Novel Excerpt—The Sword of Secrets

CHAPTER I—THE FALL

Jim was lost—not seriously lost, just off course. Downshifting, he eased his Porsche past an idle construction truck, coasted to the side of the road, then clicked off the engine. He leaned against the headrest. Home. That’s where he wanted to be. Not that pristine ocean-side condo he kept as a summer residence, though that’s exactly where he’d been headed. Somehow he must have taken a wrong turn. Normally, he wouldn’t tolerate such a loss of concentration.

He pushed his lightly tinted sunglasses to the top of his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. What he needed was to refocus, then he’d find his way.

An orange-vested Caltrans worker with shovel in hand edged away from the passenger’s side of the truck. “Hey, buddy! You can’t park there.” He strode toward the convertible. “Sorry, buddy. Ya’ll have to move your—hey, don’t I know you?”

Shoving his key back into the ignition without looking up, Jim stepped on the clutch. “Nope. We’ve never met.”

“But I know you.” The man nudged his white hardhat further back on his head and rested his gloved hand on the car door. “Didn’t you use to play basketball?”

Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, Jim glanced into the man’s expectant eyes. The guy didn’t have the look of someone intentionally pouring acid into an open wound.

He flipped his sunglasses onto the passenger’s seat beside his cell phone. “Did I use to play basketball? I suppose so.”

“I knew it! You were just on the news.” The man leaned in closer. “You’re that guy that got traded to the Raptors last week.”

Producing his photo-op smile, Jim gunned the motor. “That’s me.”

The Caltrans worker stripped off his work glove and fumbled in his pocket. “How about an autograph?”

“Trust me. You don’t want it.” With a wave, Jim shifted into first and accelerated back onto the road.

He punched on the radio but ignored the thrumming beat resounding from the stereo speakers. An autograph. His signature would be about as valuable as junk bonds. He had saved that guy the pain of throwing the worthless souvenir away later.

Pain. If only he could wave his hand and dismiss his own pain as easily. And not just the pain in his knee. Somehow he had to escape this emotional void that threatened to drag him under.

He drove another mile along the coast before pulling into a make-shift turnout. Tossing his keys under the seat, he climbed from the car, ducked under a restraining cable, and limped past a keep-out sign to the edge of the bluff.

A frothy wave splashed high against the rocks, followed by a sudden hush, then another thunderous crash. Wind plastered Jim’s hair back from his face, and he sucked in a salty breath.

Under ordinary circumstances, he’d work himself out of his foul mood by shooting hoops, but to get rid of his present despair, he’d have to spend hours, maybe days, on the basketball court. No way would his knee hold up. Maybe this steely air could help him clear his head.

A low rumble reverberated from below. His eyes widened.

The ground quivered. He hobbled back a step.

The vibrations increased. Thunder swelled around him. He pivoted from the edge of the cliff. But the earth crumbled away.

He slid downward. His stomach vaulted into his throat.

Rocks and dirt tumbled past him toward the waves.

He flailed at anything within reach. His fingers closed on brittle shale. The rock tore at his flesh, then splintered from the cliff.

He dug the toe of his good leg into the side of the bluff. The shale bit into his black high-top. His ankle snapped. And he was still falling.

He twisted to find something else to grab. A gnarled bush.

But he was going too fast. How to brake his speed?

He dragged his open palms against the rocky ground.

His body slowed. Just in time. He slammed into the shrub, wrapped his legs and arms around the scruffy branches. The bush bowed under his weight. And held.

Loose earth plunged into the water with a splash. Then quiet. Followed by a wave exploding against the cliff.

A sob rose in Jim’s throat, but he choked it back. Just because his brains weren’t splattered over the rocks didn’t mean he was out of this mess. He couldn’t give in to his fragile emotions in the middle of the crisis.

His ankle felt as if he’d been through surgery without anesthesia. His hands burned. He looked up at them, red blotches clinging to the scaly boughs. He groaned.

Another wave thundered against the cliff, then rumbled away.

He spat dusty grime from his mouth, pulled in a deep breath, and shouted as loud as he could. “Help! Anybody! Help! I need some help!”

He rested his head against his bicep. Yelling was all he could think to do, but it was a foolish waste. No one could hear him. Not above the waves. And not in this isolated part of the coast.

An unconnected image of Matt and Allen popped into his head—he wouldn’t get to teach his nephews how to execute his trademark crossover dribble and pull-up jump shot. Not unless he figured a way down from here.

Agony exploded from his fingertips, along his arms, and into his chest. Trying to loosen the invisible vise around his lungs, he gulped in long drafts of air. No one was coming to rescue him. He’d have to coach himself out of this predicament—think through his options and find a way to safety. He could do it. After all, he’d made game-changing decisions his whole life.

He strained to see the top of the cliff towering overhead. His first choice was to climb back up, but his ankle was useless. He’d never make it.

Could he crawl down? A queasy light-headedness swept through him at the thought, but he couldn’t afford to give in to fear. If he didn’t look all the way to the water, he’d be OK. He cleared his throat and spat again, as if getting rid of whatever soured his courage.

He lowered his gaze and scanned the bluff. Steep—too steep to climb down, except for the narrow ledge jutting from the scarred stone a few yards beneath him. Maybe he could drop down there and at least recoup. If it worked, he’d have a chance to figure out what to do next, but the ledge wasn’t any wider than a locker room bench, and it might not be strong enough to hold him. Still, he had to try something.

Ignoring the shrub’s twisted branches that slapped and scratched him, he lowered himself hand over hand through the dusty leaves. At last he dangled a bare six inches above the ledge.

Jim held his breath, his body taut, and dropped. The shelf accepted his weight. As much from relief as fatigue, he collapsed, panting for air.

“Thank God,” he mumbled, then squirmed into a sitting position with his back to the cliff. He peered down again, but the ledge blocked everything except the white spray from the waves pounding the rocks at the base of the bluff.

Leaning his head back, he stared aimlessly at a pelican diving toward the ocean. He hadn’t died, but the treacherous water beneath him and the screaming pain in his hands and ankle made that fact hard to appreciate. If only he hadn’t left his cell phone in the car.

He wiped his face against his shoulder to clear away the sweat trickling from his forehead and clouding his eyesight.

Blood soaked through the cuffs of his sweatshirt.

Before making another move, he’d have to do something about his injuries.

Clenching his teeth, he turned his palms upward and moaned. Worse than he thought. His strong hands, with his long fingers that gave him his soft shooting touch, had turned into chewed up bits of bloody flesh.

Gingerly he pulled at the zipper of his hooded navy-blue sweatshirt, tugged it off, and set it next to him. He’d need it for warmth to ward off shock. He’d use his cotton tee shirt, instead, to make bandages. Wriggling his arms out of the sleeves, he slipped it over his head.

He retrieved his sweatshirt, allowing his trembling fingers to linger just below the left shoulder as they brushed the four embroidered gold letters of his university’s insignia. His greatest triumphs were connected with that school. His college teammates had tagged him with his Mr. Ice nickname—back when he was just a sophomore. He was almost as proud of that name as of the trophies he’d won. But that was the past.

Jim replaced the sweatshirt, pulling the warm hood over his head. Careful to keep pressure off his broken ankle, he tucked his rangy legs in toward his chest as a shield against the stiff ocean breeze.

He reached for his tee shirt, but his arm trembled as if he’d just finished pumping iron after a six-month lay-off. He needed to rest. Easing his tense muscles, he settled against the cliff and glanced out toward the ocean where low, dense clouds bulldozed toward shore.

Ironic! If he died like this, people might suspect he had jumped. He shook his head. How would the headlines read? Something like, “Basketball star plunges to his death.” And the lead? “In a possible suicide, James David Thompson, former NBA star for the expansion Scorchers, fell to his death yesterday south of Crystal Cove State Park near Todd Point.”

Jim cringed. “James” and “David” were the names of his two grandfathers. If he died from this fall, under a cloud of suspicion, he would bring disgrace to their memory. The last thing he wanted.

He’d moved back to California to reconnect with his roots, not discredit his family. This was home, had always been home, and he was proud of being a SoCal kid. Not that he was exactly typical. His surfer look, from tan to sun-streaked hair, didn’t come from hanging out at the beach. For him, time in the sun meant playing two-on-two pick-up games on outdoor basketball courts.

A blast of chilly air whipped against him, and he shivered. Hunching over his knees, he encircled his legs with his arms—long legs by most people’s standards. Not long enough on the basketball court, though. Even at six-four, NBA scouts had considered him too small to play his natural small-forward position. All he ever wanted was to become a professional basketball player, and six years ago, when he signed with his first NBA team, he believed his boyhood dream was coming true. What a joke!

He shut his eyes, but the plaguing thoughts of the past few days bullied their way forward. There was no nice way to put it. After banking all his prospects on his skill with a basketball, on his devotion to the game, he had failed. Failure had demolished his hopes. How was he supposed to go about reconstructing a dream?

Unbeckoned, the image of his mom and dad smiling down at him from the stands during his first game as a pro flashed into his mind. His parents had poured their lives into all four of their kids. He couldn’t let them down now. Then there were his two hero-worshipping nephews. And his precious niece, little Kari Marie, who’d be turning five next month. His family had to be his starting point.

At the squawk of a disgruntled seagull, he opened his eyes and stared out at the frenzied clouds swirling inland. A typical rainy February day along a lonely stretch of coast with wind-tossed waves crashing onto the rocks. Nothing like a dose of uncontrollable nature to clarify life—exactly why he’d hobbled to the edge of the bluff. He hadn’t suspected it was a dangerous overhang, but the scandal-sniffing public wouldn’t believe his fall was an accident.

He worked his jaw. Suicide? He couldn’t let people believe that lie. He was no quitter. First, he’d take care of his hands and his ankle. After that, he was getting off this cliff.

Jim lowered his knees until he sat cross-legged with his injured ankle braced, then turned his hands over. He flicked at bits of gritty soil and bark slivers plastered to his bloody palms. What he wouldn’t give for a little water to wash out the wounds—

He reclaimed his cotton workout shirt. With his teeth he made three small tears, then ripped the cloth into long strips. He tackled his left hand first, wrapping it as tight as he could and knotting the end of the bandage around his wrist. When he finished, he repeated the procedure on his right hand.

Next he pulled off his shoe. In spite of exploding pain, he flexed his toes and pushed until his foot was perpendicular to his leg. Imitating countless trainers who had taped him up before games, he wrapped the joint to provide as much support as possible.

When he finished, he squeezed his foot back into his high-top. Already the swelling in his ankle made it hard for him to get the shoe back on. Walking would be—he didn’t want to think about the agony. He’d had plenty of sprained ankles—part of the fall-out from playing basketball. But this was no sprain; it was a break. He just hoped it wouldn’t require surgery. He’d never rehab his knee if this ankle thing turned into a major problem.

Jim propped his head against the bluff. Mentally he crossed “see to injuries” from his priority list. He’d done the best he could. From here on he’d have to ignore his ankle and his hands. It was time to figure out how to get down.

He scanned the dark water flecked with whitecaps, hoping for a jet ski or a sailboat he could flag. Nothing. Tipping his head to the left, he strained to catch a glimpse of the beach. Joggers or fishermen might be out on a day like this. A rocky spur perpendicular to his ledge blocked his view of the sand.

His gaze darted back over the cliff, lighting on a ridge at least three feet wide that extended from his ledge all the way to the spur. He bent forward. He had assumed he landed on an accidental overhang, a blip on the steep rock face. But maybe it was more. He couldn’t see beyond that outcrop. No way to know if his ledge continued on the other side—unless he dragged himself over there and looked.

He stared at the spur that blocked his view. “From here? Ten yards tops. Thirty feet. That’s not far. I’ve hit three-pointers that long. I can do this.” Besides, what other choice did he have? He’d run through his options, pretty much the same way he did on the basketball court, and he didn’t see anything else open. Not to mention that time was running out. If night closed in with him still on this cliff—well, he didn’t like his chances. He had to make this work.

Closing his eyes, Jim allowed an image of the ledge to form in his mind. When he’d mapped out the painful trek and pictured himself successfully topping the spur, he wobbled to his feet, pressing his back against the dirt wall. He licked his dry lips, took a deep breath, then shuffled to his left. His progress was agonizing and slow, but at last he reached the base of the rocky spur.

Wincing, he sank against the bluff, exhaled hard, and waited for his heartbeat to return to an easy rhythm. He was still alive and that was something. The chill wind had died, but the creeping gloom of dusk blotted out the sky. He needed to keep going.

Gathering his waning strength, he pulled himself to his feet and faced the spur towering some six feet above his head. He’d have to climb over this outcrop, then see if his ledge continued.

He picked out a secure handhold, reached up, and curled his fingers over the lip of a rocky furrow. As the stinging in his hands radiated along his arms, he groaned but dragged himself upward. He probed the rock face with the toe of his good leg, located a niche, planted his weight, and pushed up.

Good leg. What a joke! A half an hour ago, when he had stood at the top of the cliff, this “good” leg with its repaired knee was the cause of his despair.

He scanned the spur until he found another secure crease, then grabbed hold and pulled his body higher, fighting through the pain the same way he did in training camp. Again he planted his foot, accepted the pressure, and launched himself upward.

With a final lunge, he grasped the crest of the rocks and hoisted himself high enough to hook his elbows over the top and peer to the other side. Sure enough. A wider version of his ledge skirted the irregular cliff. Maybe he could survive the night up here after all.

He clambered over the top and lowered himself to the broader ledge. While he allowed his labored breathing to slow, he surveyed his new surroundings. The rocky shelf was six to eight feet wide but narrowest here in the corner. At the broadest point, the projection dipped into the rock face, almost like … a cave!

Jim’s eyes widened. Relief drenched him. Relief and jubilation—as if he’d been handed the keys to a mansion.

He limped to the cleft in the rock. Bracing himself against the cliff, he leaned forward and peered inside. His gaze met perfect darkness, as though light had disappeared into a vacuum.

As he strained to see, he heard unmistakable trickling and splashes. Water! Maybe a cool stream. He ran his tongue over his crusty lips and swallowed. His throat felt as if he’d been drinking sand. He had to find out if there really was a stream in this cave—fresh water would double his chance of survival. He sank to his knees. Supporting hmself on his forearms, he crawled into the dark, toward the gentle gurgling, toward the sound of life.

Without warning, the ground dissolved beneath him. His stomach flipped upward with a roller-coaster-ride sensation. He didn’t hear rocks breaking apart, and he didn’t feel himself pitch over the edge of a cliff. It was more like being pulled away from shore by a riptide, but downward. As if he was sinking. Or floating. Not anything like his earlier fall.

That absence-of-light darkness surrounded him. He closed his eyes and let his body drift upright. Suddenly he jarred to a halt, his broken ankle buckling under him. He groaned through clenched teeth.

He blinked away the water collecting in his eyes and stared into the blackness. Nothing. No shapes. No movement. Nothing.

But for some reason the darkness didn’t bother him any more. Instead of being scared, he felt like a little boy who had crawled into Grandpa and Grandma’s attic to explore treasures squirreled away from the glare of everyday life. He stretched out his arm, and his fingers brushed against a clammy wall, slippery as if coated with algae.

He slid his foot forward to test the ground, but there was no ground, only open space. The shift of his weight threw him off balance, and he fell. On his way down, he snatched at the branch or ridge, whatever it was he’d stood upon. His hands closed over a cylinder, like a pipe, but nothing anchored it to the wall, and it pulled free. Clutching it to him, Jim again floated downward.

He felt as if he dangled at the end of a parachute on a meandering path to an unknown destination. But that didn’t make sense. Maybe he was losing touch with reality. He’d heard that a near-death trauma could have that effect on people.

He had no idea how long he drifted. The strange journey had the endless quality of a lazy summer day.

Again he jolted to a stop. His ankle collapsed beneath him as if shards of glass ripped at his ligaments and tendons. Catching his weight on the long object in his hand, he swore.

At the sound of his voice echoing around him, Jim flinched. Releasing a short breath, he shrugged. “Whatever this is, it has to be real. ‘I hurt, therefore I am.’ Isn’t that how the saying goes? I hurt. I hear. I think. I even speak. So maybe I haven’t lost my mind yet.”

The throbbing in his ankle subsided to a dull ache, and he limped forward, using the metal object as a make-shift crutch. If anything, the darkness around him deepened. He stopped. For all he knew, he could be hobbling straight for another cliff. Cocking his head, he listened for any tiny sound, any clue to where he was. Nothing, except his own rapid breathing.

“I can’t stand here forever. What am I gonna do?” Again Jim cringed as his voice blared into the silence, but the sound gave him an idea.

“Hello!” he called, and his cry reverberated against a barrier in front of him. He shouted again. As his voice bounced back, he formed a mental image of a wall and inched toward it, clanging the pipe-like object back and forth in front of him like a blind man’s cane.

At last the metal banged against the barrier. With a wavering hand, he reached out, his fingers bumping against a stone wall, not as clammy as the one he’d touched above.

Resting his bandaged hand against the rock, he closed his eyes to hide from the darkness. He must have fallen through some old mining shaft, though he didn’t remember ever hearing about one in the area. His chance of getting out of here alive couldn’t be good. Years ago, for some school assignment, he’d read about people dying because they got lost exploring caves.

He bent, investigating the ground with the tips of his fingers. Dry bedrock. Easing himself to a sitting position, he leaned back, the cool dampness of the wall reminding him he hadn’t found the water he needed. Well, a search for water would have to wait. He was just too spent to explore another square inch of this—whatever he was in.

When his breathing had slowed, he stretched out his legs the way he did for his after-practice cool-downs. The blackness, obscuring even the movement of his fingers waving an inch from his face, made it pointless for him to keep his eyes open, and he closed them again.

His head nodded forward, then snapped up with a reflexive jerk. He must have dozed off. A quick nap wasn’t a bad idea. Getting this far had taken whatever stamina he’d built up the last two weeks.

He pulled his sweatshirt tight to his body, wrapped his arm around the mysterious object in his hand, and curled up on the ground.

* * *

The sharp glare of a white light shining in his eyes startled Jim awake. He pushed to his elbows but sank back against the rocky floor, moaning in pain. Every joint in his body ached. His hands and ankle throbbed. The muscles in his arms, back, and legs had stiffened into tight knots. He blinked at the whiteness, trying to look past it, trying to remember why he was so sore. “Where am I? What’s happening?” The words came out as whispers.

From behind the glare he heard a surprised exclamation. “An above-ground human—speaking in Familiar! And he’s hurt.”

“Help!” Jim worked to make his plea urgent, but his voice was no more than a croak.

“Be careful!” said a second speaker. “This may be a servant of Vildoth-sadín.”

As Jim heard the strange name, a death-like cold ran up his legs, spread through his arms, then widened toward his chest. He couldn’t move. With the last strand of his will to survive, he struggled to yell for help, but his lips would only form the word. A tremor ran through him, then uncontrollable shaking. His teeth clattered together.

“We must take him with us,” the first voice said.

As strong hands lifted him onto a rough litter, Jim groaned. Someone threw a thick blanket over him, and the extra weight jolted him as if he’d taken a shot to the body. From head to toe he felt broken, but at least he had movement in his legs and arms again. His biggest worry now was his hands. He could lose them if they got infected. Then what would happen to his basketball career? He fought back tears.

Four shadowy figures raised the stretcher. As they carried him around a series of twists and turns, Jim drifted in and out of consciousness. He was too weary, too wounded, to care who these people were or where they were taking him.

At last they stopped. More strangers surged forward until a crowd of people, some speaking an unfamiliar language, encircled him. Again a bright light shone in his face, obliging him to squint and turn his head. One person pushed to the front and hurled a staccato of questions at him.

“Who are you? Where did you come from? Why are you here? How did you find us?”

Jim cleared his throat and forced words past his thick tongue. “My name is Jim Thompson. I was standing at the edge of the cliff, and I fell.” He waited for a response, but the conversation around him dwindled to silence. After a short pause, he continued. “I don’t know how I happened to fall into your tunnels. Is this some kind of mining operation? Where exactly am I?”

No one spoke, and Jim could hear his own labored breathing rebound against the stillness. Finally, the intense beam shining in his eyes diminished. As he adjusted to the softer light, he scanned his surroundings. His litter was on the ground near a large campfire. The fading ray of light came from a crystal sphere the size of a softball. The burly man who held it passed a hand over it, and the light subsided to a dull glow. Faint silhouettes hovered in the shadows of the darkened chamber just outside the firelight.

“Where am I?” Jim repeated. “And who are you people?” His eyes darted from one dark shape to the next. No one seemed to want to answer his questions.

After an interminable pause, a large person, a good six inches taller than Jim and weighing at least three hundred pounds, stepped forward.

The imposing figure pulled back the hood of a long, flowing bronze cloak and bent toward Jim, his black eyes glowering. “Tre-vene de Vildoth-sadín?”

Jim brushed cold sweat from his eyes with his trembling arm. Was he hallucinating? He was staring into an angular face covered in thick, dark hair.

Jim’s heart pounded against his chest like the reverberation of an amped-up car stereo. He propped himself on his elbows, ignoring the blackness that swirled behind his eyes and clouded his vision. “Who … what are you?”

“Silence!” The imposing figure lowered a long, tapered nose within inches of Jim’s face and bared pointed incisors. “We will ask the questions!”