Death of the Extremophile

by Stuart Parker

  *

  The quarry was familiar to Hope. Thompson’s Quarry was the name on the map he had been taking on his hikes. He suspected it had only been given a mention as it was amidst a whole corner of emptiness. He had passed its peak on one of his walks and had stopped to take in its views across woods, sprawling lush farmland and the tightly clumped rooftops of Sacksville. Quite a view, though with its sheer drop not one for the squeamish. Hope was now running carefully through his mind what he had only given a cursory glance during his first visit to the quarry: the straight down. The quarry walls were steep and brittle and at the bottom of the eighty foot drop, there was a muddy lake. That seemed to be where the Young’s intended to dump him.

  Unfortunately, Art and Rex Young, were either shrewd in the way they were escorting him or were simply not getting on very well; whichever it was, the two brothers were spaced too far apart to make an effective lunge. There was not much chatter between them and there was no indication their positions were likely to change before they arrived at the quarry. So, what about at the quarry then? Hope figured they would try to club him on the head if they could. A bullet wound would set off a criminal investigation should the body be discovered and the cops game enough to check the putrid cadaver for holes. A bump on the head, however, would be indistinguishable with the damage a body would receive falling from such a height. To get things so neat, however, someone would need to get close enough to deliver the blow and that’s when Hope would have his opening - after all, he was no puppy seal.

  The problem with this strategy, however, was that the Young brothers were amateurs and amateurs were unpredictable: they were liable to shoot him in the back just to see the show. Hope had to get something happening without it being the crack of a rifle and the best he could come up with was a conversation - or more particularly a conversation that flattered and deceived.

  ‘It’s funny,’ he said, glad that his voice came out confident and steady, ‘how you boys think you are being scurrilous lawbreakers when in fact you’re doing the law a big favour.’

  The two brothers did not reply directly, but nor did they shut him up. Perhaps the brothers had been waiting for Hope to start begging for his life. Hope was encouraged enough that he risked a glance back over his shoulder.

  ‘You hear about those bank robberies in Sacksville and Pontiac? I know you weren’t there ‘cause I would’ve seen you.’ He increased the length of his strides, wanting to get to the quarry as quickly as possible - that kind of confidence was bound to confuse. And he kept on talking. ‘The police will be paying a big old reward for my capture. You better believe it. Getting a fugitive like me into custody is worth a thousand busted engines.’ He chuckled at the thought.

  Art Young finally got his voice back. ‘You don’t look much like a bank robber to me. Anyway, you’d be worth as much dead as alive.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be worth anything in a quarry. And if you like the idea of a reward, I’ve got plenty of that myself. I’ll take you to where I stashed the loot. It’s a nice bundle and it can be all yours.’

  ‘If we let you live?’

  ‘That would be the terms. But the girl is no precondition. Your brother wants her bad enough to stay up nights, who am I to deny that?’

  ‘You’re a real prince.’

  ‘This is business. And if money is your game, banks is the fastest ways to get your hands on it.’ He chuckled flippantly, letting them see he was at ease. ‘Mechanics might be one of the slowest. To be honest, my visit to your garage was with the intention of inviting you on the bank robbery. I wanted some local boys and you were recommended as the types who could your nerve. Even when things get dicey.’ Hope looked ahead to where the steeply rising track was beginning to flatten out and he recognised it as the final approach to Thomson’s Quarry. He kept up his pace and said, ‘When I got to your garage, however, I must say I was struck with doubt. All those rusted out cars in your lot, which were no better than junk, smacked of laziness at best.’

  He let that sit in the air, and Art gnarled back threateningly, ‘And at worst?’

  ‘A lack of ambition. Small towns, small appetites. If you walk into a bank with a gun, your senses become charged like you’re whole being is a blind person’s fingertips. Until you have enough experience to consider it normal I don’t see you hard enough to endure the process.’

  Hope figured the Youngs would be engaged by these kinds of taunts, and the replies now were coming promptly.

  ‘How could we assure you that we are hard men?’ mused Art. ‘Perhaps, if we tied you to a tree and shot out your arms and legs until you surrendered the location of the robbery haul.’

  Hope laughed again. ‘You would be merely asking the questions. The hardness would come in not answering them.’

  The trees on the right were thinning out to a bleak patch of ground that had lost its topsoil to the dull orange under-clay underneath and culminated in a crumbling edge and the gaping open wound of a mountain side ravaged in the quest for resources. Hope guessed his false promises had earned him a few steps hesitation on the Youngs’ triggers. He couldn’t count on anything more than that, and he doubted he had bought enough grace to make a charge at them. From his glimpses out the corner of his eye he could see their rifles were still pointed from the hip. A sharp turn would be too obvious. And the forest would need to be a great deal denser if it was to shield him from their bullets. That only left one slim chance. To go forwards. Hope steeled himself for it.

  ‘Want to prove your tough?’ he said. ‘How about this?’

  He ran forward and threw himself desperately off the cliff. No gun was fired. So, he had achieved the element of surprise. And it was only now free falling that he was able to see what was beneath him. The water was a thick brackish soup. Fortunately, if there were rocks milling just below the surface, he would not find out till later. In the meantime, he sucked in a deep breath of air, figuring he was going to need it and pinched his nose ready to keep the water out. He relaxed his limbs and looked up.

  Feet-first he hit and the sky disappeared into filth. The water was icy cold and pitch black. Even with his nose tightly pinched, the stench somehow reached him. Hope had only once before experienced such waters, at a health spa in Tecate, and only from the neck down and the water was warmer and with a Latin beauty poised with a towel to take his mind off the grotesque sensations. It became not his life flashing before him, just an image of her - and, fortunately, the image did not include the way things turned out with her as he was in need of reasons to live. He hit the bottom of the lake at speed and kept travelling into what threatened to be an inescapable tomb of mud. He found himself stuck up to his chest in it. He realised he was going to need every bit of the air contained within his lungs to get out of this. But he could not rush, for the mud would punish his greed for air with a gorging appetite. No flamboyant movements would help. His only chance was to start gently wiggling his hips sideways, spread out the surface area of his arms on the mud’s surface, take it slow. He had to ignore the burning already setting into his lungs. Remain patient. If he gave in to the temptation to hurry to be aggressive, this most repulsive of grips would snare him completely.

  He closed his eyes so that he controlled the dark. And he focussed on the Latin beauty of Tecate. A long, lost memory from the long lost days of prohibition - a period somewhat hazy due to being drunk on whiskey most the way through it. But he took her dancing after the mud bath and he focussed on that. He led her back onto the dance floor now. He felt her beautiful, warm body against his. The dance was a waltz, not too fast, not too slow, just the way her eyes shone best. Get up closer. Hold her tight. She never tired of being held. Feel the music. The band playing alright. A smoky Saturday night in a crowded downtown club. The dance floor pulsating and aglow. Life on a barren street. Cheeks pressing together. Not too rough. Don’t scratch her cheek with stubble. Swoon with her. Let her relax and melt. Let her feel safe. Let her move as she wants. Keep swooni
ng until she is free.

  Then it came. He was out of the mud. His last act with his Latin lover was to push away from the muddy floor, to work out which way was up. And heading that way her name finally came to him: Camella. Why had it taken so long to remember? Alas, now it was time to clear his mind of her; but he counted himself lucky that in life’s worst possible predicaments his past lovers were there for him - lovers of a calibre for such dire straits.

  He kicked and swam and broke through surface of the quarry lake with an almighty heave for breath. But he did not stop. He paddled for the shelter of the cliff wall, wondering how long he had been submerged and whether or not the two Young brothers were peering down the cliff face in search of him. Taking further breaths while he paddled was his opportunity to seek them out. He would not allocate an instant longer than that. One thing he was certain of was that they had not followed him into the lake; thus, any shot they might take would come from the cliff tops. They might miss. He had to take that chance, for they had Hawkshaw at close range. There would be no missing with her. Alison Monet’s fate illustrated all too clearly, what the Young’s did with easy targets.

  Still, no shot came.

  Hope turned his attention to determining the fastest route out of the quarry. To a life that had been lived as murkily as the waters of the Thomson quarry lake, the newfound clarity of purpose was exhilarating. He chose his path, hauled himself out of water and started to climb.