I’m not wedging in again. I’m falling, past that white cloth, past—
“Hands down!” Anders shouts. “Get your hands down!”
Battering the sides, I’m dropping slowly enough that I have time to get one hand over my head, the other rising to block my fall and keep my head from smacking rock.
My hands strike something. My elbows fold on impact, and my head rams into whatever my hands hit.
“Casey!” Dalton’s voice booms from above.
I call back, “I’m okay.” I think I’m okay. Not actually sure. I just know that I’ve stopped falling, and there’s something below that’s cushioned my landing. My helmet is pushed over my eyes, the lamp broken. Pain throbs through the arm that touched down first. Broken wrist? Damn it, no.
And, really, if that’s the extent of the damage, I’m lucky, so stop whining.
True, but … shit. I’m wedged in a crevice, head down, no idea how far I’ve fallen and I can’t—
I wriggle. Okay, maybe I can move.
“Casey!” Dalton’s panicking now. He must not have heard my reply. Rock rains down on my legs. Damn it, did he squeeze into that first crevice? Of course he did. I exhale a sigh and then shout, as loud as I can.
“I’m fine, Eric. I’m at the bottom. Just hold on.”
Wriggle, wriggle. Okay, there’s some room here. Pull my one arm this way. There, it’s through, and I find a grip on that side. My other arm is still against whatever cushioned my fall, and when I move it, I’m touching fabric with rocks beneath. Nicole’s clothing. What she was wearing when she disappeared. That makes more sense than her captor randomly dropping his own shirt into this hard-to-reach hole. He stuffed her clothing down here to hide evidence.
Except … wait. Didn’t he dress a corpse in her clothes?
Doesn’t matter. Right now, the bigger concern is the guy freaking out at the top of the crevice, calling, “Can you get turned around? Can you move?”
I need to. If I don’t, he’s liable to try squeezing all the way down, and the only thing worse than being wedged in this crevice would be having Dalton even more wedged in above me, like a cork in a bottle.
“I can move,” I call. “Just give me a second. I’m taking it slow.”
“Okay, okay.” The words come in a rush, as if he’s reassuring himself more than me. Which is fine. Right now, he needs it more. He keeps talking, telling me Anders has gone back to get the rope from Nicole’s hole, and fuck, why didn’t he think to bring rope, and didn’t he tell me not to go down this crevice? Didn’t he order me not to go farther?
“Well, if you’d let me turn around and climb down feetfirst, I wouldn’t be headfirst, would I?”
He goes silent. Then he mumbles what may be an apology, but I won’t hold him to it.
I have my arm down now. Butt wriggling, wriggling. Wait, is that a concavity in the rock? Why, yes, it is. Twist, twist, twist. There. My ass is in the depression, which gives me more room. If I grab this jutting piece and then that one … Shit, that hurt. Rocks are not soft. Or smooth. I don’t even want to know how many scratches and bruises I’ll have after this.
Wriggle, twist, wriggle, twist.
“Are you turning around?” Dalton calls.
“Trying,” I grunt.
“If you’re going to hurt yourself, stop. We can figure this out.”
“I’m—” I bite back a hiss of pain as my arm scrapes a sharp spot. “Got it. There’s a depression that’s just enough for … Yes! Almost—” I bite my lip as a muscle pulls.