Wormholes Read Online Free PDF Page B

obsessively the rock and the helmet camera. Anita stood before her, face drawn, eyes wide with fear. Dacey shook her head.
    “I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely. “I’m truly sorry. He just wasn’t down there.” Anita slumped and a friend took her around the waist.
    “Thank you for what you’ve done. Thanks so much.” She touched Dacey’s muddy shoulder.
    “Well, it wasn’t enough. I’m going to figure this thing out, I promise you.”
    Anita thanked Dacey again, mumbling something about hoping she was all right, and was helped away. Dacey found a garden hose, turned it on and washed down the rock, oblivious to the mud covering her and the crowd of reporters shouting questions at her. The rock had been sliced smooth on one side. As smooth as if eons of water had worn it away. But the edges were as sharp as if cut by a saw. She detached the helmet video camera and gently washed it, finding it battered but intact. She’d pull the memory card out under more pristine conditions.
    Then she stood and took off her helmet, leaving an incongruous dome of relatively clean hair crowning her mud-covered face and body. She turned the hose on herself, scrubbing off the mud from her face, arms and body. She flooded her shirt and shorts with water, squeezing as much as possible from their fabric. Then she squirted and scrubbed off her legs, until the tan emerged from beneath the mud. She removed her boots and socks and washed her feet. She picked up the boots, socks, rock and camera and carried them to her Range Rover parked at the curb, stowing them inside, removing dry clothes and locking it.
    Among the crowd, watching her steadily, was a slim man with long curly hair and a scraggly beard and moustache, who wore a white t-shirt and faded jeans.
    She gratefully accepted an offer from a kindly neighbor woman to shower at her house. As she took her shower and washed her hair in the bathroom with flowered wallpaper and a tasseled shower curtain and fancy soaps, she decided that it was better than the stock tanks or mountain rivers she usually bathed in on field trips. She emerged from the house in cutoff jeans and white t-shirt, still barefoot because she hadn’t brought extra shoes. She was ready to give a few television interviews:
    No, she told the interviewers, she still wasn’t sure what had caused the cave-in, but she’d be working with engineers from the state to figure it out. Yes, it was scary down there. Yes, it was a terrible tragedy. She excused herself as quickly as she could.
    After a debriefing with the rescue workers and the rescue chief, who now called her Dr. Livingstone, she climbed tiredly into the Range Rover and drove it slowly through the police line and the crowd of tourists. She pulled out onto the boulevard that led into the well-tended middle-class housing development whose streets were now clogged with sightseeing traffic. It was forty-five minutes to her townhouse in Norman and she relished the time to relax. She accelerated onto Route 40, which would take her across the flat prairie landscape into Oklahoma City, and from there south to Norman. Traffic was light. Maybe everybody was still back at the crater. She smiled tiredly, wriggled her bare feet and thought about the crater and the cavern beneath. She glanced in the rear view mirror. A blue van was following her.
    She decided to pick up dinner at a Wendy’s drive-through and left the freeway when she saw a Wendy’s sign. She bought a double burger, fries, and some chili, and maneuvered the Range Rover back onto the freeway. As she neared the exit for Highway 35, she noticed a blue van behind her. The same blue van. She munched a fry reflectively and veered onto 35 south into Norman. She exited the freeway and wound through the city streets, taking a more circuitous route to her townhouse than usual. It was late, getting dark. She could barely see the blue van, but it was there, following her. She munched another fry, becoming a bit more