“The government always buys the cheapest equipment,” his dad had complained hundreds of times in frustration.
Tag felt the same frustration and fear as he climbed to another landing. He heard something moving on the trail behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he didn’t see anything. Could it be Slash? Had Robert gotten himself unstuck? Tag’s mind ran in mad circles.
Think, positive thoughts, he told himself as he raced up another set of steps. How many more of the two hundred and fifty steps did he have to go? In the moonlight, Tag recognized a skinny tree growing out of a huge rock. Not far now, just around the bend and up the last four flights of steps to the Visitor Center!
Another sound came from below. Footsteps? Tag stopped and strained to hear. Nothing but the wind rustling through the trees.
His scalp tightened. Moonlight flooded the black top trail. I have to get off this open trail! Tag sprinted up three steps and pushed through a clump of trees at the side of the path.
Tag’s foot faltered on the steep incline. He slipped down the hill three feet, before he caught himself. He crawled up and worked his way along a narrow ledge that was closed to tourists. If only I can just get up over the rim and into the forest, I’ll have it made.
He knew exactly where he was as he rushed up the forested trail, but hoped no one else did. Tag made the radio call again. “Officer down, officer down . . .”
Mr. Pierce’s old ranger cabin appeared through the trees. It stood deadly quiet in the bright moonlight.
“The ghost boy is out tonight, Mr. Pierce!” panted Tag, as he raced by the house.
Tag radioed repeatedly as he ran in the direction of the Visitor Center. There was a phone outside the Visitor Center he could use. Do they have 911 now? Probably not. I don’t even have a quarter, or is it a dime?
His legs throbbed. His lungs burned. He saw the lights of the visitor parking lot at the top of the ridge. Tag climbed.
“Where’s Robert?” Slash’s voice screamed through the silence of the forest. He stood at the top of the ridge, silhouetted in the strong parking lot lights. Light glinted off the rifle barrel. Tag heard the rifle’s metallic action load a bullet into its chamber.
21
Tag stared at the rifle barrel. His heart beat so hard it hurt.
“Where is Robert?” Slash yelled.
“He got stuck somewhere.”
“You’re lying!” Slash started down toward Tag. “You’re going to show me where he . . .” His foot stubbed a rock, and he stumbled downward. Tag swung the radio full-force into his face. The rifle went off an inch from Tag’s head. A flash of white heat seared his ear.
The blast’s echo rang through Tag’s head as he ran into the thick pines. He couldn’t even hear his own feet pounding the ground, as his mind swirled in confusion and pain. He couldn’t think straight with the roar of the gun thundering in his head. Got to get help. No, got to get away from Slash.
Red and blue lights exploded in his eyes.
Got to keep running! He shook his head trying to clear the ringing out of his ears and the flashing lights out of his eyes. His head throbbed with pain. Lights flashed everywhere. In confusion, Tag kept running.
Suddenly, high whining blares screamed through the sound of the gun’s thunder. Looking through the trees toward the parking lot, Tag saw two, three, no four cop cars careening into the parking lot. Car doors flew open and officers barreled out, hands on their guns.
“Are you sure you know where you are going?” Snyder, a deputy sheriff, asked as Tag started off the Island Trail. The sheriff’s late-forties-belly hung over his thick gun belt. Long, gray sideburns sprouted out from under his brown western hat with a Coconino County Sheriff patch on the front. Snyder had taken an instant dislike to Tag.
“Just follow him, Snyder,” said a young Flagstaff policeman, named Wells. In his early twenties, he looked like a runner, lean and rugged. On his broad shoulders, he hauled a huge first aid bag. He flashed his high-intensity flashlight into Snyder’s face. “You’ve already wasted too much time asking questions. O’Farrell is down there bleeding to death. Why can’t you believe anyone younger than forty?”
“The same reason you don’t trust anyone over thirty,” snapped Snyder.
Tag had talked hard and fast to explain things. Only Officer Wells believed him. An ambulance was called after what seemed like an eternity. Now, the two Arizona Highway Patrolmen searched for Slash, while he led the other two officers down into the canyon.
“What were you doing here this time of night?” asked Snyder. In his flashlight’s gleam, he carefully picked his way down the side of the canyon. “Doing some pothunting of your own?”
Tag didn’t answer, just hurried faster. Goose bumps of cold and fear pricked his bare back and chest. Gary had to be still alive. He just had to be. Please Taawa, let him be alive.
“How do you know about my great-grandfather, Sean O’Farrell?” Gary asked, looking up at Tag. In the moonlight, his eyes looked like black holes in his pale face.
“Get out of the way so Wells can start working on him.” Snyder grabbed Tag by the back of his neck and led him a few feet away. “I’m going back up to bring the paramedics down.” His handcuffs jingled as he pulled them out.
“Don’t waste time cuffing him. He’s not under arrest,” Wells ordered. “Get up there and get the paramedics!”
Snyder pointed at Tag. “You sit down right here on this rock, and don’t you move an inch. You still have a lot of questions to answer, punk”
Tag watched Snyder climb out of sight. He hurried over to Wells, kneeling over Gary. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Pray Snyder can find his way back here.” Wells’ flashlight, stuck in a crook of a tree, illuminated Gary. He was unconscious.
“Is he going to be okay?” Tag knelt beside Wells.
“I’m doing everything I can, but he’s lost a lot of blood, maybe too much.” Wells turned his attention back to Gary.
Tag knew there was nothing more he could do for Sean’s great-grandson. He picked up his backpack, walked back toward his appointed rock, and just kept going into the shadows of the night.
Only a few stars blinked. The air smelled of rain. How long had the storm been building up? Tag had been too busy dealing with Robert, Slash, and the others to notice. “Great time for a storm,” he growled, looking up the face of the cliff. A cloud slipped over the moon. Tag couldn’t see a foot above him.
Tears stung Tag’s eyes. Weariness pressed down on his shoulders. His stomach growled in hunger. As the reality of the last hour began taking its toll, Tag shook uncontrollably and tears streamed down his face.
Thunder rolled off the San Francisco Peaks.
“I want to go home, Taawa!” Tag cried. “Please just let me go home!”
Lightning flashed through the clouds, illuminating the canyon. Thunder followed close behind.
Tag fumbled as he opened his backpack and dug around the paho and sandals for the pencil-sized flashlight. Please let it work. He flipped the switch. A thin, bright beam pierced the darkness. Thank you, Taawa. Tag slipped the pack on his back.
Lightning filled the canyon, and thunder echoed through it.
Tag aimed the beam of light up the cliff till he saw the first finger-hold just above his head. He positioned the small flashlight in his mouth and reached up to the notch, trying to aim the light so he could see.
I can’t believe I am doing this!
He saw the next hold in the illumination of lightning. His neck cramped as he tried to shine the flashlight up to see the next notch.
A clap of thunder shook the air.
Goose bumps sprang up on his bare back and worked their way down his arms. He pulled himself up, feeling for the toeholds. With a high-pitched screech, something furry brushed against his cheek.
Tag screamed. The flashlight fell. His forehead banged against the limestone, as he plummeted downward.
He heard voices. They sounded blurred, as if th
ey were under water. He tried to open his eyes, but they were too heavy. Every bone in his body ached, and pain seared through his head. Too tired, he slipped back into the security and warmth of nothingness.
Pizza—pepperoni and onion! The aroma was unmistakable even in his hazy, drifting state. His stomach doubled up in anticipation. He felt his mouth watering as his mind floated nowhere. Light glimmered through his closed lids, penetrating his mind. He tried to open his eyes. Lead. The fragrance of pizza attacked his nose. Far away, voices faded in an out.
“I thought you’d like some decent food, Gary.”
“The pizza tastes wonderful but don’t let the nurse see it, Grandpa.”
“We’ll make it disappear before she comes back.”
He put every once of strength and concentration into forcing his eyes open. Bright lights made him shut them again. He tried to reach up and cover them, but his hand wouldn’t move. The pepperoni smell was fading.
“Grandpa, do you want the last piece? I’m stuffed.”
“I want it!” He managed to get the words out of his mouth somehow, or at least he thought he did. He fought against the light to open his eyes and keep them open. Things were fuzzy, like his mind. Everything had a drab green color. His stomach flipped and flopped, hungry, yet nauseous, at the same time. His vision sharpened. An older man stood over him.
“You want some pizza?” The man had curly sandy-gray hair and a short reddish-gray beard. His steel-blue eyes were softened by bushy, reddish eyebrows.
He nodded. His forehead felt big. He tried to reach up and touch it but his arm wouldn’t move. He looked down at it. A strap held it down. A clear plastic tube crawled out from a bandage on his forearm and traveled up to a plastic bottle hanging from a stand next to the bed. Panic set in. A strap held down his other arm, too.
“It’s okay,” the man said in a calm voice. He freed Tag’s right arm. “They needed to keep your arm still so you wouldn’t pull out the tubes while you were unconscious.”
He looked from his arm to the man. “Where are we?”
“Flagstaff Hospital. How are you feeling?”
Before he could answer, someone said, “Grandpa, we’d better ring for a nurse. They said to let them know the minute he came around.”
The man turned away to answer. “We will in just a minute, Gary. I just want to talk to him first.”
He saw the other bed now. A young man with brilliant copper hair looked back at him and smiled. His face was speckled with freckles, making him look younger than he was. “Please excuse my grandfather. He’s a lawyer and always needs to cross-exam everyone he meets.”
“Well, this young man is going to need a good lawyer!” The man turned back to him. “I am Michael T. O’Farrell. We have met before, if I’m not mistaken. Of course, you know my grandson, Gary. Thank you for saving his hide.”
He stared at the chunky man dressed in blue jeans and blue button-down shirt. The man looked at least sixty or older. His face appeared wrinkled not only by age, but by the sun. Michael T. O’Farrell seemed like the typical grandpa-type, warm and friendly, but with a definite lawyer air about him.
He didn’t recognize Mr. O’Farrell. He shook his head. Pain rammed his brain. He touched his forehead and felt a huge bandage on it. A sick feeling replaced his hunger. He stared at Gary, lying on the other bed. It was easy to see the two men were related. Both looked at the world with the same intense blue eyes. A small, dome tent device covered Gary’s leg. He wondered what happened to his leg. He looked back at Mr. O’Farrell. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember either of you.”
“That’s okay, son. Can you remember how you got here? No?”
“You don’t remember going to get help after I was shot at Walnut Canyon?” Gary asked, leaning forward in his bed. “Or falling?”
“Walnut Canyon?” He tried to remember. Nothing came, nothing.
Mr. O’Farrell touched his arm. “Son, can you tell us your name?”
Fear curled through his mind. He tried harder to concentrate, to break through the pain zapping around in his head. Nothing came. No name. No address. No telephone number. Absolutely nothing.
Tears clouded his vision. “Who am I?”
22
He looked at the two pieces of wood tied together with a thin strip of leather. The eagle feathers on the thing looked decrepit. An old, beat up, canvas backpack and a pair of crude sandals lay next to the feathered stick. There was a hunk of black rock, which looked like an ancient knife, on the other side of the backpack. He studied each object on the shiny wooden desk. Nothing came to his mind, nothing.
The psychiatrist, Dr. Lance, sat behind the massive desk in a black leather chair. His middle-aged, pocked face was placid, if not bored. “You had the backpack on when they found you unconscious. Try to clear your mind totally and just focus on the items.”
My mind is already clear! Empty in fact, he wanted to scream in frustration. That’s why I am here for you to help me remember something—anything. Tears stung his eyes as he continued to stare at the three foreign objects on the desk. A gold clock on the wall ticked away the minutes.
“I know this is frightening. Your form of amnesia is unpredictable, but usually memory returns with time. One will see something, hear something, or even smell something that will stir a memory. Once that happens, other memories return also. It just takes time. It is best and safest to let time do its work and not push too hard. I thought these things might spark a memory.” Dr. Lance picked up the feathered stick. “Interesting piece, isn’t it? The archaeologist at Walnut Canyon claims it is an Indian prayer stick. He said that it, the knife, and the sandals are hundreds of years old. I had quite a time getting them for you to see.” Dr. Lance stared at him. “The officials are eager to know where you got them.”
He sat there wishing he was back in the room with Gary. At least there, he felt safe. Even in pain, Gary was kind and considerate, never asking stupid questions that just made things worse. Mr. O’Farrell smuggled in pizzas, hamburgers, and doughnuts for them. He brought blue jeans and some shirts for him, saying, “Try these on for size. We don’t want you to get arrested for indecent exposure once we get you out of this place.”
They were like—like family. Family, the word tore at him. Where was his real family? Why hadn’t they come to claim him? Didn’t they want him anymore? Had he done something hideous or illegal? Questions stabbed at his mind like an ice pick. The clocked ticked itself away.
Dr. Lance interrupted the clock. “Our time is up. You are lucky that Mr. O’Farrell is such a good lawyer. No one else in town could have gained custody of you for thirty days. It’s fortunate that he is taking a few weeks off to get Gary back on his feet. So, I hope you will help them in any way you can. Of course, you do feel all right about being with the O’Farrells?”
He nodded. He hadn’t said more than three words in the hour therapy session, as they called it.
“Good. Authorities all over the country know about you.” Dr. Lance peered through his horn-rimmed classes. “However, with so many runaways these days, things are more difficult. Let’s hope your parents show up before the thirty days are over.” He stood up and walked around the desk. “It was nice talking to you.”
Leaving the psychiatrist’s office, he wondered what would happen to him if his parents didn’t come before the thirty days?
“Ready there?” Mr. O’Farrell asked standing behind a wheelchair. Gary sat in the wheelchair, clutching a sack of clothes and a vase of wilting flowers.
He nodded, happy to be leaving the hospital with its unpleasant smells, constant noise, impersonal atmosphere, and crummy food. Anything had to be better than this.
“Glad that you agreed to tag along with us, son.” Mr. O’ Farrell scratched his beard. “You know, I am partial to the name Tag, and the name fits you better than John Doe. What do you think?”
Tag. The name sounded hollow, but better than John for some reason. “Yea, I guess so.”
“Gr
andpa, let’s get out of here before they try and stop us,” Gary said. He still looked pale and tired, but was improving daily.
“Right on!” Mr. O’Farrell wheeled the chair out. “Come on, Tag. Let’s make our escape.”
Tag watched the houses pass as they drove down the narrow residential streets of Flagstaff. He watched every house, read every street sign, hoping to recognize something, desperately wanting to say, “Stop! There’s my house!”
Everything looked strange and irrelevant. Even the cars looked as alien as spaceships to him. It was as if someone had just plopped him into a totally new world. Nothing looked or felt familiar in the least. Tag closed his eyes, welcoming the comfortable void behind them.
Mr. O’Farrell turned the blue Bronco into a driveway. Tag saw an old, stately, two-story house surrounded by an ornate, wrought iron fence. Huge trees provided shade all round the large, impeccable yard and house.
“I need to pick up a few things here since I’m going stay with you two at the trailer. Gary, stay in the car. There is no use in you wearing out those new crutches. Tag will help me carry back what I need.” Mr. O’Farrell got out of the Bronco and opened the back door for Tag.
The house smelled old, but not musty. “My father built this house. My late wife and I moved in after Father died. We raised Gary’s father here.” The long entry hall ended in a fancy staircase. “After he and his wife were killed eighteen years ago, we brought Gary here and raised him, too. Now, with my wife gone, too, the house is just too big for me. It will be almost cozy to stay in Gary’s trailer for a while,” Mr. Farrell said, climbing the steps two at a time. “It will be more convenient for him to get around in.”
Tag tried to keep up with him, while looking at the old pictures hanging on the wall. Seeing them, he felt even more abandoned and alone. “Are these all your family?”
Tag Against Time Page 12