Angels of Light

by Jeff Long

  Only your legs are your friends, only your brain, your eyesight, your hair, and your hands. John resisted the solipsism of that wisdom, but he listened, too, and knew that, yes, he would do something, but wondered what it was he could do.

  By the time John descended to the valley floor, Bullseye had been carried off into the meadow and the helicopter had fled with him into the sunset. Climbers and tourists file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/HTML-Jeff%20Long%20-%20Angels%20of%20Light.htm (174

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  Jeff Long - Angels of Light were standing around in loose clusters, still dazed by the spectacle, and John could see where the rotor wash had fanned the early blooming wildflowers flat. An elderly couple with a Winnebago had pulled over to the side of the road and were now dispensing fresh, red strawberries to the thirsty rescuers. Someone had brought a couple of six-packs of icy Mexican beer from the store. Kresinski's smoke screen—the notion of bad karma—was on everyone's lips. People were somber, which they often are after bad accidents like this. But they were also scared, and John could tell that tonight the fires would burn very late while Camp Four searched its heart. Their climbing would go on, of course, but death—and Bullseye was effectively dead—

  always wanted pause. When expeditions on big mountains lose a member to storm or avalanche, there is a period of intense doubt. The mission of ascent, which is simply to ascend, becomes trivial, hardly worth a life. Everyone takes a deep breath. And then next morning the climbing resumes. John heard the melancholy and fear in the babble of voices as he threaded his way through the loose crowd, but he didn't tell anyone of his discoveries on top of the Amphitheater or about the Polaroid picture

  Kresinski had showed him. He found Liz all alone beyond the gossiping, shocked spectators.

  When she saw him, she kept her hands in her pockets and began to cry.

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  "I know where we can go," John told her and folded his arms around her. Kresinski was drinking one of the beers and looked over at them. He smiled, but without humor.

  "Where?" she asked without much hope.

  "Just for tonight," he said.

  "Not Camp Four," she said.

  "No," said John. "Bullseye's van. He wouldn't mind."

  Liz loosened her embrace. "We can't do that."

  "There's food and water there. And we can use his mattress and bag."

  "But..." She searched for words to object and looked at her hands. "His blood's on me. It's not right."

  "You need to wash?"

  She hesitated. "Isn't there someplace else?"

  "We can't go to your cabin. Or Camp Four. It's too late to go back up to Tuolumne."

  Suddenly the Valley felt small and constricted, like one of those Appalachian hollows where nobody leaves and naïveté breeds itself into bucktoothed ignorance.

  "I'm so tired of hiding," she said.

  "I know," said John. "But it's just for tonight." Also, going to the van would give him a chance to read the beginning of Bullseye's end. It would constitute part of a crime scene, if only he could bring himself to share what he now knew. But he couldn't.

  Whatever sign remained at the van belonged to Camp Four and him, not them, the outsiders and disbelievers. Kresinski was right. There was an inside and an outside, an "us" and "them."

  There was a tribe.

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  "Come on," he said, and started to lead her away.

  "What's happening, John?" she asked, exhausted and dazed. For the first time John heard her vulnerability, and it shocked him that this was only the first time, that she had been so strong or he had been so deaf. He wanted to protect her. Protection was the wrong word, though. They were being driven from the Valley by a rapid, unbeatable erosion of all that had brought and kept them there. Protecting Liz would mean somehow halting the flood, and he had barely enough energy to flee.

  "We have to leave the Valley," he said. "As soon as we can."

  The birds were full of evening song, and although it was twilight, the squirrels were celebrating the approach of summer by scampering around on the still-warm earth, chasing pedestrian jays and nutcrackers. John half expected Ernie to hook up with them before they reached the van, but the yellow mutt never appeared. Holding hands, something they ordinarily never did while walking in the woods, John and Liz neared the clearing. High overhead the trees opened to a deep blue sky. No stars yet, but it was going to be another clear night. They felt the relief of a man and woman that yet another day had passed in good labor and, no matter the rest of the world, that each was still whole and well. Their sense of fragility was so keen that they clung to each other as the forest paled. Much darker and they would need a light to guide them.

  "Ernie," John called into the trees, in part so they would be greeted with a wagging tail, in part so they wouldn't be attacked.

  All that met them in the clearing was emptiness and further chaos. Bullseye's possessions were scattered on the ground, and the shell of his van lay tipped on its side.

  "My God," Liz gasped and pulled on his hand. They stepped over books and papers and trinkets.

  "I can't believe this," said Liz. "How could anybody be this low?"

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  John looked at her sharply in the midst of the pitiful, devastated collection of things Bullseye had called home. "What?" he said, equally shaken.

  "Thieves," hissed Liz. "They must have heard about the accident and come while we were up there bringing him out."

  John found a big boxy flashlight on the ground and cast around with it. "It wasn't thieves," he said, gathering evidence by the second. "Too fresh. See"—he pointed out a pile of spilled brown rice and oatmeal and other grains—"that food got spread around by bears and coyotes. And that couldn't have happened in just a few hours.

  And look, his camera's still here. And all his climbing gear. If it was thieves, that's the kind of stuff they would have snatched." Even as he spoke, John was finding more of the same huge boot prints left on top of the Amphitheater cliff. He resisted showing Liz, telling himself it was unnecessary, what needed to be done would be done. And there was Kresinski's xenophobic little truth once again: We take care of our own.

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  Tribe, the bottom line.

  "But if it wasn't..."

  "I don't know," said John. "I'm not sure."

  Suddenly she halted as some other thought dawned on her. "Oh, God," she groaned.

  "Did he really do this?"

  "Who?"

  "Bullseye," Liz said. "Out here all alone." Sadly, John understood she'd accepted what everyone else was accepting, that Bullseye had flipped out and gone for broke.

  Destroying his odd little pack rat's nest in a last-ditch frenzy would fit perfectly with the theory.

  Dust to maniac dust. "How could we not see his demons?" John let her believe what she wanted.

  He saw how simple it had been for Kresinki to point everyone in the wrong direction. By calling the violence suicide, or in Tucker's case a moment's imbalance, people were able to go on believing in the primacy of will.

  Suicide was an act of will. And slipping on the edge of the Visor was somehow willful, too. It was at least close enough to holding your fate in your own cupped, callused palms. That was the religion they practiced. The very idea of a larger force shaping your destiny was tantamount to heresy. It violated all that they risked their lives for:

  control.

  "Now what?" said Liz. She was very near her limit. Her despair pained him.

  "In the morning," John decided with haphazard authority, "we'll gather his things.

  For now"—he looked around—"let's try to tip the van upright. We should sleep." He bent and picked up a
granola bar in an undamaged sheath. "Here. Eat this. I'll find some water."

  The van shell was lighter than he'd guessed. Working together, they managed to lever it back onto the flat stone foundation Bullseye had pieced together years ago. As they worked, John's hatred for the killer mounted. Everywhere he turned, there was evidence of the giant intruder.

  His boot prints, his irreverence for Bullseye's books and records, his clear intent to maim. John found drops of blood on some pine needles and by the front door, on a tiny green seedling. The rearview mirror mounted on the driver's door was smeared with blood. Bullseye's suffering had started down here and lasted much longer than John had thought. The clearing, so peaceful and separate, had been violated. Like a wolverine, the smuggler had fouled the place with his presence. John swept the light through the trees, searching for other morbid signatures like the ones he'd found on top of the Amphitheater. There were no more ghastly souvenirs hanging from boughs, though. While Liz pushed the mattress back onto the plywood shelf in the rear of Page 149

  the van, John raced the light across the ground, demanding but not receiving more infomation.

  Questions kept leading to other questions. If the bastard was only after revenge, why trash the van?

  If it was revenge, why the long, torturous trek up to the top of the Amphitheater?

  Why not simply execute Bullseye down here? There was a distinct logic at play, but it file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/HTML-Jeff%20Long%20-%20Angels%20of%20Light.htm (177

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  Jeff Long - Angels of Light was as inscrutable as it was malevolent. The mind and power behind all this random havoc had a purpose and direction. It had to. But what was it? Again John doubted

  Kresinski and his conspiratorial insights. But by stages, Kresinski's revelations were bearing out.

  There was a ghost, of sorts. In his twin brother, the gigantic pilot had been resurrected from the lake and was methodically, supernaturally hunting them down.

  Suddenly John realized that Ernie was gone. Aced. The dog's absence aside, it made sense that the smuggler would have poisoned or shot him ahead of time. Bit by bit, they were all being erased. But why? John wondered. Revenge needs to be particular and coherent, otherwise it turns into blood lust. Blood lust has no honor. Revenge does. It was one or the other. Or something else. Something Kresinski knew but wasn't telling. Something at the lake. That was the extent of John's understanding.

  The longer he stood in the gathering night, illuminating this and that piece of Bullseye's past on the ground, the more he felt compelled to go ahead and trace all the scents, read all the clues. From experience, though, he knew more signs would be destroyed than found at night. There was much to sort out, and it would be far better to wait until morning. A taped Clorox bottle for big-wall climbing lay on the ground, and in stooping to check for water, John saw a three-inch-high potted cactus

  Bullseye had brought in from Nevada last summer. It had survived the winter inside his van.

  Now, surrounded by scattered potting soil, its green carcass had begun to shrivel.

  "John, I'm cold," Liz called from the van. John hefted the Clorox bottle—half full—

  and climbed in through the sliding door.

  "Some water," he offered. In taking off his gray gym trunks, he remembered putting them on early in the morning in his cove of fossils. Liz had lain in the sleeping bag and teased him about his hard-on, observing that "men even brag about having full bladders." There'd been goose bumps on his thighs until the sun rushed in. On the drive back down from Tuolumne, John had impulsively pulled his truck over and Liz, behind him in a borrowed car, had pulled over, too. "I just wanted to kiss you," he said. Her face lit up with surprise, and she smiled and promised to meet for dinner at the Four Seasons. And here they were, grubbing food off the forest floor, fugitives in a ransacked metal hut. The morning's light simplicity hung surreal against the rest of the day's gut-wrenching drop. John wondered if there could ever be a morning like that again.

  He started to close the door, but Liz said, "Leave it open. For Ernie when he comes back home."

  John closed it anyway. "He's not coming home."

  "How do you know?"

  John sighed. "Not now." He could see his breath in the flashlight beam.

  "What's this?" Liz asked, lifting one bare arm toward the ceiling. John looked at the file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/HTML-Jeff%20Long%20-%20Angels%20of%20Light.htm (178

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  Jeff Long - Angels of Light picture Bullseye had taped above his bed. It was a black-and-white Page 150

  NASA photo of

  Mons Olympus.

  "That's Mars." He put his finger on what looked like a lunar volcano. "This here is Olympus. It's the highest known mountain in the universe. Bullseye used to talk about climbing it."

  Liz was quiet for a minute, then she said "Jesus" as if there could be no more sadness. John's shoulders slumped.

  "Take off your shirt," Liz told him. She switched the flashlight off. "I want your skin against me while we sleep." Under the sleeping bag, which smelled like Bullseye's solitude—a hint of sweat, the smell of garlic and peanut butter, and a strong overlay of the Lodestar Lightning sinsemilla—Liz pressed her breasts against the side of

  John's hard rib cage. With a sweep of her hand, she draped her long hair up over his shoulder and nestled into the hollow of his arm. Tomorrow was a new day; both were holding on to the refuge it would surely offer. Neither spoke. John cradled Liz in his arms and smelled her golden hair. She kissed his neck. They fell asleep.

  It was black and cold. They were dreaming. Suddenly the sliding door swept open with a terrifying slash, and the entire van shivered from the impact. A beam of light stabbed in, and John reared up from sleep. Liz stifled the start of a scream.

  "Rise and shine," mocked a voice. Liz recognized it before John did.

  "Matt," she said and pulled the edge of the sleeping bag up to her neck to cover her nakedness.

  John unclenched his fist and shielded his eyes from the light. "Kreski?" he said. "Son of a bitch."

  "That's okay," Kresinski said, lowering the light. "I don't mind makin' the wakeup call. Not for my favorite couple."

  "You're a prick, Matt," Liz cursed him. "You're the whole reason we're out here hiding."

  "I'm flattered. But I'm not all you're hiding from. Let's go, Johnny. Cage your snake.

  Let's boogie. We got a scalp to take."

  "Go away," Liz said.

  "Go back to sleep, Liz. I'm just collectin' your man here. Then we'll be out of here."

  "What are you talking about?" she said.

  "Change of plans," John addressed Kresinski.

  Kresinski's voice dropped its cheeriness for menace. "No you don't."

  "What's going on?" Liz demanded. They ignored her.

  "I'm not going to the lake," said John, prolonging what he really had in mind. He wanted to punish Kresinski. Just for being Kresinski, the bastard deserved punishing. As he'd hoped, his declaration stung.

  "You fucker. You said you were in."

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  "The lake?" said Liz.

  "So you're ditching me." Kresinski grinned. "Just as well now than up where I might need you."

  "I'll go halfway," John finished. "Halfway's far enough if you're telling the truth."

  "Quit talking around me," Liz said.

  "Shut up," said Kresinski.

  Liz turned her anger on John. "What is this?"

  "Johnny didn't tell you?" said Kresinski. You could hear the pleasure in his voice, for in keeping silent about the lake, John had betrayed Liz. John saw his mistake and tried to tell himself the silence had been for Liz's benefit. There had been too much to digest yesterday without this.

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  And besides, he'd still been deciding. The l
ake. The damn lake. It spelled trouble every time.

  "We're goin' on a snipe hunt," Kresinski baited Liz. "Wanna go?"

  "John," she said.

  "Kreski thinks he knows who—"

  "Shut up, Johnny," Kresinski warned him.

  "—who killed Tucker and dumped Bullseye."

  Now Liz saw the full breadth of the betrayal. She edged backward away from John, who looked out the window. All there was to see was blackness. That and the tapestry of frost their breathing had shaped on the inside of the glass. "But John," she said.

  "We talked about it. Nobody killed Tucker. And Bullseye..." She paused, not wanting to slander him in his own home. "Bullseye got lost. He got lost out here alone."

  Choosing to see a parable in that, she continued. "You're not alone, John. You're not lost. Not if you have me."

  Kresinski searched his bowels and found some gas. Grinning, he squeezed out a fart.

  "How come you never tried to save me, Lizzie?"

  "You belong by yourself," she said. "Out on some island."

  "I'd agree with that." Kresinski smiled. "Thing is, I'm already there."

  "What the hell time is it?" John said.

  "Four-thirty, dude."

  "Forget it," said John. "Tell you what, I'll find you."

  "Uh-uh. Now's it. I wanna be far in front of this sucker."

  John squinted at Kresinski and his rude light. "Get out."

  "I'll wait for you right over by that tree, man. We got to haul ass, though." He left the door open. John slid it closed and ducked under the sleeping bag again. He was shivering.

  "This isn't right," Liz was muttering to herself. "I deserve better than this."

  "Liz, I'm not going to the lake. Only partway. Kreski said the man would follow us in.