Where the Road Bends

by David Rawlings

  They were dated fifteen years ago.

  Lincoln’s head swung around at the faint blaring sound beyond the locked door. Was that a train horn? He ground his teeth, needing to focus on the task at hand. He stepped along the wall, and none of the other papers revealed anything. Nothing but a series of letters from the Railway Department stamped in an angry red with letters that screamed the request had been rejected. Whatever the stationmaster had requested, he’d been knocked back. Hard.

  Lincoln’s frustration percolated, feeding the growing thoughts jostling for attention. Eliza’s rejection. Again. Andy putting the blame on him for his problems rather than owning them. Bree’s invasion of his privacy and ruining his chances with Eliza. He searched for answers—for meaning.

  His stomach rumbled, and for a moment he drifted back to his regular table at The Daily Grill on Geary Street, a steaming lobster potpie under his nose. He hiked the steep incline to Nob Hill. A tiny part of him yearned to be home, even if it meant facing the army of divorce lawyers waiting for him, legal guns drawn.

  The mere thought of Dianne’s letter stabbed him into action. He shot to his feet and wrapped both hands around the door handle—jimmying it, then jerking it harder and harder hoping to force it open. He threw his shoulder into the peeling wood. “Anybody?”

  Lincoln charged back into the waiting room. He flung open the already-open locker doors, their metallic banging swamping the small room. He sank to his knees, the last of the echoes ringing in his ears.

  There was another sound. Something soft.

  Beyond the door.

  Someone was here.

  Lincoln strained to hear it. Definitely footsteps. He raced back to the window but saw nothing but the railway station sign, now casting shadows across the platform. The railway signal still showed red.

  His ragged breath fogged the window as he pounded on it, and it shuddered under his attack. A way out presented itself. He rushed to the desk and lifted the office chair, the heavy steel cold in his hands. He ran with a scream and hurled the chair at the glass.

  The chair bounced off the window with a sharp clang, and he scrambled to one side to avoid it on the rebound. He stood blinking as the glass shuddered and then stopped. Lincoln kicked against the door, and another piercing jolt shuddered up his leg. He slid to the floor, his will leaking from him.

  The padding sounded again. Footsteps, light and—to an ear well-trained in the art of waiting for a woman to arrive—with the slightest hint of heels. Now he was hearing things.

  A throat cleared from behind the door. A polite clearing, then a sigh.

  Lincoln peered through the keyhole. No one was there, but the breeze delivered a heady waft of perfume—an exotic mix of cinnamon and rose, tree bark and rammed earth. He pressed his cheek to the window, trying to see as far down the platform as the glass would allow.

  On the bench brown legs were uncrossed, then recrossed. Lincoln’s gaze started with the white sandal straps and roamed up shapely calves to a white-dotted-and-handprint-patterned dress.

  The woman from the airport.

  * * *

  The light blurred halfway up the rock wall, in and out of focus as Bree blinked away jet lag and emotion. The light could only mean one thing. The ravine had another entrance. There was a way out. She wouldn’t have to climb the dizzying heights of the whole wall.

  The voices raged inside her. The ones who always doubted her; the ones Sam had tangled with over the years. The stinging rebuke of fear, this time sneering with a reminder of her hatred of heights. The warmth of Sam’s voice encouraging her that she was good enough to overcome anything. The barman at The Second Fiddle on Broadway telling her she was nothing but another dime-a-dozen singer with a guitar. Her girls cheering at her impromptu kitchen table concert. The head of the recording studio in Nashville switching off her demo with a snarl that he was hearing nothing special.

  In each of these exchanges she sat silent on the sidelines—like she always did—unable to speak, unable to defend herself. The voices continued, as she waited for the one voice that always came over the top. The one that had so shattered her self-confidence that it would never be any more than a loose collection of broken pieces.

  The sobs came freely as she rocked back and forth on her swag, hugging her legs for comfort as much as warmth. She trailed her gaze up the wall, following a crack in the rock that led to a flat section, then another crack with places for her hands and feet. There was a definite path she could climb, but she couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t make it.

  Bree jammed her eyes shut to drown out the voices as a familiar voice came to her aid. Her beloved Sam. Knowing she could do this. Knowing she had it in her. Her fragile, fleeting courage sprouted with the watering of his encouragement. Then, as if sensing her confidence rising, the voices were back. She was no good at music. She would never be good enough to achieve her dream. There was no future in music and a girl like her would never survive in New York.

  A strong voice flooded her with comfort. Sam.

  “You can do this, Breezy. We need you to do this.”

  She felt sure Sam was in the ravine with her. The fear took one last swing—pointing out the impossibility and the certainty of doom. But Sam’s voice wouldn’t be denied, and Bree now heard it on the outside as much as the inside.

  “We believe in you, Bree. You can do this.”

  She looked up the ravine wall and saw a ridge, about halfway to the light emanating from the cave. She could rest there. She didn’t have to go all the way, not at first.

  After a single, weak breath, Bree banished the voices. The pebbles beneath her shaking feet rattled her nerves as she stood. She hitched her backpack higher on her shoulders, and a sense of vertigo crawled up her spine as she wrestled two handholds and placed a tentative toe in a crevice.

  She could do this.

  With her heart in her mouth, she lifted her first foot. The rock felt cool and almost soft under her hand. One slow foot after another, one slow handhold after another. She scaled her way up the diagonal crack, the tender skin of her hands scuffing on the rough rock, her toes trying to grasp the ravine wall through the soles of her shoes.

  Eyes front.

  She inched higher, each handhold pressing into soft flesh, her breath coming in jagged waves, her head spinning.

  She stopped to rest her screaming arms. Even thinking about the word down was too much. She flicked a glance below and her vertigo mugged her. Her vision clouded, dizziness swept through her as sweat now poured down her neck, pooling at the small of her back. She jammed her eyes shut to regain her composure.

  Bree reached for another handhold, the sweaty sheen on her hands forcing her to lose her grip. She screamed as she started to slide down the ravine wall. Her hands scrambled for something—anything—to save herself, her toes kicking to find purchase on rocks sharpened by millennia of wind and rain that would slice her in two if she fell.

  With a jolt her toes found a crevice and she stopped her slide, her pulse thumping in her ears. Bree’s body was wracked with sobs, numbed by draining adrenaline. Exhaustion. Confusion. And fear.

  The light from the cave now flickered and brightened. She had to go back to where she came from. The light from above was her salvation.

  But also from above a voice drifted down to her. A voice impossible to silence. Moving away from home hadn’t put enough distance between her and the sniper’s nest. Her mother’s voice had simply taken up residence in her head, a roommate for her self-doubt.

  “You can’t do this. You won’t do this. You never do.”

  Bree closed her eyes again as the video message from the plane replayed itself on the cinema of her mind. Sam and the girls. Her three reasons to get out of here.

  She had to do this.

  * * *

  Eliza’s enthusiasm leaked away with every trudging step. Her shoes sunk deep into the squeaking dirt as she trekked on, her shoulders sinking farther with each glance at a horizon that was getti
ng no closer. She swept away the flies as the thought buzzed around her again, as it had for the past two hours.

  I should have gone the other way.

  Eliza’s finely honed intuition had let her down, and the cost was looming as more than the chance of victory. She reached for her drink bottle, pointlessly. It had given up the last of its water an hour ago, when her shoulders were back and her confidence in finding supplies bounced along with the spring in her step. Now twinges of fear and doubt creaked within her. She pushed them down with a controlling hand, summoned energy into her twitching legs, and charged on.

  This wasn’t her fault. But now that she was hours into this trek, there was no turning back. Something had to appear. It had to. Unless she found shelter quickly, when she got back might become if she got back. Difficult would shift to impossible. And without water, it would move from impossible to inevitable.

  The questions remained unanswered with no one to even pose them to. Surely the tour group wouldn’t leave a tourist out here with no water. Someone had to be tracking her progress and reporting back to the campsite.

  Unless . . .

  Her trudging shoes scuffed on as Eliza fought to quell the doubt. Deep in thought, Eliza’s toe caught a dip in the track and she lost the battle with balance. The dirt puffed around her hands as she landed hard.

  Pain shot up her forearms as she slowly raised her eyes. Two feet ahead of her the points of a scorpion’s pincers eased open as its tail uncoiled. The creature scuttled forward and Eliza backed away from the danger, one eye on the tiny creature as she scrambled to her feet. She ran wide of the scorpion, carried by the flood of negativity and fury that coursed through her. The tour company—for all its down-home charm and Steve Irwin-ness—was a backyard operation.

  Eliza scanned her memory for every interaction with Eddie and Sloaney, evaluating them for clues that she should have seen this coming. From their website to the ride to the campsite to their activities the previous day, her memory gave up nothing, except identify the only other person possibly at fault.

  The man who’d booked a tour with a company clearly unqualified to handle it.

  She powered on—she had to be positive. Her wits needed to be about her, not lost in a blame game she couldn’t afford to play. Not yet at least.

  A light wind picked up and whipped around her. Cooling her head. Bringing relief and the realization: She was being tested. Stretched. Dragged out of her comfort zone. This was actually what she wanted.

  Calmness filtered back in as the pieces fell into place. This was hard because it was supposed to be hard. She was being stripped away, and she would push through it. This was her challenge and she would overcome it.

  She checked her phone—disconnected with the world, it was now just a flat clock in her pocket. Midday. She trudged on. Head down. Bringing her thoughts back from the brink.

  Eliza’s soaked sleeve absorbed another browful of sweat. The wind lifted, struggling to move the greasy strands of hair pasted to her forehead. A shape materialized in the distance. Tall, thin. A structure.

  She’d made it. This had to be a checkpoint in this game of survival, and it vindicated her decision. Her self-confidence tipped its hat right again. She broke into a jog as the detail of the shape filled in. A windmill, next to a squat water tank, next to a traffic sign—a black cross on a yellow diamond, high above the road on a thin pole. A crossroads. Finally, she had options.

  Eliza rushed to the shade cast by the windmill, her skin almost singing at being out of the singeing sun. She surveyed the rainwater tank, rusted holes peppering its corrugated, round surface above a tap that had to be red hot in this burning sun. She wrapped a sleeve around her hand as she turned the tap, her water bottle waiting gratefully below it.

  She whooped as the first dribble of water brought a wash of great relief, but it was fleeting. After a trickle, the water ran dry. Nevertheless, her water bottle was no longer empty. She gratefully chugged at the water, the tangy mustiness not quenching only her thirst but also her rising unease.

  The squat windmill’s blades sat unmoving in the superheated air. If this was a checkpoint, there had to be a clue somewhere. She circled the water tank, which revealed nothing but disappointment seeping from rusting holes. The road sign was just scratches with rust licking at its edges.

  Dirt roads to her left and right, copy-and-pastes of the road stretching in front of her and the one she’d traveled for hours. Each corner held its secrets—no tire marks, evidence of the direction the Outback Tours vehicle had taken after dropping her off. She looked back at the windmill. There was only one thing left to do.

  She wrapped her hands in her sleeves and clambered up the steel bars. The heat pulsated through the thin, damp fabric, threatening to blister overheated skin. She reached the blades and scanned the horizon. In one direction a dirt road arrowed into the heat’s distant haze. In the other a mirror of the first. There was nothing else to see.

  Eliza stifled an anguished scream and pounded her fists on the blade’s searing metal. She wiped away the sweat from her eyes and slowed her breathing, reining in runaway emotions that never were helpful.

  She needed to center herself. She set her jaw and put her faith in the only person she could trust. Herself. She slid back in the driver’s seat of her life and made a focused choice. Straight ahead was as good a direction as any. She’d put miles between her and where she woke up.

  As she hitched her backpack higher and charged across the crossroad, the usual peace that came with her decisiveness wavered. Doubt reared its head again. The mind that confidently proceeded across the intersection was the same one that turned left to begin her journey. She batted it away. Doubt was more than useless out here.

  It was dangerous.

  Seventeen

  Andy staggered toward the mushrooming dust plume, his body imploring him for relief as the sun’s baking heat hit its zenith.

  A familiar tone burst from Andy’s pocket and he all but cried. He was back in cell phone range, and they must have seen him. They were calling with instructions of where to meet the Outback Tours four-wheel drive stocked with water, food, and profuse apologies.

  Andy whipped out his phone. The message was curt. Where are you?

  I’m in the middle of nowhere thanks to you idiots.

  He stared hard at the screen. The number was familiar. Very familiar. And a chill of dread skittered through him.

  The number belonged to his bookie.

  His phone beeped again. And where is my $100k?

  Andy glanced at the top corner of the screen, where the rest of the world used to be, but something was still missing. Numbing shock buckled his knees. There were no bars showing his connection to the outside world. Two words. No Service.

  His breathing grew ragged as his mind spun. They had to be old messages, but how could—?

  The roar of an engine buzzed to him from the horizon. Andy dug deep into a well of resources he was sure he had almost tapped out. His throat burned, and his muscles cramped, and the uneven crunching under his feet sped up. The black of the Outback Tours four-wheel drive approached and Andy stumbled, hands out to save himself from face-planting in the dirt. They were only a half mile away.

  “Hey!” Andy’s voice eked out of him in a dusty croak as he waved frantically.

  The four-wheel drive didn’t slow.

  “Hey!” Andy lumbered toward the road, his thick legs now overheated, malfunctioning pistons. The engine’s roar was joined by the pinging stones kicked up by the tires. Only a hundred yards away.

  He wasn’t going to make it. Andy skidded to a halt, his arms thrown into the air, his phone flying with it. “Hey!”

  The four-wheel drive sailed past, veered around a large gum tree that reached majestically into the sky, and disappeared behind a large pile of boulders.

  The scream that burst from Andy was drawn from the black depths of a lost last chance. A beeping cut through a cloud of the choking dust and his hope rose. Th
ey must have heard him and were driving back. He coughed as he stumbled into the dust cloud. Another beep guided him to where his cell phone had landed. A message now appeared under the spiderwebbed glass of the now-shattered screen.

  It wasn’t from Outback Tours.

  Where’s our 50k Andy?

  He sunk to his knees, sobs wracking him as he sucked in dust-laden oxygen through a tinder-dry throat. Head bowed, he buried his fingers in the burning ground. This was a different phone number. But it was still a bookmaker. Another one.

  Andy couldn’t stop his eyes from roving to the top of the screen. The same two words that should have kept out those chasing him were now letting them through. No Service. How were these old messages appearing?

  The phone beeped in his hand. Joey Waterhouse always collects, and I will find you Andy.

  Joey Waterhouse.

  Andy froze as the dust cloud dispersed, giving way to the burning sun. Two earth-shattering revelations collided head-on in the middle of his thinking. This wasn’t an old message. This was a new phone he’d bought in the midnight rush from Cincinnati, so Joey couldn’t have his number. His dripping sweat peppered the ground as a voice floated toward him on a gust of wind.

  Wait . . . Was that—? The four-wheel drive must have stopped, and they were on foot looking for him. Andy staggered in a light-headed half-walk, half-jog toward the gum tree as he heard the voice again. Male. Flat. Australian. But this voice was harsh—it didn’t carry Eddie’s soft-spoken tones or the undercurrent of Sloaney’s permanent grin.

  Andy squinted before he rubbed his eyes. In the gum tree’s shade sat a chocolate-brown leather sofa behind a long, low mahogany coffee table. Andy squinted harder as his mind did backflips.

  The voice drifted out again from behind the tree. It was followed by a man who wasn’t part of his tour group, but one he was sure he’d seen before.