Touching Cottonwood

by Randall Simpson

  “Love?!” roared the stranger. “There is no touching them anymore! Surely, you must know that! Give up that desire and leave here!”

  “The love I speak of is not a desire—it is a giving, not a taking,” said Matthew. “You know this love, though perhaps have forgotten it—dwelling here in your shame.”

  The stranger did not reply, and Matthew asked, “Do you truly want release?”

  Again, the stranger did not reply immediately, but finally, once more as a soft breeze, replied, “Yes.”

  “And what does release mean to you?”

  “Peace,” replied the stranger, “and forgiveness for the life I wasted. A moment after I stepped off the edge…before I even met the rocks at the bottom…I regretted what I’d done. The pain of not being able to undo it! I left them all behind…and could never touch them again…the embrace of my wife…the soft curve of my children’s faces…I let it all go….”

  “Why is it that not until death do so many regret the life they’ve wasted?” said Matthew. “Why does it take that change to see the golden miracle and gift of each living moment? How rare a thing for the living to see it so clearly! Even when life brings burden, pain, and suffering, so many fail to see the eternal joy inside it all; to hear the song that echoes from corner to corner across the universe; the living chorus that sings—faith to the end! Faith to the end!”

  The stranger was silent for a moment and then said, “I lost my faith—I was guilty of that—and so my burden is to remain here. This is my end.”

  “This does not have to be,” replied Matthew. “You are bound here only by your shame—not by any guilt. No one and nothing keeps you here—you have brought this punishment upon yourself. Release, peace, and forgiveness have always been within your power, but they depend on your faith. You felt the remorse of your decision, but can you find the faith to forgive yourself?”

  A moment later, from the mists at the bottom of Abyss Falls, a single meadowlark rose up. It flew high above the waters of Little Bear River and then turned away—over the treetops and over the rooftops of Cottonwood. It flew west, over the evening shadowed meadows of the Yamamoto Farm. It flew toward the western setting sun, hanging low and orange. It flew on until it faded from sight on the distant horizon, disappearing over the dusty, hazy hills of western Colorado. Preston Spencer had finally gone home.

  The mists of Abyss Falls were once again home to just one man, who would wait for his own time and his own release. It was not guilt that bound him—but love and faith. He knew that through no effort of his own would he escape his self-imposed prison. He could not leave her—not now, not ever. Release—if it were to come—would only come through the same mystery that had touched him so many years before. And so, he chose to stay and wait. His only companion would be the eternal sound of the falling water and the comfort he heard in the meaning of its thunderous roar—faith to the end! Faith to the end!

  Ninety-Seven

  Hide & Seek

  After leaving the Yamamoto Farm, Maxie and Chloe led Officer Burnham on the most difficult cross-country trek he’d ever experienced. It seemed Matthew Duncan must have taken a beeline path straight across the countryside—with no obstacle too difficult, no hill too steep, and no cliff too treacherous to divert this path. Many times the officer had to backtrack with the hounds—especially on rocky hillsides and at river crossings—by taking an easier, safer, and longer path, until they eventually could pick up the scent trail and continue their tracking. It became clear to the officer as he observed the incredibly difficult terrain Matthew Duncan must have followed—it took someone who was in exceptional shape and filled with an unusual determination, to have followed such a path.

  When the exhausted trio was still over a mile from the highway, the officer received a radio call from the sheriff—Matthew Duncan had been located, but had subsequently, and most probably, been shot and had taken a plunge—along with another man—over Abyss Falls. Both men were currently missing and presumed dead.

  When he finished talking to the sheriff, the officer continued following the scent trail with the hounds—albeit at a much more leisurely pace. Maxie and Chloe, of course, remained as eager as ever, not understanding the sudden deflation in the officer’s enthusiasm. For them, the target remained a mystery still ahead somewhere; for the officer, they were only going through the motions in order to get back to the highway.

  Eventually, the group made it back to the highway, coming down from the heavily treed hillside only a very short distance from the dirt parking lot where the sheriff and Akash’s cars were parked. The hounds were eager to continue tracking south along the highway, but the exhausted officer radioed the sheriff that he was waiting to be picked up. The sheriff asked if the officer and hounds might come up to the area around the falls to search for the bodies, but the grueling twelve-mile circuitous route he’d already hiked—from town to the Yamamoto’s, and then from their farm to the Abyss Falls trailhead parking lot—were more than enough for the day, as clearly pointed out by his aching legs and throbbing feet. He promised the sheriff, however, that the three of them would come back the next day to assist in the search—assuming the bodies had not yet been recovered. The sheriff accepted his offer, and it was Sparky who finally met the trio at the trailhead, piled them into the sheriff’s electric car, and drove them back to the officer’s car at the northern Dead Zone roadblock.

  The following day—the day after Matthew and Eddie tumbled to the bottom of Abyss Falls—Officer Burnham and the hounds were again shuttled by Sparky, this time from the roadblock to the trailhead parking lot. Sparky informed him that one of the missing men’s bodies—Eddie Flynn’s—had been located and recovered near the base of the falls on the previous afternoon. Maxie, Chloe, Officer Burnham, and Sparky began their hike up toward Abyss Falls, looking for Matthew Duncan—only this time, rather than going to the top of the falls, they’d be going to its base.

  Getting to the base of Abyss Falls required hiking up the trail toward the top, but then taking a very small, steep, and rocky side trail that branched off from the main trail and zigzagged down the side of the hill toward the river below. Approaching the bottom, the mist and crashing water kept the rocks continually moist, making the trail increasingly slippery and dangerous. The steep canyon walls shrouded the bottom of the falls in shadow for all but a few hours of the day, enhancing the feeling that when descending from the light at the top of the falls to the dreariness of the bottom—one had crossed-over into another world.

  In addition to the darkness and the mist, the bottom of Abyss Falls was filled with a never-ending, near-deafening roar, and upon climbing down the trail to the bottom, the hissing, pounding din became the most prevalent feature—filling the whole of the environment; it became impossible to hear someone only a few feet away, except by yelling. Conscious thoughts could become increasingly confused and fragmented by the overpowering noise; hence the reason many experienced hikers chose to wear earplugs when visiting the bottom—enduring temporary self-imposed deafness and commuting with companions by hand-signals, rather than suffering the maddening cacophony.

  The two hounds, the officer, and Sparky had successfully navigated about half the distance down the narrow trail to the bottom of the falls. Far below them, already at the bottom, they could see another larger group of hikers who appeared to be earnestly engaged in the search for Matthew Duncan’s body.

  “It must have been quite a task pulling Eddie Flynn’s body up from down here,” the officer remarked, already starting to talk more loudly over the increasing roar while taking extra care to navigate the ever more slippery wet rocks.

  “It was pretty much pure hell,” replied Sparky, “and about the last thing I ever thought I’d be doing. I knew Eddie all my life…and…well, helping to carry his limp, mangled body up this hillside—I don’t want to do such a thing ever again. I know we’re here looking for Matthew Duncan—but I’ve been praying we don’t find him. If it’s here—let his body stay
hidden and resting in peace.”

  “I understand,” replied the officer, almost losing his step on a slimy rock. “I helped the FAA recover some bodies from a plane wreck over by Gunnison. We had to carry them out—I hauled pieces of them in my backpack. I still have nightmares.”

  Maxie and Chloe’s tails were down, and it was obvious to the officer that the lower they climbed with the increasing noise and worsening footing, the more distraught the hounds were becoming. Officer Burnham watched them closely and decided if they began to get severely spooked or if the footing became too dangerous, he’d turn around immediately and head back for the top.

  When the group finally reached the bottom, the hounds had become completely confused and disoriented. Their noses seemed useless to them. Rather than their normal incessant sniffing of the air and ground, they made no connection with the environment at all by using their noses. Their steps were tentative and cautionary. In as much as Maxie and Chloe’s noses represented their primary means of experiencing—or even creating their world—it was as though the two pitiful animals had suddenly been stricken blind.

  “I’m worried about my dogs,” yelled Officer Burnham. Sparky was only a few feet away, but barely heard him.

  Sparky glanced at the dogs. “Most dogs don’t like it down here,” he yelled back.

  “Probably won’t stay long—shouldn’t have brought them,” yelled the officer.

  Sparky nodded and then stepped closer to the officer and pointed down the shoreline to the other group they’d seen on their hike down. “Let’s go find out where they’ve searched this morning,” he said.

  The officer nodded, and they made their way slowly along the wet, rocky, and slippery shoreline toward the group. Maxie and Chloe—who normally were eagerly out in front on every walk, hike, or tracking job—stayed directly next to the officer’s legs, tails and ears down, only cautiously stepping forward when the officer did so. Their behavior only solidified the officer’s decision to stay a very short time at the bottom of Abyss Falls.

  The other group was comprised of eight members, all of whom were Cottonwood citizens, including Judge Reynolds. And though he was getting on in years, he had maintained himself in excellent physical condition through long and frequent hikes—often with his wife, but always with Yankee. It was the judge who first spotted the two men and hounds approaching. Yankee would normally have been first to hear such an approaching group, but the thunderous roar had blocked out all such warnings, and this time she sat on the wet rocks of the shoreline, facing away from the newcomers and looking toward the falls.

  The judge smiled and approached Sparky.

  “Found anything at all?” yelled Sparky, his mouth only a foot or so from the judge’s ear.

  “No. Nothing,” the judge yelled back.

  Sparky pointed over at the officer, who stood a few feet away with the sad-eyed and motionless Maxie and Chloe now nearly locked to his legs. “I think the hounds are spooked,” Sparky continued. “I’m only staying a while myself—I have to go take a look around Eddie’s house.”

  The judge nodded to Sparky, and the deputy headed away, down the shoreline. The judge walked over to Officer Burnham. “Thanks for coming down,” yelled the judge.

  The officer nodded. “No problem,” he yelled. “Except I’m probably not gonna stay long.” He looked down at the hounds. “The dogs don’t like it here.”

  “Can’t blame ‘em,” said the judge, smiling.

  The officer glanced over, noticing Yankee sitting on the shoreline, facing away from the men—her ears up. “What about your dog? How’s she doing?”

  “I guess she’s fine,” replied the judge, looking back at Yankee. “She’s acting a little strange, though. We’ve been down here before, and normally she gets a little spooked and will stay right by me—kind of like your dogs. But today…well…I’ve walked up and down the shoreline, but she’s just stayed right there, staring out into the mist.”

  “Who knows what gets into these dogs’ heads sometimes,” the officer yelled, shaking his head and smiling. “Maybe I’ll go see if Maxie and Chloe can shake her out of it.”

  The judge smiled and walked down the shoreline in the direction Sparky had headed. The officer walked carefully over the slippery rocks and stopped next to the beautiful yellow lab, with his hounds stopping near him on either side. He bent over and gave Yankee a pat on her head. She glanced up at him briefly, glanced over and seemed to acknowledge the presence of the two hounds, but then immediately turned back to stare at the cascading water and mist—her ears were up, her eyes intent and open wide.

  Maxie and Chloe could only continue to stare down at the dark wet rocks of the shoreline. They looked as though they were being forced to endure a journey to dog hell. The pride of their breed, the meaning of their hound existence—their noses—had been taken from them by the chaotic smells of the mixing and wafting mists, and the distractions of the dark canyon, unsure footing, and deafening thunder of water. They wanted to climb back up the steep hillside—back to the light, to the lively sounds of birds, chattering squirrels, and most of all, to their infinitely rich, sweet, interesting, and arousing world of smell.

  Yankee glanced once more back at the two hounds whose noses she had admired the day before, and still admired, though now she realized their handicap. Their noses were not king here and, more importantly, they didn’t see what she saw in the mist. She glanced at them and then glanced out to the mist—twice she did this—and still their hound-sad eyes only briefly acknowledged her attempt to lead them; both attempts ended with them only looking back to the dark wet rocks beneath their damp paws.

  Yankee gave up all attempts to persuade the hounds to see what she saw, locking in for good her solitary stare across the water to the misty falls. She reasoned, in whatever way a yellow lab can and does reason: I accept that the hounds may have the superior noses, but perhaps I have the superior eyesight, or at least I have once met this man, and they have not, and I find it quite amusing that he would play hide-and-seek with me now in the swirling mist, as he did with that silly ring he tied to my collar on his wedding night.

  Ninety-Eight

  Bullets & Breadcrumbs

  After several hours of searching, the body of Eddie Flynn had been recovered from Little Bear River, not far downstream from the jagged rocks at the base of Abyss Falls. His corpse was badly mangled, with most of his bones and skull broken. The autopsy report showed that two bullets had entered Eddie’s chest cavity—one traveling through his heart and then wedging into the rib cage, and the other passing through a lung and exiting the other side. Matthew Duncan’s body had not yet been found.

  “I’m gonna bet,” began the sheriff, sitting behind his office desk reading the autopsy report, “that Eddie was dead before he ever hit those rocks. It appears both of them were good clean shots.”

  “No doubt that one of them was from my gun?” asked the agent, sitting in the chair in front of the desk.

  “No doubt. You use that big old Glock twenty-one and Sparky and I use the seventeen. Ballistics show that it must have been the seventeen round from Sparky’s gun that passed through the lung, because it was the twenty-one that was found lodged in his rib cage after passing through his heart. It was your gun that probably made the kill shot on Eddie Flynn, though Sparky’s sure didn’t do him any favors. You and my deputy shot the wrong guy. I, apparently, was the only one who hit the correct target—I know I didn’t miss.”

  The agent stared at him. “Correct target? That’s not the way I see it, Sheriff.”

  “I guess you can see it however you want to, Agent. This case is pretty clear to all but the blind. A jealous Matthew Duncan abducted Rebecca D’Arcy, and the man you shot—her fiancé, Eddie Flynn—was trying to save her. That’s pretty cut and dry, I’d say.”

  “I’ll wait for Ms. D’Arcy’s testimony, if you don’t mind. When do you expect her to arrive?”

  The sheriff smiled and shook his head. “You just can’t
admit you messed up, can you? Well, she should be here any moment now, and then we’ll have the confirmation of your mistake.”

  “She’s got to be a brave woman to come down here so soon after her ordeal and talk to you,” said the agent.

  “And I didn’t even ask. I was going to give her a few more days, but her mother phoned me and said her daughter insisted on coming by today. I heard it took them quite some time just to get her to stop crying yesterday. I guess her boss, Doctor Reese, had to come over and sedate her last night to help her sleep. I do feel sorry for her—losing her fiancé like that and all. I promise not to tell her it was you who put the kill shot into him.”

  “Well,” said Agent Westmore, “I’ll be very interested in hearing what she has to say. And what about the search of Eddie Flynn’s house? Find anything interesting there?”

  “Don’t know yet. Sparky’s still out there this morning. He should be back soon.”

  Just then, Marlene Anders stepped up to the office door. “Excuse me, Sheriff,” she said, “but Diane and Rebecca D’Arcy have just arrived. Where would you like them to wait?”

  “Why don’t you take them to the conference room. I’ll be there shortly. Thanks.”

  After Marlene had stepped away, the agent asked, “Do you mind if I sit in on the interview?”

  “Well, I suppose I don’t see any harm in it,” the sheriff replied. “But let me do all the talking. This is still my jurisdiction.” The agent only gave a wry smile as they left the office, headed for the conference room.

  It was the same room in which Rebecca had last visited with Matthew only two days before, but this time there were five people present. Seated around the conference table were Diane and Rebecca D’Arcy, Marlene Anders, who was taking notes, Sheriff O’Neil, and Agent Westmore.

  After introducing Agent Westmore to the D’Arcys, the sheriff said to Rebecca, “Well, I’m glad to see you are doing better today, Ms. D’Arcy. And I also appreciate your coming down here today. I know this all must be very hard for you. Losing a loved one is never easy. There are just a few loose ends that I’d like to clear up in this case. I hope you understand.”