Abandon

by Blake Crouch

  A crowd was gathering on the steps, and as Lana looked up at the wood cross, black against the copper sky, it began to teeter and she startled, thought for half a second the world was ending.

  Then the iron bell began to clang, faster and faster, and she saw the preacher, Stephen Cole, pulling the tolling rope, not with the leisurely announcement of a wedding or a Sunday service, but with all the ominous urgency of a warning, so hard that it shook the belfry and made the cross stand crooked.

  2009

  FORTY-NINE

  H

  e reached into his parka, pulled out a lighter and a pack of Kools. “You wanna smoke?”

  “That that menthol shit?”

  “Of course.”

  “What the hell.”

  Isaiah slipped two cigarettes between his lips, lit them both, handed one to Jerrod.

  “Ain’t this some shit.”

  They sat perched on a four-foot ledge, midway down the icy head wall.

  “You got the first-aid kit in your pack?” Jerrod asked, his voice straining with pain.

  “Nah, it’s in one of the duffel bags back at the mansion.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Hurts bad, huh?”

  “Holy shit, man. A little morphine would really hit the spot.”

  “It looks bad.”

  “I haven’t looked.”

  “No? You can see the bone—”

  “Shut the fuck up. I don’t wanna hear that.”

  It was snowing so hard, Isaiah had to cup the end of his cigarette to keep the ember dry. Jerrod took an aggressive drag, leaned back against the rock he’d slammed into feetfirst on his fall down the mountain. Both legs were stretched out, but the right one had rotated almost ninety degrees, so at a passing glance he appeared to own a pair of left legs.

  “You think Lawrence is lying?” Jerrod asked.

  “Did at first. Now I’m not so sure. I think he may be just as pissed as we are.”

  “So no gold.”

  “Nada.”

  “Fuck, this hurts, man. Talk to me. I gotta keep my mind off it. What were you gonna do, say we actually found it, managed to get the gold out of these mountains?”

  “So, say it turned out to be twenty-four mil, right? That’s eight apiece. Well, first off, I’m in debt over two hundred thousand. I was gonna pay that shit off, put enough aside to send the kids through school, set me and Shari up so we didn’t have to work. Then after that, say I got four mil left to play around with. We were gonna build this tight palace, man. In one of those upper-class all-black suburbs of Atlanta. We’d already sketched a design. Shit. Home theater. Exercise room. Huge master bedroom. Twelve-foot ceilings. Big pool. Jacuzzi. Basketball court. Giant grill out back. Kind of place my kids would wanna come back to after they were grown and gone. Christmas or Thanksgiving, it’d be me and Shari, our three kids, about a hundred grandbabies running around. I’d have liked that.”

  “Shari knows what you’re doing out here?”

  “Me and Shari, we synced, man. No secrets. That’s the only way. She’s my partner in all things. So how ’bout you? Any big plans for your share?”

  Jerrod tossed his cigarette over the ledge and groaned.

  “Come on, baby, you gotta keep talking. Chase that pain away. You seen worse.”

  “No, actually, we have a winner.” Jerrod closed his eyes, tucked his gloved hands into his armpits, shivering violently. “I didn’t even need eight million,” he said.

  “You’d have stayed in Colorado?”

  “No, I was gonna head up to Alaska. Last frontier, right? Find some land out in the middle of bumfuck. Where there wasn’t even a road in.”

  “You Daniel Boone motherfucker, you.”

  “Maybe in the Chigmits, the Aleutians. Put a cabin on a big lake. Always wanted to get my pilot’s license. I’d buy a little floatplane, and the only time I’d ever leave would be to go for supplies. Just live out there and fish and hunt. Forget about all the shit I’ve seen.”

  “I hear that.”

  “Nobody’d ever see my ass again.” Jerrod gritted his teeth. “I never been so cold, man.”

  “Think Stu would’ve got his shit together with his share?”

  “I think he’d have just drunk himself to death faster, and with better booze. Damn, man, this is getting worse and worse.”

  Isaiah flicked his cigarette away. He stood up, peered over the ledge, staring down into roiling snow and bottomless dark.

  “How’s it look?” Jerrod asked.

  “Steep as shit. Can’t even tell how much farther down it goes.”

  “We got a situation here.”

  “That we do, brother.”

  “You aren’t hurt bad, are you?”

  “Just my head and my pride, but they hurt like a motherfucker.”

  “You foresee any way of getting me out of here?”

  Isaiah sat down, put his hand on Jerrod’s shoulder, shook his head.

  Jerrod nodded. “Afraid you might say that.”

  “Just don’t know how we’d explain our way out of this one, partner.”

  “I’m sorry. I fucked that jump up.” Jerrod wiped his eyes. “You ain’t gotta apologize for shit.” A catch in Isaiah’s voice, too.

  Jerrod said, “Look, if it’s gotta be this way, I can’t just sit up here by myself, wait to freeze to death. Not in this kind of pain. You know what I’m saying?”

  “I feel you.”

  “There’s no other way? You sure?”

  “I don’t see it.” Isaiah pursed his lips together and cocked his head, his brow furrowing up as his eyes welled. “Serving with you, man,” he said.

  “I know. I know. Same here. Let’s just get this the fuck over with, huh?” Isaiah took up his machine pistol and racked the slide. His eyes burned. He couldn’t see, had to wait a moment, letting them clear, not wanting to fuck any part of this up.

  “You wanna pray or something, Jerrod?”

  “Wouldn’t know what the fuck to say. Haven’t prayed a day out of my whole life. God ain’t a fool if He’s up there, and I don’t wanna insult the Man, particularly now.”

  “Anything you want me to take care of when I get out of here? Anybody you want me to go see, let ’em know, give ’em a message or—”

  “Like who?”

  “I don’t know. Your parents.” He smiled. “Your harem of bitches.”

  “Nah. Nobody’ll notice.”

  “You ready, then?”

  Jerrod drew in a deep breath, looked all around at the rock, the snow, the darkness, the cliffs, taking heed of this cold ledge where he was going to die. “Yeah.”

  “Love you, brother. Never said that to a—”

  “You, too, man. You, too. Family, you know?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, the suspense is killing me, so . . .” Jerrod turned away. He stared at the tip of his boot, thought how pretty the snow was falling on it, and what a strange last thought this was.

  Isaiah raised the machine pistol, positioned the barrel a few inches from the back of Jerrod’s head. He calmed himself, held the red dot steady.

  Jerrod slumped over into the snow.

  Isaiah fired another Kool, sat for a while, smoking, listening to the wind, watching snow pile up on the rock, on Jerrod. For the moment, it melted on his friend’s warm face.

  At length, Isaiah stood up. But he felt empty, something unfinished. He had a notepad in his backpack, and he pulled it out and found a pencil, sat hunched over the paper, shielding it from the snow. He scribbled down five words, tore out the sheet of paper, and slipped it into the pocket of Jerrod’s parka.

  Isaiah gathered up his things, then followed the ledge for thirty feet until it slimmed out into nothing. As he began the slow and treacherous descent into the canyon, he kept thinking of what he’d written for his friend, wished it could have been more, repeating Jerrod’s epitaph in his head like a plain-song.

  This man was a soldier.

  This man was a soldie
r.

  FIFTY

  T

  he man behind the divan stood up, the machine pistol quivering in his grasp.

  There was a flash, Abigail thinking he’d pulled the trigger, the walls of the sitting area lighting up, the snow glinting. It went dark again. Muffled thunder rolled through the basin, shook the chandelier, the weakened floor trembling beneath her feet.

  Abigail rose up slowly, her arms outstretched in deference to the weapon. When the lightning came again, she noticed the streaks of blood down the man’s face, his eyes rimmed with black bruises.

  “Are you with them?” he whispered again.

  “With who?” Abigail asked.

  “The men in masks. There were—Get back!” he yelled and Abigail saw the machine pistol shift to her father.

  Lawrence said, “You see my hands, right? I promise you we aren’t a threat. In fact, we’re probably in the same—”

  “I’ll decide that.” His eyes returned to Abigail. “What are you doing here?”

  “We arrived in Abandon this afternoon, a team of six. Downstairs in the foyer is the third remaining member of our party. Tonight, while we were exploring the town, those men in masks took us hostage. They killed our guide and a man named Emmett.”

  “Tell me the names of the men who attacked you.”

  Abigail had to think for a moment, her mind edging into overdrive. “Isaiah. Stu . . . and Jerrod. Jerrod was also one of our guides on the hike in. But they’re dead now.”

  “All?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’d the other two die?”

  “Isaiah and Jerrod fell off a cliff near the pass a couple hours ago.”

  “What were you doing up there in this storm?”

  Abigail hesitated only a second or two. “Looking for these gold bars. Did you kill Stu?”

  The man nodded slowly.

  “What happened to you?” Abigail said. “Your face—”

  “Is it bad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You two look pretty banged up yourselves.”

  The man lowered the machine pistol. He stepped out from behind the divan, walked into the beam of her headlamp, tall and very thin, though even through the bruises, he had gentle eyes, which Abigail instinctively trusted. His silver-and-black down coat appeared to have been ripped through the middle by a knife swipe, and his stringy brown hair lay pasted with sweat to the sides of his face.

  “I’m Quinn,” he said.

  “Abigail.” Though it was difficult to tell with all the bruising, she placed his age around forty.

  Her father stepped forward. “Lawrence.”

  “Lawrence Kendall?”

  “Have we met?”

  Quinn smiled. “No, but I’m an admirer of your work.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve been in the history department at the U of A, Tucson, the last seven years. This ghost town’s been my passion for a long time.”

  “Thought I was the only one. What’s your last name?”

  “Collins.”

  “Haven’t heard of you.”

  “I’ve only published in my field, Colonial America and the Revolutionary War. Abandon’s more like a hobby, I guess.”

  “Last great mystery of the West.”

  “Absolutely. But I just got tenure this year, so I’m hoping to get funding and support for a semester of real study. Maybe even a grant to come here for a summer.”

  “Good luck getting a permit for that.”

  “Yeah, my attitude’s been, Fuck the Forest service. I’ve been coming up from Arizona every year to spend time in this canyon, do a little elk hunting on the side. But it’s a real thrill to meet you, Lawrence.” Quinn reached out to shake his hand. “I’ve read everything you’ve written on Abandon.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  T

  hey came upon June at the base of the steps. She was standing by her husband, one hand on the banister that had run through him, the other caressing his shaved head.

  “Just us, June,” Abigail said.

  She glanced up at them, void of expression, catatonic.

  “Who’s that with you?” she asked.

  “This is Quinn. He was being held here by Isaiah and Stu.”

  Quinn froze when he saw Emmett, brought his hand to his mouth, whispered, “Oh God. June, is it? I’m so sorry. Is there anything—”

  “No, there isn’t. I just need to be alone with him.”

  Abigail touched her arm, said, “Maybe you should—”

  “No! Go!”

  They left June with her husband and sat down nearby on the cascading staircase that flowed toward the large oak doors.

  Abigail pulled three water bottles out of Lawrence’s pack and rolled two of them across the floor to Quinn.

  “Thank you.” Quinn unscrewed the cap and ravenously downed the entire twelve ounces in one long gulp. Then he leaned back against the steps and gingerly ran his fingers across his face as if reading Braille, trying to picture how the damage had distorted it.

  “Isaiah did that?” Abigail asked.

  “Quite a violent streak in that man.”

  “So what, exactly, happened to you?”

  Quinn opened the second bottle of water and took another long drink. “I arrived in Abandon last Wednesday morning. Wednesday night, very late, I woke to the sound of footsteps near my tent. Frightened me pretty bad. I called out, asked who was there. No one answered. Of course, I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I unzipped the tent and crawled outside. There were two men in masks with guns standing there.”

  He shivered, as if just speaking about it rekindled the fear. “Isaiah and Stu brought me to this mansion. They kept demanding that I show them where ‘it’ was. I told them I had no idea what they were talking about. They said I was lying. They beat me. Tied me up and left me in one of the rooms on the third floor. Several times a day, they’d come back, ask if I wanted to tell them or if I needed another beating. I would always say the same thing: I didn’t know what it was they wanted.

  “Tonight, after working me over for a while, they blindfolded me and slapped a piece of tape on my mouth. Few hours later, I heard a ruckus on the floor below and voices I hadn’t heard before. Suppose that was you guys. I managed to find an edge on the old chair they’d strapped me to, finally cut through the tape around my wrists about an hour ago.”

  “You made all that racket up there that caught Stu’s attention?” Abigail asked.

  “Yeah. I’d crept downstairs, seen there was only one of them guarding June, and I knew it was my only chance. When Stu came up, he was drunk, and I managed to overpower him.”

  Quinn sipped his water. Outside, the wind still made that strange unnerving sound like ghosts humming.

  “So why’d you come to Abandon in the first place?” Lawrence asked.

  Quinn smiled. “Well, why are you here?”

  Abigail sensed something in the current between the two men.

  Lawrence said, “I was giving June and her husband a tour of the ghost town. They’re paranormal photographers.”

  “That’s all, huh?”

  Abigail realized what it was: distrust. These two historians sizing each other up, attempting to gauge how much the other one knew, what to let on, what to keep to themselves.

  “What was it again that you were looking for up at the pass? I think I heard Abigail say something about—”

  “All right, should we quit jerking each other off here?” Lawrence said. “Anyone who’s studied Abandon in depth knows that a sizable quantity of Packer’s gold has never been accounted for.”

  “And you’ve been searching for it.”

  It got quiet for a moment. Then Lawrence said, “Yeah. And you?”

  Quinn nodded. “You an honest man, Lawrence?”

  “Guess that depends.”

  “What if I were to tell you that I have something in my jacket that might be able to help us out?”

  “I’d be interested.”r />
  “Interested enough for full disclosure?”

  “Assuming it cuts both ways.”

  Quinn reached into his pocket, handed Lawrence a rusted key attached to a nylon rope.

  “Where’d you get this?” Lawrence asked.

  “Full disclosure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “From an old man on his deathbed.”

  “What’s it open?” Abigail asked.

  “I’ve spent the last ten autumns of my life trying to find an answer to that. I know it doesn’t open anything in this crumbling mansion or the ghost town or the mill.”

  Lawrence got up, limped over to the entrance of Emerald House, threw the doors open, stood watching the snow.

  Abigail called out, “You all right?”

  After a moment, he returned, stared down at them, and Abigail could hear the change in his voice as soon as he opened his mouth.

  “There’s almost two feet of snow on the ground,” he said. “I know it’s late, and we’re all past the point of exhaustion, but with the snow dumping like this, an avalanche would make it impossible to find. We’d have to wait until next summer, when the snows broke. Besides, it’s not safe to be in Emerald House with all this snow piling up on the roof.”

  Quinn stood up, said, “I don’t understand. What are you getting at?”

  “I might know what your key opens.”

  1893

  FIFTY-TWO

  U

  nder calmer circumstances, Gloria might have noticed the sky—clouds striated with a thousand tones of orange, like you were staring up into the guts of an overripe peach, and some of them still bleeding pink curtains of snow.

  But she couldn’t see anything through the window of tears.

  Someone yelled her name.

  Gloria stopped, turned back, looking downslope at the chapel far below, the clang of its bell echoing through the canyon.