The Quarry

by Mark Allan Gunnells

  “What else can we believe?”

  “I wish I knew,” Emilio said, shaking his head wearily. “I really wish I knew. But it all started when he became obsessed with the Quarry’s history; specifically when he went on that dive.”

  “So what, the Quarry made him snap? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. All I do know is that everyone’s treating this like it’s open and shut, and it’s not that simple. It can’t be.”

  Connie snorted. Emilio was a sweetheart, but his blind devotion to the memory of his friend was starting to wear on her nerves. “So what’s your theory? Some kind of radiation down in the lake that warped Dale’s brain and turned him into a nutjob overnight?”

  “You don’t have to mock me, Connie. I’m just not so quick to throw Dale to the wolves, that’s all.”

  “He threw himself to the wolves. I don’t know what was wrong with him or why he did the things he did, but I’m not going to waste my life trying to figure it out either.”

  “No, you’re just going to hide away from the world and wall up your emotions so you don’t have to feel them.”

  Connie’s mouth puckered as if she’d tasted something sour, and she jumped up from the sofa. Looking down at Emilio, she said, “If you want to start some campaign to save Dale’s reputation, you’re on your own. I don’t want any part of it.”

  Shoving her way through a small group that had gathered around one of the pool tables, Connie stormed out of the Center.

  She stopped on the walkway to fight back the tears that threatened. She’d cried enough right after Dale’s death; she wouldn’t shed more tears over a man who had not been who she’d thought he was.

  A deep breath, then she hurried through the night toward the back entrance of Ebert. As she reached the door, she thought she heard someone whispering her name down by Greer, but she wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone else.

  She let herself into the building and slammed the door behind her.

  * * *

  Emilio left shortly after Connie, feeling numbed from their encounter. Connie wanted desperately to believe the things that were being said about Dale, because in some ways, he reflected, it made things easier for her. But Emilio just couldn’t reconcile the friend he’d been close to since last August with the monster now portrayed in the news and the even more sinister grapevine.

  Headed for his dorm, he paused and stared up at the angular, symmetrical shape of Fort—a strange bit of architectural immaturity that looked like it had been built with Lego blocks. He suddenly had no desire to go back to his room. Phil would be there, and he’d been asking too many stupid and painful questions—“Did you suspect anything?”, “Was he into torture porn?”—that Emilio didn’t have answers to. He didn’t feel up to a Phil inquisition.

  If I stay out a while longer, maybe he’ll be asleep by the time I get back…

  It was worth a shot.

  Bypassing the dorm, Emilio walked down to the guardrail that marked the edge of the Quarry.

  The waters were still tonight. And dark.

  The Quarry is deep and dark…

  Emilio stared across the lake, wondering just what secrets were hidden beneath the surface. Following Dale’s shooting—and there was no question as to whether or not the guard had hit him; his blood had been all along the shoreline—the lake had been dragged and a few divers brought in, searching for Dale, as well as Leslie and Patty. Nothing had been found, but the lake covered an area of 7 acres and was almost 400 feet deep in places, so the consensus was that they were down there somewhere but would never be discovered.

  Emilio thought about all the urban legends Dale had said swirled around Lake Limestone; and he wondered if Dale would one day make the list.

  Of course he will.

  Years from now—hell, it wouldn’t take that long—students would share late night tales of female students raped and butchered, their body parts dumped in the lake. The story would mutate over the years, becoming more gruesome and over-the-top with each telling.

  He turned away from the Quarry and started toward the main quad. The computer lab in Hamrick was open until 11 on weeknights, and, since he didn’t own a PC of his own, Emilio had to do all his online research and type all his papers in the lab. And he did have a paper due on Jackson Pollack for Art Appreciation.

  Without anything else to do, he figured there was no better time to start researching.

  Then, hit by a more pressing thought, he changed his mind altogether.

  * * *

  Norman had been on duty for only fifteen minutes when he started pulling his books from his backpack. He’d gotten through Abnormal Psych with a respectable B minus, and just this week he had started Theories of Personality, which promised to be much tougher. He still did much of his studying and class assignments at work, but far less than before.

  He was afraid of missing something significant on the cameras or his rounds. He’d prevented a death, and that had won Beckman’s favor, as well as earning him positive vibes from the college administration and the community at large. But it did nothing to stop the nightmares that visited him almost daily.

  Norman had killed someone. And he was having a hard time dealing with it. No matter how many ways he replayed that night in his mind, he could see no other option than firing on Sierra. But that knowledge did little to ease his conscience. The bullet alone probably hadn’t killed the boy, but it had knocked him into the Quarry, where he had likely drowned. Or maybe the bullet had killed him. He had no way of knowing, but that didn’t keep him from trying to understand. And he couldn’t understand. And that hurt. Bad.

  Regardless, if he hadn’t taken such action then Dr. Brighton would be dead now.

  And that was something he did understand; a bit of merciful knowledge that he was grateful for.

  Still, he was tired of being treated like a hero and wished he hadn’t posed for the picture or answered the questions that The Gaffney Ledger had run on the front page. He didn’t feel honored. He wasn’t a hero.

  He was a positive face plastered over a grim situation.

  At the counter with the monitors—not the desk—he settled down with his books. He opened to chapter one and focused on the dense text—

  A knock at the office door!

  Startled, he jumped up.

  Taking a deep breath, he slowly opened the door.

  A student stood outside, a young man that looked familiar. But Norman couldn’t place him. They stared at each other for a moment, neither speaking.

  The boy was biting on his bottom lip.

  “Can I help you?” Norman asked.

  “Um, no, I don’t think so,” the boy said. But he made no move to leave.

  Norman was just about to turn away and close the door when recognition clicked into place. This kid had been friends with Sierra. He’d seen them together. “Is there a problem?”

  The kid shook his head then shrugged. He looked ready to bolt. But something held him in place.

  Norman held out a hand. “I’m Norman. You can call me Norm if you want.”

  The boy hesitated then shook, his grip weak. “Emilio.”

  “Interesting name.”

  “It was my grandfather’s.”

  “Well, is there something you needed, Emilio?”

  The boy looked down at his feet and mumbled.

  “Sorry, didn’t catch that.”

  “I was wondering if I could talk to you for just a minute.”

  Norman glanced at his watch. “I don’t have to start my first campus tour for another forty minutes or so, so I guess I’ve got time. Wanna come in?”

  Emilio nodded and walked inside. He stood next to the desk, staring around the room, fidgeting from foot to foot but saying nothing.

  “So can I offer you anything? I have bottled water and chips.”

  Emilio shook his head.

  Norman leaned on the counter, his back to the cameras. He stared across the room at Emilio
, who met his gaze for only the briefest of seconds before looking off somewhere else again.

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” Norman said finally.

  Emilio looked surprised and stammered a moment before saying, “You know who I am?”

  “I know Sierra was a friend of yours. It must have been quite a shock when you found out what he’d been up to.”

  “To say the least.”

  “It was an unfortunate situation. Believe me, I wish I hadn’t had to do it, but he left me no choice.”

  Emilio blinked several times, and Norman thought he saw tears caught in the boy’s lashes.

  “Are you sure?” Emilio asked.

  “Am I sure about what?”

  “Are you sure you didn’t misinterpret the situation? I mean, maybe he wasn’t trying to hurt Dr. Brighton at all.”

  “She was unconscious and he was dragging her toward the lake.”

  “Yeah, but maybe he found her that way and he was trying to help her, and you just misunderstood.”

  Norman could see Emilio’s pain and he wished he had some kind of panacea for it, but there were some scars that only time could heal.

  “Dr. Brighton confirmed when she came to that Sierra attacked her in the faculty lot by Hamrick earlier in the night. She was positive it was him.”

  Emilio picked up a paperweight shaped like a gramophone and fiddled with it. “Yeah, I tried asking her some questions the other day, but she didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “Can’t really blame her, trauma she’s been through. To be honest, it’s not exactly my favorite subject either.”

  “I’m sorry,” Emilio said softly, placing the paperweight back on the desk. “I shouldn’t be bothering you.”

  The boy started for the door, but Norman stepped in front of him. “I can only imagine what you’re going through, but if you ever want to talk about it, I’m a good listener. I understand if I’m not the person you want to confide in, all things considered, but the offer stands if you ever want to take me up on it.”

  Emilio hesitated for a moment, and then he smiled up at Norman. Not much of a smile, just a slight upturn of the corners of his mouth, but it was something. Then he left the office quickly.

  Norman returned to the counter, taking a seat and turning to the chapter he had to read for his next class.

  He would read a sentence, turn his eyes up to the monitors, scanning them one by one, then read another sentence. And as he did, his mind kept turning to Emilio.

  Having seen the boy’s pain, he wanted to do something to about it. To sooth it.

  And this made Norman’s own burden seem a bit lighter.

  Chapter Eleven

  EMILIO DIDN’T HAVE 11 to 12 work study on Friday mornings; instead, he attended Freshman Seminar, a pointless class that several students had dubbed “Waste of Time 101.” But it was required all freshmen take the course. The point, at least according to the academic catalogue, was to help new students acclimate to college life, with stimulating lectures on “Breaking Bad Study Habits” and “Dealing with Homesickness.”

  Emilio sat in the back of the classroom, staring out the window at the quad. There were some students lounging on the benches that ringed the fountain out front of Curtis, and Dr. Slidell from the Psych department went hurrying by like he had somewhere important to be about fifteen minutes ago.

  Emilio wasn’t really listening to the lecture at all, which had something to do with school pride.

  Connie hadn’t been in Biology this morning, and Emilio wondered if she was avoiding him. After class, maybe he’d give her a call and see if she wanted to go to lunch with him. He knew she didn’t like going to the dining hall, but he’d gotten his work study check this morning so he could treat her to House of Pizza down on Frederick Street. He wanted to apologize and make things right with her. He missed her…

  …and Dale.

  And that was really the problem wasn’t it?

  Dale…

  Turning away from the window, he tuned Drake Fuller, the class’ teacher, back in. The man was rhapsodizing about Limestone’s history as South Carolina’s first women’s college as if he’d been there.

  Acting almost without thought, Emilio opened his mouth and said, “What about the Quarry?”

  Mr. Fuller paused with a look of surprise, probably shocked that any of his students were still awake. “Um, the Quarry?”

  “Yes, what can you tell us about it?”

  Mr. Fuller cleared his throat and looked flustered. “I’m not really so sure this is the best forum to dissect the recent tragedies the school has—”

  “I’m not talking about that; I mean the Quarry’s history. Has it been around as long as the college?”

  Relief swept over Mr. Fuller’s face; clearly he had been advised to avoid the subject of the recent unpleasantness. “Well, I’m not entirely certain. If memory serves, I think the mine opened in the late 1800s, closer to the turn of the century.”

  “And how did it become Lake Limestone?”

  “Oh, I thought everyone knew that story. Sometime in the ’50s, or maybe it was the ’40s, the miners accidentally tapped into an underground spring and—”

  “And the mine filled so quickly they had to abandon all their machinery and trucks,” Emilio finished.

  “So you do know the story after all.”

  Heads swiveled toward Emilio. A sea of half-lidded eyes with half-accusations that said, “This might be interesting,” and, “Why’d you go and wake me up!”

  “Yes, but is it true?”

  Mr. Fuller frowned. “What do you mean? Of course it’s—”

  “We’ve all heard the story, but do we know that it’s true? I mean, have you ever seen any documentation to support it?”

  “Well, no, I can’t say that I have, but it’s what I’ve always been told. I’ve never had any reason to doubt the stories.”

  Judy Rudolph, a commuter student who sat two rows over from Emilio, said, “My family has lived in this area for generations, and that’s the story my grandfather always told, so it has to be true.”

  A boy near the front laughed and said, “That’s kind of faulty logic, don’t you think? My grandfather used to tell me that if you swallowed a watermelon seed then a watermelon would grow in your stomach. Should I assume that’s true?”

  Several people started talking at once, chatter filling the room like a radio station picking up multiple signals.

  Mr. Fuller silenced the class by rapping his knuckles against the chalkboard.

  When the room had quieted, he turned to Emilio. “So you’re suggesting that we may all be misinformed?”

  Suddenly all eyes were back on Emilio, only harder, this time making him squirm in his seat. He didn’t do well under this kind of scrutiny, and he suddenly wished he’d kept his mouth shut. “I’m…I’m just saying it’s worth noting that we’ve all just accepted this story at face value without having any kind of actual proof that it’s true.”

  “And do you have some actual proof that it isn’t?”

  “Well, no, but…”

  “But what?”

  “I knew someone who said he’d found information that contradicted the accepted story.”

  “Really?” Mr. Fuller said with a raise of his eyebrows, looking genuinely intrigued. “And would it be possible to borrow whatever evidence this friend has in his possession?”

  Emilio looked down at his desktop. “I don’t think that would be possible.”

  “That’s a shame. I’d be interested to see what he might have uncovered.”

  Mr. Fuller got back on topic, and Emilio tuned out once again, his mind on other things.

  * * *

  Connie was alone in her room. She’d gone to Psych that morning, but Rodney Jones had made a snide comment to her at the end of class, asking if she’d recognized any of Dale’s psychoses in the textbook.

  Connie had slapped Rodney in the face then run off to the dorm, deciding to skip the rest of her cla
sses for the day.

  Now she was sitting at her desk in front of her laptop, scanning through a bunch of digital photos she’d taken last semester. Rubbing salt in her own wounds, that was probably a more accurate description of what she was doing. A lot of the photos were of Patty, looking so happy and blissfully ignorant of what the future held for her. Connie had sometimes treated her roommate’s unrelenting optimism with disdain, but the fact of the matter was that Patty had seemed to have some inner strength that Connie envied. No matter what life handed Patty, she always remained hopeful.

  And now she was gone.

  Should have been me, Connie thought. She had been Dale’s target, she was sure of it, but Patty had been caught in the crossfire and paid the price. It wasn’t as if Connie could have known what Dale was planning, therefore there was nothing she could have done to prevent it, but she blamed herself nonetheless.

  She continued to scroll through her photos, the fall semester parading by in tiny snapshots of time. Autumn faded into winter, and one person began dominating the photos.

  Dale.

  Picture after picture of him, smiling, sticking his tongue out at the camera, posing with Connie while someone else (usually Emilio) took the photo.

  Connie didn’t know why she was putting herself through this, but she couldn’t seem to look away.

  Her cell chirped, saving her from self-flagellation. She snatched the phone and checked the Caller ID. It was Emilio. She put the phone aside and let the call go to voicemail. She wasn’t exactly mad at Emilio, but she just didn’t feel like talking to him right now. He would probably want to talk about Dale again, and she wasn’t ready to hear what he had to say.

  Emilio was full of doubts and questions—doubts and questions Connie harbored herself—but unlike her friend, she realized how futile and unhealthy it was to ask what couldn’t be answered. It made no sense that Dale could have changed so rapidly, and she couldn’t believe the man she’d been falling in love with was capable of murder. And yet, insane as it seemed, there didn’t appear to be any other explanation that fit.