The First Time I Fell

by Joanne Macgregor

  I forged through the scrub and trees to where a huge boulder erupted from the ground some twenty yards off the path and tied the dogs to a couple of sturdy bushes. Darcy flopped down — clearly exhausted by all that running and barking — and Lizzie immediately began digging in the dirt under a bush. I clambered up the rock, slipping and scraping the palm of one hand on my way to the top, then checked my phone’s screen. Two bars. Hands still shaking, I called the cops and returned to the path to wait for their arrival, leaving the dogs at the boulder, where they’d be out of the way.

  Less than an hour later, the quarry was abuzz with local cops, a State Police Search and Rescue team wearing vivid orange jackets, and a couple of paramedics whose services would be of no use to the poor woman in the quarry.

  Ryan Jackson, Chief of Pitchford’s tiny police department, was in charge of the scene. Once he’d directed everyone to their tasks, he came over to where I stood a little way off the path, hands in my pockets, clicking the crystals together like worry-beads. For an awkward moment I wondered if I should give him a hug. I wanted a hug, wanted for just a moment to lean against someone solid and strong, especially if that someone was Ryan Jackson.

  But as I took a step toward him, he said, “Hey, Garnet. Here you are at the scene of a death again.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I didn’t even know you were back in town.”

  From his tone, I could tell he wasn’t overjoyed that I hadn’t let him know.

  “I only arrived yesterday afternoon,” I explained.

  His slate-gray eyes scrutinized me for a moment. “You’re shivering. Can I get an extra jacket for you? Or a blanket?”

  I shook my head. It wasn’t the cold that had me shaking.

  “Up to giving me a statement?”

  “Sure.”

  Speaking into his phone’s recorder, I told him what I’d found and how, leaving out the part about my panicky reaction at the side of the pit. We were just finishing up when a heavyset police officer with a grimly excited expression came up to Ryan.

  “Garnet, this is Officer Veronica — Ronnie — Capshaw. Ronnie, this is the witness who found the body.”

  She gave me a nod and handed Ryan a plastic evidence bag. “We got into that Jeep Renegade in the lot down below, and I think we’ve got a probable identity on the dead woman.”

  Trying to be unobtrusive about it, I edged close enough to see that the bag contained a driver’s license.

  In a low voice, Capshaw said, “And there was a note on the passenger seat.”

  Blue paper.

  A trembling hand holding a piece of pale-blue paper scrawled with big, loopy handwriting.

  The flash lasted only a moment, and then my vision cleared, and I saw the cop pass another evidence bag to Ryan. Inside was a sheet of pale-blue paper, creased along two folds.

  What the hell?

  Curious, I sidled up behind Ryan and peered over his shoulder to read the note.

  Dear Bethany,

  I’m so sorry to do this to you. I know I’m leaving you with a mess to handle. I think you’ve known, or guessed, for a while now that this was coming — you’ve always known me better than I’ve known myself. I know you’ll be angry with me for making this choice, but honestly, I can’t continue living this kind of life.

  All my love,

  Laini xoxo

  “Suicide, sir?” Capshaw asked, catching me snooping and shooting me a disapproving look.

  I stepped back and pretended to be checking my phone.

  “Looks like it,” Ryan replied.

  There was a commotion at the edge of the quarry as the recovery team winched the rescue stretcher up over the lip of the pit. When they carried it down over the fence to the yellow-taped perimeter of the scene, Ryan held up a hand for them to stop. He unzipped the top of the black body bag strapped to the stretcher and compared the face inside to the photograph on the driver’s license.

  Sighing, he turned to his officer. “I think it’s her, Ronnie, but we’ll need a formal identification. Find a family member or good friend.”

  “I’m on it.”

  She disappeared back down the trail while Ryan tried to close the body bag. But the woman’s hair had gotten caught in the zipper, and it wouldn’t go all the way. Giving up, Ryan signaled to the two men holding the stretcher that they could go on. As they stepped over the police tape, one of the men turned his ankle on a rock and stumbled. The stretcher tipped sideways toward me, and I glimpsed a section of white forehead bordered with a streak of dark blood and a clot of gore matting the black hair above. I thrust out a hand to stop it tipping onto me. My palm landed on the body bag, and my fingers touched that cold skin, that sticky mess.

  Images and sensations fluttered into being inside my mind.

  Laughing, I flick my long hair back from my face.

  “What?” I say. “You can’t be serious.”

  My laughter turns to nervousness. To fear. I can feel the fierce sting of it flooding my body. It’s so cold up here, but I’m sweating.

  “Stop. What are you doing?”

  Pressure on my chest. Hands pushing.

  “No. No!”

  A sudden shove. And I’m over the edge.

  Falling, falling.

  Tumbling through space.

  An endless instant of rushing air.

  The wind steals my breath.

  I want to fly, to float free, to—

  Impact.

  The wave of shock sent me toppling to the ground. I could hear the stretcher guy apologizing profusely — he thought he’d knocked me over — and Ryan was at my side, helping me to my feet.

  “I’m okay. I’m fine,” I said, then turned away and deposited the remains of my breakfast behind a nearby bush.

  “Here.” Ryan handed me a handkerchief and a bottle of water.

  A little hysterically, I wondered who still carried handkerchiefs. Cops, that’s who. For wiping tears, vomit, blood and brains. I muttered my thanks, rinsed my mouth and spat, wiped my face and brushed splatters of sick off the toes of my boots. Pushed away that terrifying infinity of when I fell.

  No, when she fell.

  “Can you…?” I passed him the bottle and held my hands underneath as he poured, rubbing the fingertips that had touched that face. I wanted soap and a scrubbing brush.

  “I’ll get Ronnie to type up your statement,” Ryan said. “You’ll need to come in to check and sign it, but tomorrow will be fine for that. You can go home to your parents’ now.”

  I wiped my hands against my jeans, trying to rub off the sensation that lingered there. “I’m staying at Bill and Nancy Andersen’s house in the Beaumont estate — house-sitting and looking after the dogs while they’re away this month.”

  “So you’ll be here for a while this time?” Ryan said, a smile teasing at the corner of his mouth.

  Back in December, when I was investigating Colby’s death, I’d spent a fair amount of time with Ryan. True, for a while I’d suspected he might be a cold-blooded killer, but really, I’d been happy to be proved wrong. Because Ryan was a good guy — smart and funny, and attractive too, with his black hair, vivid gray eyes and tall, lean build. I’d kissed him once, and when I’d popped back into town in February for Cassie’s funeral, we’d met up for drinks. It had been fun, but we’d both known I was going straight back to Boston, so we’d kept it light.

  Now, with me in Pitchford for the whole of March, we could, if we wanted, pick up where we’d left off. Was that what I wanted? I wasn’t sure. The thought of opening myself up to a relationship scared me. Because back when my heart had stopped beating in Plover Pond’s frozen depths, it hadn’t been the first time I’d died. Not really.

  The first time I died was when Colby was killed. That’s when I’d shut down, pulled back from human connection, retreated into a decade-long winter of emotional numbness, and vowed never to love again. There had been some slight thawing of my frozen heart in the last few months, but I wasn’t yet sur
e that I was capable of falling in love again, let alone eager to try.

  But I was getting way ahead of the game. Ryan hadn’t offered a relationship. Hell, he hadn’t even asked me out for a cup of coffee, and already I was sniffing out reasons to avoid seeing him again.

  “Ronnie will give you and the dogs a ride back,” Ryan said, summoning his junior officer.

  “Thanks,” I said, grateful for the offer because suddenly, I felt utterly exhausted. Walking all the way back to the estate was more than I could face. All I wanted was a hot bath, a giant mug of bitter coffee and a couple of Tylenols for the headache behind my eyes.

  I’d already taken a few steps down the path when I turned back. “Hey, Ryan, that woman’s death — could it have been murder?”

  His brow creased. “Why would you think that?”

  “Just … just a feeling.”

  Yeah, a feeling of being pushed.

  – 5 –

  I walked down the path to the parking lot in a daze, towing the dogs along behind me; they seemed eager to return to the excitement of the quarry.

  Just exactly what had I experienced up there? Seeing and hearing and feeling things that weren’t my own — this could not be starting all over again. I was done with it. Had been done with it ever since I solved the mystery of Colby’s murder. I’d only been inundated with his experiences because he’d been Colby, because I’d known him so intimately and had never fully let him go, never truly accepted that he was dead and gone. But once I’d identified his killer, and justice was done, the weirdness had subsided.

  I’d made peace with the fact that he was dead. I’d given myself permission to heal and to start living again. And I’d known — known — that all this bizarre shit was over and done with.

  So, what the hell had I just experienced? I didn’t know the dead woman, didn’t think I’d ever even met her. So why was I seeing her last moments, hearing her last words, and feeling her terror? I tried to tell myself that I was imagining things. That I’d dreamed up a version of her death in my heightened state of distress, that what I’d experienced while standing next to Darcy at the edge of the quarry had indeed merely been just a panic attack. I told myself that must be it.

  But I didn’t believe it.

  Officer Capshaw opened the back of Ryan’s police SUV so the dogs — both with muddy paws, and Lizzie with a stick between her teeth — could jump inside. Either my driver just wasn’t a chatty Cathy, or she was annoyed at having to leave the action up at the quarry in order to chauffeur me home, but the ride back to the Beaumont Estate was done in silence, which suited me fine.

  Inside the Andersen house, I went directly to the downstairs bathroom to wash my hands, shuddering as I remembered the sight and feel of that body. I kept seeing flashbacks of the white face, the hair as black as coal, the halo of red around her broken head as she lay like some macabre version of Snow White on her frozen bed in the quarry. I pushed the images out of my mind and changed my clothes. As I threw my jeans, shirt and underwear into the washing machine, I used a psychological grounding technique to anchor myself in the present.

  Four things I could see — stains on my jeans, laundry detergent, the extra-hot setting on the machine, the red tin of dog treats on top of the refrigerator.

  Three things I could hear — panting dogs, the washer starting its cycle, a dripping faucet.

  Two things I could feel by touch — the wool of my sweater, the scarred surface of a wooden chopping board.

  One thing I could smell or taste — mint.

  The kitchen smelled faintly of mint. Nice. I should get some of whatever product was the source of that scent for my own tiny kitchen back in Boston.

  I filled the dogs’ water bowls and swallowed an entire glass myself, noticing that my hands still weren’t completely steady. I needed something stronger. Opening the refrigerator, I was shocked to see that less than a glass of wine remained in the bottle on the top shelf — I’d clearly drunk too much last night.

  Someone famous once said that the true test of character is what one does when nobody’s watching, which made me an unrepentant lushy pants because I downed the last of the wine directly from the bottle. I did throw the empty bottle into the glass recycling bin, so at least I was an eco-friendly lushy pants.

  In the living room, I parked myself on the couch in front of the TV and began channel-surfing. Images of people in orange jackets swarming around a familiar scene arrested my attention. A local news channel was already at the quarry, showing a carousel of repeating footage — lingering shots of the bloodstained snow on the ledge at the quarry; forensic experts in white protective suits and booties packing up their gear; rescue workers and state police leaning up against their vehicles in the lot below while they smoked and checked phones, enjoying the respite before the next alert of danger or death.

  When the images were replaced by live footage of a reporter, I turned up the volume then tossed the remote aside.

  “The identity of the woman found in the quarry is known to police but is being withheld until her next of kin are informed,” he said solemnly.

  I recognized this guy — he was one of the reporters who’d covered the story when Colby’s murder had finally been solved. He had perfectly coiffed hair and an impressive set of brilliantly white teeth which he loved to flash in a smile so wide it was unsettling. Right now, he wore a grave expression perfectly suited to the occasion, but his eyes glittered with excitement. No doubt he was enjoying the opportunity to report on something more newsworthy than warnings of heavy snowfalls and icy roads.

  While I watched, I dug the nail of a forefinger into the rough edge of skin beside my thumb, picking and tugging until I worked a filament of skin loose.

  According to police, The Hair solemnly announced, “No foul play was suspected.”

  He tilted his head a fraction and sighed, wordlessly conveying that suicide was suspected, and then briskly urged me to stay tuned for developments in the story. If what I’d experienced at the quarry was real, and much as I didn’t want it to be, it sure as sugar had felt like it was, then I might be ahead of the news on this story.

  A warning growl drew my attention to where Lizzie lay on the carpet, jealously defending her stick from Darcy. No, not a stick — it looked more like a bone. Even as my conscious mind tried to recall whether Mrs. Andersen had outlawed bone-chewing in the living room, my subconscious was taking in the color, size and shape of Lizzie’s treat, automatically comparing it to my memory bank of dog bones and concluding that something was very wrong.

  I noted the strange curved arch, like an elongated comma, the creamy bone showing through the brown dirt and discoloration, the ends — one smooth, one knobbly. It looked horribly like a rib. A human rib.

  Wanting to examine it more closely, I reached for it. Lizzie bared her teeth and seemed set to do battle with me if I tried to wrest it away from her.

  “Hey!” I yelled at her. “Drop that.”

  Probably more in surprise at my harsh tone than in obedience to my command, she opened her mouth and let the bone fall to the carpet. I snatched it up.

  The impact slammed into me like a blow. I heard no words and saw no images. A black nothingness saturated my field of vision. Paralyzing terror swamped me. At the point of contact with the thing in my hand, I was plugged into a source of something ancient and primal which contracted my stomach into a tight knot, slowly squeezed the air from my lungs, and dried my mouth. A deep, creeping darkness, like distilled eons of fear and dread and despair, filled me with crushing heaviness, tugged me down.

  With a sharp cry, I dropped the bone and fell back onto the couch. Wiping a clammy, trembling hand across my mouth, I sucked in ragged breaths of air, blinking as my vision restored itself and I returned from the void, back to the warm, bright room where the TV promised I’d be “in good hands” if I bought their insurance. Darcy yawned from his spot at my feet, and Lizzie was back to gnawing on the bone.

  I cursed — long, lou
d and savagely. This was a whole new level of disturbing.

  After a few minutes of deep, slow breathing, I was able to stand. I searched the kitchen, then returned to the living room wearing a pair of rubber gloves and carrying an old grocery bag and a couple of dog biscuits. Luring Lizzie away with the treats, I tentatively touched the arched bone with one gloved finger. Nothing. I snatched it up and stuffed it into the bag, then hung it on the hook with the dog leashes, well out of the dogs’ reach.

  Then I called Ryan.

  “So,” I said, “my dog found a bone.”

  – 6 –

  “Dog finds bone? Alert The Bugle,” Ryan said on the other end of the phone. His tone was good-natured, but I could hear the strain of the day’s events in his voice.

  “Thing is, she found it up at the quarry,” I said. “And I think it might be human.”

  “Damn.”

  “It looks really old.”

  I was hyperaware of the fingers and palm of my right hand. They didn’t tingle, precisely, but I couldn’t shake the sense that they’d been contaminated by touching that bone.

  “Do you know whereabouts she found it?”

  “I think so.”

  I described the huge boulder in the thicket of bushes way off the path. While I spoke, I went upstairs to my bathroom. Washing my hands would at least remove any microbes from my skin, though I doubted it would cleanse the dark taint lingering in my mind. When I got to the basin, cold water was dripping from the faucet. I shoved the lever to the left. What I needed was hot water, and lots of it.

  A thought occurred to me.

  “I could be completely wrong, though,” I said to Ryan. “About it being human, I mean. It’s probably from a moose or a deer.”

  That would be the most logical explanation. Why hadn’t I thought of it immediately?

  “We’ll check. Ronnie and the forensic team will search that spot in case there’s more to find, but I’ll come over and get the bone from you now.”