Echoes of the Fall

by Hank Early

  “Noise?”

  “In the background. It sounds like a waterfall.”

  I laughed. “Yeah. I’m in this gorge, on a little outcropping of rock, two hundred feet above the river. The waterfall is so close I can almost feel it. But I’m going to climb out. I see that now. I’m going to climb out.”

  “Earl, is that some kind of metaphor or something?”

  I grinned. “I don’t think so. Maybe.”

  “Well, good luck, and do me a favor.”

  I waited, sure she was going to ask me to call her when I found my way out, but like so many things I’d been so sure of, I was wrong.

  “Don’t call me again, okay?”

  I moved the phone away from my face so she wouldn’t hear me begin to sob. I let the first one out, then sucked all my pain in long enough to speak into the phone again. “Okay,” I said. “I won’t.”

  * * *

  I got one more call out of my phone before it died.

  It was from Chip Thompkins.

  “Mr. Marcus, I apologize for calling so late.”

  “It’s fine. I’m happy to hear from you.”

  “I’ve been up thinking.”

  “Yeah, me too. I’m glad you called. I hope it was to tell me something good.”

  “Good? You really think anything good can come from this situation?”

  I paused and looked up at the dark sky. Now that the clouds had cleared, there were so many stars. I couldn’t remember the last time the sky had been so full of them. It seemed like a good omen, but I didn’t tell him that.

  “Mr. Marcus?”

  “Sorry. I was thinking. I guess I’d answer your question like this: will it be a net good? Maybe. Who knows for sure? But we might be able to even the score a little. Maybe not all the way, but isn’t even a little bit worth it?”

  Now it was his turn to be quiet.

  “Redemption,” I said. “Even a little bit goes a long way.”

  Despite the lack of context for what I’d said, he murmured something that sounded like assent.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “I’ll look at your information.”

  “You’ll write the story?”

  “I’ll look at your information. You said there was someone I could talk to?”

  “Definitely. I’ve got several—”

  “I’ll give you until Friday.”

  “Okay. Great. Wait, what’s today?”

  He was silent.

  “Don’t hang up. I’m not crazy. I just …” I took a deep breath. “I’m actually working on the case right now, and I’ve sort of gotten myself stranded at the waterfall …”

  “Maybe this was a mistake. I’m not sure I feel good about this after all.”

  “No, wait! I’ve got something for you. Start by calling Claire Bishop at Ghost Mountain Books in downtown Riley. Tell her I said you need to read the newspaper article she showed me. You’re going to want that for the backstory. So you’ll know about Harriet.”

  “Harriet?”

  “Yes. Harriet Duncan. And also call Mindy Hanks. She works at the Harden School. Just call the school. She’ll answer the phone. She’s like the secretary there. She’s got a story about Jeb Walsh. And Lyda Duncan. Get in touch with her too. She lives outside of Brethren. Are you getting this down?”

  “Yeah, I’m getting it. What’s this about Walsh? Did he rape her or something?”

  “Yeah, something like that. Just talk to her. Get that stuff down. I’ll get back to you before …” Damn it, what had he said?

  “Friday. That’s in two days, Mr. Marcus. Either put up or shut up. And I need something substantial. Not innuendos and rumors. I need evidence. Otherwise, I’m going to think you’re playing some sort of cruel game with me.”

  “I’m not. I promise.”

  “I don’t know if I believe you. Furthermore, I’m not sure any of this will work.”

  I didn’t know what else to say. Hell, there was no way to convince him without something more concrete. I actually understood exactly why he didn’t trust me. What I didn’t understand was why he was even willing to give me a chance.

  So I asked him.

  “There’s only one reason. And the second I don’t have it anymore, we’re done.”

  “What is it?”

  “The possibility that you’re telling the truth and can help me find Joe.”

  “I am,” I said, wincing at yet another lie. But what choice did I have? Telling him that I’d hidden his boyfriend’s body wasn’t going to get me anywhere.

  46

  The sun burned my face and I woke, blinking at the brightness, the goddamn sudden dryness of the morning. The rain might as well have been a dream. Even my clothes had mostly dried, the exception being the cuff of my blue jeans and a damp section around the waistband.

  How long had I slept?

  I picked up my phone and wasn’t surprised to see that it was finally dead. Well, at least I’d gotten to talk to Mary one last time. At least Chip Thompkins was on board. Now the pressure was really on me to connect all the dots. I honestly had no idea how I would do it.

  The sun was high in the sky, which meant it was somewhere around noon. How in the hell had I managed to sleep for so long out here on the hard ledge?

  I dressed quickly and then examined myself, paying careful attention to the elbow I’d banged up yesterday afternoon. I could straighten it, but it felt unnatural, like bending a finger back in the wrong direction. I did it anyway, gasping at the pain when I finally got it fully extended. Back and forth I worked it, pushing out the pain with each contraction. There was some swelling, but there was nothing I could do about that.

  The rest of me was okay. My hands were scratched up pretty badly from trying to grip the rock ledges, but all my fingers still worked fine. I’d just have to ignore the pain. The alternative was letting go. I’d been lucky enough to hit ledges two times already. I knew better than to count on it happening a third time.

  Turning my attention again to the ledge above me, I reached for the small divot I’d clung to yesterday. I got a good grip on it and quickly dug the toe of my boot into the rock. I pulled myself up, ignoring all the pain in my joints, my hand, and especially my elbow as I reached for the ledge. Knowing exactly where it was helped this time. My left hand found it, and I locked my fingers around it. Now came the hardest part. I’d have to trust my bad elbow to hold me up while I brought my right hand up to the ledge.

  Gritting my teeth, I made the move.

  My eyes snapped shut. I saw red, tiny splotches burning against the back of my eyelids. I swear I heard something in my elbow creak as I hung there, and for a moment the pain was too much. I felt my hand beginning to slip.

  Then I had the ledge with my right hand, and the pressure let up. The pain pulsed inside my elbow, but as much as it hurt, I was in no danger of falling, not with both hands on the ledge.

  The toes of my boots clacked against rock as I sought some purchase. It was essential I find something. Otherwise, I’d have to pull my entire weight up with just my fingertips.

  But try as I might, I couldn’t seem to find a toehold.

  I looked up for something else to reach for and saw the dark gap in the rocks. It would be barely wide enough for me to slip through sideways, but it still looked like heaven to me. If I could just manage to pull myself up a little bit, I could grab a chunk of misshapen rock that lay at the base of the opening.

  With a great grunt, I strained to lift myself up, still kicking my feet for purchase. The opening of the gap drew closer, close enough to see that the rock was connected to the wall. I reached for it, grabbing it in my good hand, and pulled myself on up. I found the purchase I needed on the ledge with my other hand, and soon enough I was pushing my way into the gap, sideways, head and shoulders first, wriggling my body like some fish out of water or a snake, undulating forward.

  It took a long time, but eventually all of me was inside the crevice. I lay there gasping, soaking in the cool
air inside the cave.

  I wasn’t sure how much time passed before I moved again, but when I did, I realized the gap had widened. I was able to get to my feet and walk straight ahead into the dark.

  * * *

  I pulled out my keys and flicked on the penlight. Waving the light around, I was able to take stock of my situation a little better.

  The corridor had widened considerably but would still barely accommodate two men standing shoulder to shoulder. The walls of the corridor were slick rock. Some of them were covered with moss and lichen, while other parts felt as if they had a thin sheen of damp dirt protecting their hardness from the rest of the world. I wondered when the last time was that human hands had felt these walls, or if they ever had.

  The corridor curved sharply and narrowed as it rose. I trudged up the incline and came out into a wider space, a chamber or room almost. Moving the flashlight across the walls, I estimated it was no more than a twelve-by-ten area, but after being in the tight corridor, it felt palatial by comparison.

  The penlight illuminated dark, mossy walls all around me as I turned in a circle, trying to take as much in as possible.

  Something caught my attention. A series of marks on one wall stopped me. I aimed the penlight at one of the marks. It was a word.

  dead

  I moved the light to the left.

  the

  Only

  My light flickered and came back on. The batteries were low. I moved it to the right again, reading the whole sentence now.

  Only the dead are safe.

  I scanned the rest of the wall and found nothing. What was I supposed to make of that?

  I touched the writing, trying to determine what instrument had been used to scrawl the words. My best guess was whoever had left the message had simply picked up a rock and carved the words against the cave wall, in the same way teenagers often knife their initials into the bark of a tree.

  But what did it mean?

  It could mean just about anything, but there was at least one thing it meant for me. It meant someone else had been here before. And since I didn’t see a corpse, it meant he—or she—had managed to escape.

  Or maybe not.

  Only the dead are safe.

  It didn’t exactly sound optimistic.

  I made another search of the cave, scanning the ceiling and the floor as well as the walls this time. I found a backpack on the floor of the cave, just beneath the writing.

  My hands were shaking as I opened it up. I felt as if I’d just unearthed some great buried treasure. Someone had definitely been here, and not only that, they’d left something for the next person, which was me.

  Once I had the backpack open, I put the penlight in my mouth and shone the dim light inside. There wasn’t much. A notebook, a couple of Polaroid photos, and a pen. I spread the photos out on the cave floor first and shined the penlight over them.

  They could have been panels in a comic book. Each appeared to have been taken on the same day, with the same scenery in the background. One showed a young man who appeared to be in his early twenties. He was smiling, though I’d be lying if I said he looked happy. A better way to describe his expression would have been hopeful. Yeah, he looked like he wanted to be happy but wasn’t sure if that was an emotion he could ever truly obtain.

  I held the photo up, bringing it closer for a better look. The young man was handsome, with broad shoulders and straight black hair. He was tall, too, I realized, and long. Lanky. Rawboned, and the expression on his face—beyond the grin—was quizzical, determined, haunted, and most of all, I realized now, it was familiar.

  I was looking at a younger version of Rufus.

  It was disconcerting to see him before he was blind, and after he’d made his split with the church. The vulnerability in his eyes stood out. Somehow his blindness had made him more confident. Or maybe it had been all the years.

  I couldn’t stop looking at the photo. It was Rufus and it wasn’t Rufus. I wondered, if I were to see a photo of myself from thirty years ago, whether I would recognize the person I once was, or if I’d be so different as to have become a stranger. Who knew? I couldn’t imagine a single photograph of me in my twenties even existing anymore. I had been a nomad for many of those years, living on the road, my whole life stuffed into a small backpack. I hadn’t owned a camera, nor had I known anyone long enough for them to want to take my picture. I felt a little jealous looking at the photo of Rufus because it was obvious he had known someone who had wanted to take his.

  At long last, I put the Polaroid down and picked up the next one. This was not Rufus. This was a young woman, pretty, but not traditionally so. She looked like someone I knew, but then the feeling faded as I studied her closely. She had a pale complexion and straw-colored hair brushed straight back off her forehead. She was smiling, but if Rufus’s smile had only looked hopeful, hers appeared to be some kind of awful paradox. The smile was forced, crooked, already collapsing at the moment the photograph was snapped.

  I turned the Polaroid over, hoping there would be a name written on the back to confirm her identity. There wasn’t, but it hardly mattered. Sure, it would have been nice to confirm what I suspected, but it wasn’t necessary. This photo had to be Harriet, and this bag had to have belonged to her, which meant she’d made it across. I wasn’t sure how she’d done it—if she’d done it the hard way like me, or the crazy way, which involved making an almost supernatural leap across the gorge—but she’d done it. That much I felt confident about.

  The third photograph was the most interesting. I had to lean in closer for a better look. The penlight seemed to be dimming. I was pretty sure the batteries had to be close to running down. It appeared to be a shot of the very crevice I’d entered a few minutes ago. I squinted and saw there was writing on the photo. A blue, smudged arrow, nearly completely faded now, pointed to the crevice.

  There was something else too. Barely more than old scratches on the photo. I had to turn it at an angle so the light would hit it just right in order to read what it said.

  This is it.

  I put the photograph down with the others and opened the notebook. My light went out. I smacked it against my knee. Nothing. I tried the palm of my hand instead, popping it hard enough to make me grit my teeth in pain. The force was enough to eke out a little more battery juice this time. The light came back.

  The first page was filled with writing. And sketches. It appeared to be a journal dedicated to the gorge and possible ways to get to the crevice and this cave.

  I skimmed it quickly because I was afraid my light would die again at any minute and I didn’t want to miss anything essential. Two more pages of sketches and notes followed. At a glance it looked as if she’d taken a similar route to mine. I was most interested in what was on the next page. Here the writing got sloppier, the sketches rougher. Here Harriet wrote about being in the crevice itself.

  Three days inside the cave. Light dead now. I fear I may die here. If so, then so be it. There are some things worse than death, some choices that make themselves. I do not regret giving up my safety for this chance. Safety is an illusion. Only the dead are safe. To live is to risk.

  I looked up. The cave was so dark, but I felt as if I’d found the brightest lights in her words. Only the dead are safe. The words from the wall found their context, and Christ if they weren’t true. I supposed in one sense I’d learned the truth of those words early in life. I rarely saw the point in being afraid of dying. But maybe there was a corollary for me. Sometimes I didn’t see the point in embracing being alive. I didn’t see the urgency to live on my own terms, without always looking for some other ledge to cling to. I understood now how Harriet, just a kid, had made it across. She hadn’t picked, jumped, and climbed her way across with blood, sweat, and tears like I had. She’d just walked on the air.

  The light went out. I didn’t bother popping it against my palm this time. I didn’t need it. I didn’t need anything except this cave, and the comforting darknes
s I’d found.

  I lay down on the bare floor and pretended to be blind, leaving my eyes open wide and unseeing in the total dark. I thought of Rufus, the pain he’d been in when he told the story. That seemed odd. He and Harriet had obviously been close, and I couldn’t help but think she had left these things here for Rufus to find. Yet according to the newspaper, Rufus had watched her jump to her death. He’d claimed it was suicide, that Harriet had been depressed. The words I’d read in this journal didn’t sound suicidal, though I suppose they could give one that impression if you were predisposed to view her situation a certain way.

  Only the dead are safe.

  It didn’t sound like suicide to me. It sounded like defiance, like a woman who was ready to make a desperate jump. And weren’t this journal, this backpack, and the damned Polaroids enough to prove she’d made it across?

  I thought so.

  But the question that still lingered, the one that was essential to my situation was, where did she go next? How did she make it any farther along than this small cave?

  A terrible thought struck me. What if she was still here? What if she’d died inside this very cave, unable to find a way forward?

  I sat up, reaching for the penlight again. My hand found my keys, and I picked them up and fingered the penlight, clicking it on. Nothing. I pounded it against the thigh so hard it hurt. It was dead.

  Pocketing the keys, I stood up and walked down the narrow corridor toward the original crevice. As I drew closer, I could see the walls on either side of me more clearly. As I turned to the side to fit through the passage, I noticed something I’d missed before. Another passage so thin I wasn’t sure I could fit. It was on my right, and it seemed to lead upward. Could this be the way to the top of the bluff, the way out?

  Using both hands, I measured the gap, and found it dismally tight. I turned, sliding my shoulder in, and immediately found I was stuck. My chest was too big. An uneven piece of rock dug through my shirt and into my skin. I pulled away, feeling a moment of panic as the rock scratched me again, holding me between the two walls like I was prey caught in the jaws of some stone-toothed predator. I gasped as I slipped free.