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The UFO ranch was a ghost town when Orry Rockwell pulled into the parking area. There were no vehicles to be seen, no one milling about. The silence was eerie after the bustle of the race just a few days before. He parked his Subaru in the only available shady spot, on the far side of a storage building, and headed to the ranch house. He knocked but no one answered. Damn. The one time he actually wanted to talk to Grizzly and the man was nowhere to be found. He was probably out on the racecourse somewhere, fine-tuning one of the obstacles.
Sighing, he took out a folded map of the ranch—a leftover from the race. He scanned it, took a few seconds to get his bearings, then set out across the dirt parking lot. A sudden gust of wind, hot and dusty, swept in, sending tumbleweeds rolling across his path. The sight brought back childhood memories. He smiled and shook his head. Of all the things to get nostalgic about.
He followed a steep path that wound into the hills that surrounded the ranch. The footing was iffy and the going slow. Good thing he’d come dressed for a hike, including proper footwear. When he crested the first hill he paused, took out a pair of mini-binoculars, and scanned the horizon. Still no sign of them. Of course, he could only see a couple of obstacles from here. He’d have to keep moving.
Twenty minutes and a few tall hills later and he still hadn’t spotted anyone. He checked his map again, then gave the binoculars another try. This time he spotted something. A hunched figure moving along a rocky trail.
“Who are you and why are you sneaking?” Rockwell whispered aloud. He tucked away his binoculars and set off at a quick jog. He was a triathlete, an adventure racer, and experienced outdoorsman. He was confident he’d could catch up with this fellow in no time without giving himself away.
The way grew steeper and the path narrower until it vanished completely. But by this time, he had caught up with his quarry.
It was Bryce Shipman!
The man was decked out in khakis and a brown cap, and wore an olive-green backpack, perfect for blending in against the backdrop of the parched landscape. He no longer skulked but moved with a confident stride.
Rockwell wasn’t remotely frightened of Shipman, but something told him to remain out of sight. The man was up to something, and Rockwell wanted to know what it was. Like a cougar stalking its prey, he trailed Shipman, slipping easily behind boulders, juniper, and even the occasional cactus. The man never noticed. It was too easy.
Finally, Shipman came to a halt at a steep rock face. He stopped to take a drink of water and don a pair of gloves before beginning the climb. He moved with a grace and agility Rockwell had not expected. A minute later, he was out of sight.
Rockwell waited two minutes before following. It was a gamble. He didn’t know what waited at the top of the wall. Shipman might be right there waiting for him. But he couldn’t risk losing his quarry.
He scrambled up the cliff quickly and quietly, paused at the top, just out of sight, to listen.
All was quiet.
Heart in his throat, he put a hand over the top of the ledge and pulled himself up. His subconscious conjured images of Shipman standing above him, some sort of weapon raised. But would Shipman really do something like that? Rockwell wasn’t sure. Perhaps it had been a bad idea to put himself in such a vulnerable position.
All of this flashed through his mind in the time it took for him to pull himself up and peer over the ledge. Shipman wasn’t there. He let out a relieved breath and climbed up onto the ledge.
Before him stood a huge rock pile, the boulders loosely stacked, forming narrow passageways throughout.
“He must have gone in there.”
Rockwell crept over to the closest passageway, knelt, and peered inside. He could only see a few feet in before the passageway took a sharp right. It would be like a maze in there, and no telling what or who he’d run into. Perhaps it was juvenile of him, but the idea excited him. He fished out his pocketknife and opened the largest blade. It wasn’t much, but at close quarters it might make a difference should he run into something nasty. Heart racing, he got down and crawled into the darkness.
As he worked his way deeper into the warren of passageways, he began to feel foolish. There were plenty of reasons Shipman might be poking around here that didn’t involve anything sinister. Sure, he’d been sneaking around, but maybe he simply didn’t want to be spotted trespassing on Grizzly’s property—property that had, until recently, belonged to Shipman.
Orry, you’re going to feel like an idiot if you come out on the other side to find Shipman worshiping at a magnetic vortex.
The thought had scarcely passed his mind when he heard a squeak and a metallic clang, followed closely by a muttered curse.
“What could that possibly be?”
Rockwell followed the sound, squeezing himself through narrow crevasses, banging his head on low rocks, and several times being forced to double back. When he finally came out on the other side, Shipman was nowhere to be seen, but there was little doubt as to where he had gone.
Set in the stone was a bizarre-looking iron door. Rockwell couldn’t help but make a closer inspection. Its hard surface was pitted, its edges roughly hewn. He assumed it would be locked, but when he tried it, it swung back an inch.
He froze, remembering the squeak it had made. No sense sounding the alarm. Bit by bit he nudged it open until he could peer inside. A sliver of sunlight shone a narrow beam across a small, dungeon-like room. On the opposite side was a small tunnel. Where it led, who could say.
Rockwell slowly closed the door, took a few steps back, and mopped his brow. He stared at the door, shook his head.
“This,” he said to himself, “can only be a bad thing.”
He only wished he knew what to do about it.