by Jeff Soloway
“How far to the top?”
“Thirty minutes.” Thirty minutes for a well-hydrated athlete.
He was already taking another guzzle, in case I changed my mind. “Thank God!” he said again, gasping for breath. “I’m short on water. It wasn’t my fault. My book said I could fill up at Dripping Springs. There’s nothing at Dripping Springs! Supposed to be monkeyflowers and hackberries this time of year. All dead! And no water.”
“When was your book published?”
“How should I know?”
When will people learn to check copyright dates?
“Then I go and get lost,” he added.
“Where?” The Waldron and Boucher trails both intersected his route.
“There.” He pointed down the rough stony trail. “Just there. Right off that turn.”
“There on the switchback?”
“Yeah.”
“How did you manage that?” There was only one trail. It would be like getting lost on an escalator.
“I just went straight instead of turning.”
“But how?”
“You don’t see it?” He pointed harder.
I now saw a gap in a pile of slabs that edged the switchback. Instead of following the path’s sharp, steep turn, a climbing hiker might conceivably step straight through that gap and follow what looked like a little ridgeline path along the slope beyond. If the hiker was especially weary and thirsty.
“There’s some animal track through there,” he said. “Or maybe some old leftover of an old trail, I don’t know. After a while it just petered out. Left me alone on a rock, nowhere to go but back. Almost cried. My tears woulda been all salt, no water. But I don’t give up easy. I made it back to the trail. A couple geezers gave me a drink—not a drink, just a taste. Half a swallow. I believe a fellow hiker deserves a hand!”
He looked down at the fingerful left in the bottle I gave him. I could hardly afford to give up more. I was the one starting my hike, and it would be dark by the time I finished it. I felt both stingy and resentful, like I do when I’m panhandled by someone young, healthy, and heavily tattooed.
“Got any more?” he prodded.
“I’m sorry.”
He groaned. In another moment, I might have given in, but he heaved himself up from the rock. “Take care.”
He added, as he turned his back, “A girl died down there last week.”
—
After a few more switchbacks, I was on another straightaway. I almost stepped on a desert paintbrush, a little wildflower with spiked red petals. Everything in the desert was spiky, to conserve moisture. I thought of the hiker’s round, fat, sweating body laboring up the trail. A tiny lizard darted onto a rock in front of me. Nothing on its miniature body so much as quivered. It seemed to be staring past me, as if it too were worried about the other guy.
Anxiety, once activated, pricks at me continually, like withdrawal symptoms. A kind of guilt—guilt at failing to warn Jewel when I could have—had led me on this hike. Now I was distracted from completing it by more guilt. Jewel would have kept on. She wouldn’t have sacrificed her cause to assuage her conscience. The man would suffer a little, but he wouldn’t die.
I couldn’t convince myself. I turned around and started marching back up the path. I could catch up to him in a minute, and both our sufferings would be eased. At the first sharp, stony ascent, I stopped marching and started trudging. Going up these staircases was a lot harder than going down. A rock flinched under my foot and almost sent me sprawling.
I passed the switchback where I’d met the hiker, kept trudging on, and finally made the next straightaway. In the distance, I could see the hiker’s bulbous back. He was approaching the next set of switchbacks. I had to catch my breath before I could call to him.
Two hikers descended into view. They bobbed to the side to let the fat man pass them. He took some time to plod by, during which both new hikers turned to gaze out over the canyon, courteously ignoring him. Or perhaps avoiding his eyes in case he asked them for water. These two were starting their hike late. But then, so was I.
Once the fat man was gone, one of the pair started jogging down the straightaway toward me. The other stayed put.
Who jogs in the Grand Canyon? The jogger, like me, had only a daypack. It bounced around his thick shoulders as he came on. In crossing a rocky patch, he moved his feet in a purposeful staccato, like an athlete doing a footwork drill. As he came closer, I saw that he wore not hiking boots but basketball sneakers. I crammed myself into the cliff behind the trail to give him room to pass. As he did he turned his face out toward the canyon. But I had already recognized him: He was Grayson’s round-faced partner, the Grand Chalet security guard who had tackled Meat.
I watched him go. He rounded the next down-trail switchback and disappeared. I turned around. His companion up the trail was still at the far end of the straightaway.
Why had the two separated?
Perhaps the round-faced man was hunting for someone down the trail. His companion was serving as backup. I started down the straightaway. I wanted to see what the lead man was up to. Just before I reached the switchback, I leaned over the edge of the trail to look below me. The round-faced man was rattling down the stone steps. I followed. What could be so urgent?
Finally I landed on the next straightaway. Up ahead was the round-faced man. His back was to me. He had planted himself in the middle of the trail, legs set apart, in Kevin’s ready pose. He looked like he was planning to demand a toll from the next ascending hiker.
It made no sense. He seemed to be standing guard, but there was nothing to guard except his friend above. And me. Or maybe both of us.
I turned around and charged back up the trail. The pain in my legs and quads was an alert, not a hindrance. I was afraid but thinking clearly. I almost lost my balance again on a loose rock, had to windmill my arms, but kept my balance and even maintained my upward momentum. I tried to remember how many switchbacks I had to navigate before the straightaway.
I had turned several when the round-faced man’s partner appeared at the top of the next. He descended slowly toward me. He wore sunglasses and a baseball cap and a dark blue fleece, too warm for the late-afternoon sun. It was Grayson. His face was red and shining. He wore yellow worker’s boots—a step up from basketball shoes. His new baseball cap was limp and creased, a replacement for the one that had flown away on the rock last night. While I was rescuing him.
On the outer edge of the trail was an extra-high pile of rock slabs. I sat on it to wait. The top slab wobbled under my butt.
Grayson stopped about five feet above me on the trail.
“Listen,” he said. “I got to do this thing.”
“What thing?”
“My job.”
“Okay.”
He wrinkled his nose as if I itched him. “I got to talk to you.”
“Did you follow me here?”
“Didn’t have to. You told Pierre where you were going. And some old lady said she passed you on the way.”
“What’s your friend doing down there?”
“Miguel? Telling people there’s trail repairs, they got to wait a few minutes. So nobody interrupts us. We need privacy. This time of day, everybody’s coming up, nobody’s coming down.” He shifted his weight on the rock he stood on; it fidgeted but stayed put. He didn’t smell like booze today.
“What do you have to say to me?”
“You got to shut up about Freddie,” he said. “He killed himself. Ask the cops.”
“They already told me.”
“I know. What you got to do is believe them. This is very important.” He spoke slowly, so I wouldn’t misunderstand anything.
“But is it true?”
“See, that’s exactly the kind of question you got to not ask!” Now I was pissing him off.
“Okay. I believe them.”
“You can’t just say okay! You got to feel it down deep.”
He smacked his fist into his le
ft palm: the sound of truth settling not just deep but hard. He unzipped his fleece to show me, attached to his belt, a walkie-talkie and a gun. I assumed Miguel had the same.
“Now tell me you believe.”
“I believe.”
“Okay! That sounded good. We’re halfway there.”
I wondered where the other half led to.
“The problem,” Grayson went on, “is you already lied. In public. I mean about how you saw Freddie in the dumpster. The cops heard you. And guess what? They told Gus. Stand up.” He tapped his gun with one finger. He was still five feet away.
I stood. He noticed me looking at his gun. He lifted his hands and wiggled his empty fingers reassuringly. He took a step forward, first settling his right foot on a nearby rock, then his left. Now he was so close I could see little hairs peeking under his nostrils. He was still higher than me on the trail, and also much taller. I tried to widen my stance, to prepare myself, but the rock I stepped on wobbled, and I had to spread my arms to keep from falling over. I couldn’t even count on my footing.
His fist slammed into my stomach. I leaned forward, doubled over, unable to breathe. My left foot slipped from the wobbly rock to a sandy divot behind it. My view was all sand and rocks. The air wouldn’t come. The pain was much less terrifying than my sudden breathlessness. You’ll get it back, I told myself; I always did when I was a kid, after crashing my bike or taking a wallop playing Kill the Guy with the Ball.
“Be careful,” Grayson said. “You’re getting close to the edge.”
Air rushed into my throat. I took several grateful breaths. Before I stood straight again, I took a few more, to fuel up my body and consider my situation. Grayson was bigger, he was on higher ground, and he was armed. All I had to hit him with was my daypack.
“Promise me,” Grayson said, “you won’t say the words Freddie Bridgewater again. You won’t talk about him, you won’t write about him, you won’t sneak around looking for his stuff, you won’t go sniffing around our water meters because he said to.”
“What do you know about the meters?”
“Nothing. Neither do you. Now say it.”
“I don’t care about Freddie.”
“Keep going.”
“I care about Jewel.”
He clenched his teeth. “You want to see how bad this can get? You want me to call Miguel on this thing? He’s a real asshole, I promise you. I told you before I had nothing to do with that girl. How many times I got to tell you?”
“I believe you.”
“I had nothing to do with Freddie Bridgewater either,” he muttered. “Don’t have to believe it, but it’s the truth.”
“You don’t do that shit,” I agreed. “It was Miguel, wasn’t it?”
“Damn right. I tried to save Freddie B! I warned him. You were there. It was your fault. You should’ve let me hit him once or twice, to make it sink in. You’re pushy, that’s what Marlene says.”
“Did Miguel kill Jewel too?”
“Want to ask him? Want me to call him up here so you can ask him?”
“No thanks,” I said.
“Good choice. So. What have you got to say for yourself? Better make this good.”
“I’m done with Freddie Bridgewater. And Jewel.” He’d see how done I was, if he just let me get back to the top. If he just let me get back to Doby. I’d say whatever it took to convince him.
“See?” said Grayson. “That’s not so hard. I guess you’re not that bad. What’s wrong with being pushy? You were pushy last night, on that rock. I needed it. I admit, I had a few too many.”
“Could happen to any of us. Can I go?”
“I wish you could.”
“What else is there?”
“I need your word of honor.”
“Okay, word of honor. I promise.”
“But you got to remember your promise. In your guts.”
“I’ll remember.”
He extended his hand. I started to lift mine. Seal the deal with a shake.
“Hey!” His hand flew to his gun.
“Sorry.” I let my hand fall.
“No, I got to have that.” He nodded down where my thumb was hooked in my pocket.
“What? My wallet?” Only twenty bucks in it, plus my cards. Small price to pay.
“No.”
“My phone?” Of course. That’s what muggers wanted these days.
“No, your hand.”
“My what?”
“Your hand. Give it.”
“But…it’s attached.”
“I’m not gonna cut it off. I’m not some raghead barbarian. All you have to do is put it on something. That big rock right there. When I’m done, you get yourself up to the infirmary.”
He pulled out his gun and shifted it to his left hand. He dropped his backpack to the ground. It was already half-open. He sifted through the pack, keeping an eye on me all the time. He extracted a short polished stick. On its end was a hammerhead as large as a brick. It looked like something Louis Boucher might have used to pound a chisel in one of his mines.
“Jesus,” I said. “You want to smash it?”
“I don’t want to. I have to. The thing is, it only hurts. It’ll work okay eventually. Might look a little lumpy, but you’re not a hand model, right?”
“You’re the one who broke Freddie’s arm, aren’t you? That’s why he was so afraid of you.”
“I said right?” He lifted the hammer as high as my head.
“Okay, sorry, right. But why didn’t Jewel get a warning?”
“I keep telling you! I didn’t touch Jewel! Put your hand on that rock!” He took a deep breath. “You don’t want to fight. You don’t want to run. Miguel would make it much worse. So just do as you’re told.”
“But—”
“If I don’t do this, then they punish me. Is that fair? This is proof you heard me. This is what stays in your gut.”
Did people submit that easily?
“I’m a writer,” I said. “I need my hand.”
“We can do the left. I’m okay with that.”
I tried to assess my surroundings without moving my head. To my left, off the trail, the drop was steep and sandy for ten feet, then a sheer cliff for a hundred. To my right, above the trail, was an unclimbably steep slope, on which only a few scraggly pinyon pines clung.
“How much does it hurt?” I asked.
“Like a bitch,” he conceded. “But your car up there is twenty minutes from the infirmary in the village. They’ll shoot you up with the good stuff right away. Hey, look, if you don’t do this, I got to shoot you. What’s the point? I don’t want to do that. I don’t get paid extra.”
I wondered how he’d dispose of my body if he had to shoot me—perhaps just with a shove, as Miguel, I assumed, had disposed of Jewel’s.
“You’re a decent guy,” he said. “You helped me out. That’s why I’m doing the left hand. This could be way worse. You know what a broken tib feels like?” His voice squeaked toward the end. He was losing patience.
“Don’t think,” he commanded. “Just do it.”
There wasn’t much to think about. It wasn’t like chess; there weren’t multiple moves and countermoves to consider. If I didn’t submit, all I could do was run. Maybe he wouldn’t want to risk the noise of a gunshot. But where could I run to? Just down the trail to his still more brutal partner. If they caught me after that, the best I could hope for is that they’d smash both my hands. I’d never be able to touch anything or anyone again without remembering the pain.
But how could I bear the humiliation of knowing, for the rest of my life, that I let them deform me without resisting at all?
Jewel must have fought them. That’s why they had to kill her.
A lizard, oblivious to my dilemma, leaped up onto the pile of slabs beside me. In front of the pile was the wobbly rock I’d stumbled on just before Grayson hit me.
I made my choice.
“Can I put my hand on that rock pile there?” I asked.
“That’s perfect,” Grayson said.
I glanced down and slowly, unthreateningly, stepped over and behind the wobbly rock. The pile of slabs was just beside it. I placed my hand on top of the pile. I hoped Grayson hadn’t seen me stumble. If he had, I hoped he’d forgotten. A lot had happened since then.
“I’m ready,” I said. I shifted my feet until I was satisfied with their purchase on the ground. I bent my knees slightly.
“Look down into the canyon,” he said. As if I were at the doctor’s office, about to get a shot.
I squinted but didn’t quite close my eyes.
Grayson lifted the hammer and stepped forward. As his foot landed on the loose rock, he paused and his eyes flashed downward. I sprang forward and shoved him in the chest. Off-balance, he staggered backward.
I turned and scampered down to the switchback right behind me. Before I could make the turn, I heard a gunshot. White dust burst at me from some nearby limestone. Grayson must have regained control of his body before he reached the edge. I leaped over the switchback, cutting it short, and almost slipped and fell on the jagged steps below. I managed to keep going, loping in huge precarious strides toward the next switchback.
The scream was like the agony of a hundred smashed bones: “Miguel!”
Was Miguel close enough to hear? Grayson also had a walkie-talkie. But all I could do was keep going down.
The next switchback was the one with the dead juniper just off the trail. I could have hidden behind it, if my body were two inches wide. My muscles couldn’t move fast enough. I glanced back; there was Grayson, kneeling, taking aim. I lurched from one side of the trail to the other and lunged around the next switchback. The shot sounded but didn’t strike anything—at least, not me.
I kept scuttling down the steps. My ankle rolled and the rest of my body almost rolled with it, but I kept going. What would I do when I met Miguel? Ahead was the switchback where I had encountered the exhausted hiker. Maybe I should turn around, charge uphill, surprise Grayson around a corner. He had already proved he wasn’t much of a shot. But I would be right on him. If only I could think of some ruse. Grayson clearly wasn’t that smart.