I hit a rock. A huge one. My hands manage to grab something and my feet try, but they're dangling, nothing beneath them, kicking wildly, and why can't I feel anything beneath them?
I've stopped. Both hands clutch rock--a shelf with just enough accumulated dirt for my fingers to dig in and find purchase. There. I'm fine.
No, you're not. Where are your legs?
I'm fine.
Look down.
I don't want to. I know what's happened, and I've decided to pretend I don't.
See, I stopped falling. No problem. I've totally got this.
I look down. And I see exactly what I feared. I am holding on to a ledge. Dangling from a rock thirty feet over the water. No, over a thin stream and more rock.
The wind is howling, and I think, That's just want I need. But the air is still, and I realize I'm hearing Storm.
Newfoundlands have an odd howl, one that makes them sound like a cross between a dinosaur and Chewbacca. It's a mournful, haunting sound that has scared the crap out of every Rockton resident. It's been known to wake me with a start when she begins howling with the wolves.
"I'm okay!" I call up to her. "Storm? I'm fine."
Even if she understood me, she'd call bullshit, and rightly so. I am not fine. I'm dangling by my fingertips over a rocky gorge.
I flex my arms, as if I might be able to vault back onto that ledge. My fingertips slide, and my heart stops, and I freeze, completely freeze. My left hand finds a rocky nub on the ledge. I grip that and dig in the fingers of my right hand until they touch rock below the dirt.
Then I breathe. Just breathe.
I glance over my shoulder. Even that movement is enough for my brain to scream for me to stop, don't take the chance, stay still. But I do look, as much as I can without loosening my grip.
It's a drop. There is no denying that, no chance I could just slide down. I will fall. At best, I will break both legs, and even as I think that, I know that is extreme optimism. Death or paralysis are the real options here.
I'm going to die.
If I don't die, if I'm only paralyzed, I won't be able to stay in Rockton, and when I think that, it feels the same as death. I want to tell myself I'm being overdramatic, but I know I'm not. Leaving this place would be death for me, returning to that state of suspended animation. I don't think I could ever return to that. I've had better. So much better. If I can't stay here . . .
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Breathe. Just breathe.
My arms are starting to ache. One triceps quivers. I strained it last week in the weight room with Anders, twisting mid-extension as he made a joke. Now it's quivering when it should be fine.
It is fine. It will be fine.
Breathe.
I don't breathe. I can't. That quivering triceps becomes a voice, whispering that even holding on is foolish. I can't hold on forever, and there's no other way to go but down.
The triceps is quaking now, and my right hand slips. I grip tighter. The rock edge digs into my forearms. Blood drips down my arm.
I look left and then right. Maybe that's the way to go. Perpendicular. Get to a safer spot and then slide. I can see one possibility, maybe ten feet to my left. Between here and there, though, the rock is smooth, and I'm not sure I could find hand grips.
Well, you're going to have to try, aren't you?
My left hand has a good hold on this rocky nub. I release my right a little and begin inching it left. It's slow going. Millimeter by millimeter it seems, excruciatingly slow as my dog howls above.
I'm almost there. Get my right hand wrapped around that nub and then--
My right hits rock. Solid, slick rock. My fingers slide. I try to dig in, but there's nothing to grasp, and my nails scrape rock and there's a jolt, excruciating pain shooting through my left arm and . . .
33
I'm dangling by one arm. My left hand still clutches that jutting rock, but that's the only thing keeping me on the rock face, and the pain, holy shit, the pain.
I grit my teeth and focus on the fact that I'm still holding on. Not how barely I'm holding, or how much that jolt hurt. I'm still okay.
Well, relatively speaking.
I make a noise at that. It's supposed to be a chuckle, but it sounds like a whimper.
Still hanging on. Still alive.
I need to find purchase. Whether it's my right hand or right foot or left foot . . . Just find purchase somewhere. Being slightly lower means I have fresh places to check.
Optimism. Awesome.
I start with my right hand. Reach up and . . .
All I can do from this angle is scratch the edge of that rock ledge, and my nails are already torn. I reach down instead. There's a rock there, a nub that I can at least grip to brace myself and take some of the pressure off my left arm. I do that, and then I try with my legs, but of course, that would be too much to hope for.
I'm still hanging off a ledge, my dangling legs nowhere near the cliffside.
I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay.
Two fingers on my right hand twitch. I'm holding them in an awkward position trying to keep some semblance of a grip, and they have had enough. Two fingers twitch. Then a third joins in.
No, no--
My right hand slips. That jolt again, my left shoulder screaming as my right hand clamps tighter and--
"Casey? Casey!"
I am hearing that, right? Not hallucinating?
Fresh pain stabs through my arm.
"Casey!"
The voice comes from right above me, and I peer up to see Dalton on his hands and knees, looking over the side, his face stark white. He pulls back, and I want to scream, No, don't leave me.
I remember my nightmares after finding Nicole in the cave, nightmares where I'm in the hole and everyone leaves me, and Dalton stays the longest but eventually he, too, gives up on me.
I'm hallucinating. He's not really here. It's the pain and the shock and that memory finding a fresh variation to torture me with.
Even Storm has gone silent above.
Pebbles fall, pelting my face. "Are you crazy, boy?" a voice bellows. "Get your ass back . . ."
The words trail off, and I see a foot over the edge. A boot. Dalton's boot. Vanishing as Cypher hauls him up.
"You want to knock her down into that gorge?"
Dalton reappears, looking over the edge. "Casey? Can you hear me?"
"Course she can," Cypher says. "The whole damned mountain can. Now stop panicking and get back from that edge. Your girl is fine."
Dalton snarls something at him. Cypher's bearded face appears over the edge.
"Hey, kitten," he says. "How are you doing?"
He gets a string of obscenities from Dalton for that, but I say, "I've been better," and Cypher laughs.
"Okay," he says. "I'm going to ask you to try something for me. Take your right hand and bring it up on the other side of your left. You need to reach maybe four inches to the left of it."
I do that, and I find a crevice in the rock, one I can dig my fingers into. It's an even better grip than I have with my left, and I ease a little of my weight that way.
"Don't get too comfortable, kitten. I'm going to make you switch hands. Which will be tricky, but a whole lot easier to maintain. Okay?"
"Okay."
He guides me through it, and a few minutes later, I'm still hanging, but in a far more secure position.
"I'm going down--" Dalton begins.
"No, Eric, you aren't," Cypher says. "I'm not rescuing both of you today. How about you help me figure out how Casey can rescue herself?"
"I'd rather--"
"I know you would. But if you try, I'll throw you down there with that poor drowned woman and save the trouble of having to rescue you."
As he says "poor drowned woman," I turn to see Val's body, directly below. Her one arm is stretched over her head, the current catching it in a macabre wave.
"Yeah, she's still there," Cypher says. "Still dead. Like she was when you
apparently decided you had to go after her."
"I wanted to retrieve her body."
"Why? She doesn't give a damn." He shakes his head, grizzled hair hanging. "You almost kill yourself for a dead woman. Your boy here tries to turn this into a double suicide mission. And people say I'm crazy."
"Casey?" Dalton calls. "Don't move just yet, but I'm going to have you keep shifting left. Once you get past that overhang, you'll be able to get footholds."
"Oh," Cypher says. "You're back with us, are you?"
"Have to, or you'll talk Casey to death." Dalton leans out. "You're going to be fine, but if at any point you feel yourself slipping, or if a hold doesn't seem as safe, I want you to stop. No heroics. I can get down there. Got it?"
"Yes, sir."
Dalton guides me. Whenever he hesitates, Cypher points out possibilities, and they debate them quickly, before coming to a consensus. I move about five feet left and then I'm clinging to the cliffside, hands and feet secure.
"Up or down?" I ask.
"You can make it up," Cypher says.
"I'd rather you went down," Dalton says. "Please."
When I pause, he says, "It's a crawl with no serious obstacles. It's safer."
I start down. Once I'm securely heading that way, Dalton heads along the cliffside to find a more gradual decline. He'll join me, and we'll see if we can get back to Val. Cypher grumbles about that, but we outvote him.
I make it down. It is not an easy trip. Nor painless or even remotely graceful, as I slide down the last ten feet on my ass, try to put on the brakes, and land in the icy stream.
"It's not a waterslide, kitten," Cypher booms down the gorge.
I wave at him as I get to my feet. Dalton is already down, picking his way along the stream. I wave to him too as I start toward Val. She's still bobbing, her shirt hooked on a rock. I can't get very close. She's on the other side, and the stream is a good ten feet across and moving fast with spring runoff. One wrong foot placement, and I'll hurtle downstream.
"Wait," Dalton calls.
"I am."
I sit on a rock. He's discarded his sling, not surprisingly. He's almost there when his foot slips, and I leap up, my hand swinging out. He grabs it, but only gives it a squeeze and says, "You okay?"
"I am."
He nods, and I feel his assessing gaze, stopping on every gash and rising bruise, his lips tightening.
I hug him. Throw my arms around his neck and squeeze, and that's meant to reassure him, but as soon as I feel him against me, my knees wobble and every muscle unclenches, and if he didn't hug me back tight, I'd have been on the ground.
"You're okay?" he says again as he releases me.
"I'm fine, Eric. But Val . . ."
"Yeah, I know. Bastard." He looks over at Val's body. "I don't see the point, Casey. I really don't."
"With people like Oliver Brady, I don't think there needs to be a point. He killed her because he could."
He nods, as if he understands, but I know he doesn't. He can't.
"Let's just take her . . ."
I'm about to say "home." Rockton is our home; it wasn't hers. I'm not sure it ever could have been.
"Is there some other place to . . ." I'm being foolish when I need to be practical, so I don't finish voicing the thought.
"We'll figure something out."
He looks over at her. "All right. Trick will be getting her free without losing her. I'm going to grab her leg closest to this side." He starts untying his boots. "It looks about a foot deep. I'll wade. Safer than rock jumping."
"There's a clear path just above that rock. Stick to it or even in water that shallow, you can get your foot caught, and the current will take you down."
"I know. If it feels too strong, I'll drop."
He means that he'll fall on his ass and crawl. That's the way to do it. Twelve inches of water does seem like a simple wade, but between the current and the slippery rocks below, it's treacherous. He takes it slow, placing one foot down and making sure it's secure before lifting the other. Twice he just stops and waits until he has his balance.
Seeing Val's body this close up leaves little doubt she's been dead and in the water since not long after she disappeared. Her thin face has bloated, and her slender body strains against her clothing. That amount of water retention suggests he killed her on the first day. I can't see how--there's no obvious sign of injury--but I will once I can examine her body.
Dalton is close enough to reach Val's leg. Then he looks about, assessing.
"If you're considering whether you should drop," I say, "the answer is yes."
He lowers himself. A quick gasp as the icy glacial runoff soaks him. He's on his knees, stable now and less than a foot from Val.
Dalton reaches for her trouser leg. Her corpse rocks, as if even his body mass disrupts the rush of water. He lets out a curse and grabs for her, but that movement unsnagged her blouse and her body shoots off downstream.
I take a running leap along the rocky path, but Dalton shouts "No!" and he's right. The water is moving fast, and Val's body is hurtling faster than I can run along this uneven shore.
"She'll come to rest farther down," he says. "It lets out into a small lake. We'll get her there."
We're up on the cliffside with Cypher and Storm. Dalton has explained that he saw my yellow flag, and they'd been by it when Storm started howling. Which means I suspect she really had initially scented Dalton and only diverted when she smelled Val--the target I'd set her on. Doing as she'd been told, while her master freaked out, mistaking her for a feckless puppy.
When we reach them, Cypher has something for me. The young cougar.
"You went back for that?" I say.
"Fuck no. I was busy watching you two fools, in case you needed grown-up help. We found him"--he hefts the carcass--"up by your flag. When your pup started yowling, I grabbed the cat and . . ." He swings the cougar over his shoulders to demonstrate.
"And ran down the mountain with a hundred-pound cougar on your back?"
"Wasn't going to leave him for scavengers. That's some fine shooting. I'm guessing by the placement of those bullet holes the cat was midleap when you put them in him."
I nod. "They didn't kill him, though."
"Disabled him. That's all that matters. And you knew what to do next. Put the kitty out of his misery. See, now that's what I need."
"Someone to put you down?" Dalton says.
Cypher rolls his eyes. "I mean a girl like Casey to keep me company. Smart and pretty, a good conversationalist, knows how to take care of herself. If I found one who could cook and clean, too, I'd be set." He looks at me. "What do you figure my odds are?"
"Excellent," I say. "If you're twenty-five, gorgeous, have a Ph.D., and can bench-press triple your body weight."
"Two outta four ain't bad."
"Never knew you had a Ph.D.," Dalton says.
"And the boy makes proper comeback. The next step? Make one that's actually funny."
34
Shortly after that, Cypher leaves us. He'll drop off the cougar at his camp, where he insists on preparing the skin for me. We continue on to retrieve Val's body, but we can't find it. She's out of sight by the time we reach the top of the cliffside, and we follow the stream along until we reach the lake where Dalton is certain her body will stop. We don't see her there. At some point, her clothing must have caught again and submerged her body.
I'm not sure what we'll do about this. I want to find her, obviously. But someone else is missing, too, someone who is almost certainly still alive: Jacob.
Dalton tells me his brother's campsite seems to have been abandoned before the black bear found it. It's a hunting camp--a basic tent, sleeping furs, and the backpack we saw the bear rummaging through. The only thing missing? Jacob. That could suggest he was just out hunting . . . if he hadn't left his gun. And the food bag he'd hoisted into a tree was full.
"That makes no sense," I say as we walk. "If Brady found Jacob at his camp, he'd take
the gun and food."
"Then he must not have found him at camp. Jacob could have been out scouting."
"Without his rifle?"
Dalton shrugs. "Getting water then."
"And you're sure it was Jacob's site?"
"One hundred percent. His gun. His pack."
I want to say that I don't think Jacob could be captured so easily. Or that Brady would have forced him back to take his supply stash. But, yes, Brady could have surprised Jacob, and he might not have realized Jacob would have food nearby.
"We'll stop at Rockton," he says. "Get Will and a couple of others and head out to look for Val."
Which seems to be the right move. But it's not. This winter, when we had a fatality in town, Anders had said, "I can't fix dead." It wasn't just a gibe, though. It was hard truth.
We can't fix dead.
Val is dead. Brady killed her. We know those two things; so autopsying her body will only tell us how he did it. Brady won't ever see the inside of a courtroom, though, especially for anything he does up here.
I do want to put Val's body to rest, but how much of that is about me and not her? She's gone, and I blame myself, and I want to do something for her, and the only thing I can do is retrieve her remains. Would she care?
No. The only thing she'd care about is justice. If we think Brady might have taken Jacob, that's all the more reason to focus on him.
We retrieve the ATV and return to Rockton. With everything that has happened, it feels as if it should be nightfall by now. Instead, it's two in the afternoon, and we're still able to grab a late counter-service lunch.
Dalton takes Anders, Jen, and another militia member and heads back on the ATVs to search for Val.
I stay behind. One of us should, and Dalton wants me to tend to my various scrapes and bruises and pulled muscles. When I don't argue, he gives me a look, as if to ask what I'm up to, but I tell him I don't want to slow them down, and someone does need to be here in case Brady circles back.
Plus, I have to tend to the wolf cub, change his dressings and look for signs of rabies. I think it's the last excuse that convinces him. I'm still worried about Dalton's bite, so that makes sense.
I put Storm in the house. I hate locking her in but the alternative is a recap of pup versus cub.
When I open the door to my old house, I hear the scrabble of claws as the cub races behind my couch. This time, I can lure him out with meat scraps. I haven't proven dangerous so far, and that monster isn't howling and scratching at the door.
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