by Lisa Gardner
Would Tim really hunker down here? Sure, the collection of caves makes for natural shelter, but it’s so dry and desolate. Where’s the water supply? Possibilities for food?
Knowing the importance of finding shelter in a survival situation doesn’t mean Tim acted accordingly. According to Nemeth, leaving his companions and taking off in the middle of the night was already a break from the safest course of action. Meaning that when push came to shove, Tim’s first instinct wasn’t to wait and see but to go and do.
Assuming he made it all the way to Devil’s Canyon, I can definitely see Tim continuing on to the cliff face, as it dominates the landscape. Upon discovering the network of caves, maybe he chose one to hunker down in. The nights were cold when he vanished, winter already nipping at fall’s heels. From that point of a view, a nice sun-warmed cave made sense.
It’s the hunkering-down part I’m having trouble picturing. By all accounts, Tim was the kid who could never sit still and who grew into a man of action. A guy like that, staring at this massive rock wall . . .
I remember Nemeth’s comment on how people often assume they can get cell phone reception if they just get up high enough.
The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced Tim wouldn’t be looking to shelter in this rock wall. He’d be looking to climb it.
Watching my footing—snakes, snakes, snakes, please God no snakes—I strike a path perpendicular to the cliff face, trying to get far enough back to view it more as a whole. Then I drift over to where our trail first opened up into the rocky terrain.
Tim O’Day would’ve been hiking for miles by the time he hit Devil’s Canyon. An entire day spent traversing a ridge while knowing he was lost and that Scott needed help. Night would have been falling by the time he made it this far. So maybe he did build that lean-to once it grew too dark to keep moving. Marty certainly seemed convinced it was his son’s handiwork.
Which meant if Tim set out the next morning, he would’ve hiked a mere mile before arriving here. Day was young. Tim was fit.
I stare at the wall. Shift left, stare some more. Then head even farther right, study that portion. The cliff face isn’t sheer, but layers upon layers of rocky protrusions. I can spot a wide outcropping here, decent enough ledge there. Bit by bit, I can piece together some semblance of a workable path, rising to the top. Skinny, to be sure. And too scary for me. But Tim? Worried about his friend? Knowing he was lost with limited supplies?
He would’ve tried that path. I just know it.
I walk closer to the wall, where the first logical upward path protrudes. I follow the line of rocks to the next outcropping. From there it would be tricky, but if Tim trusted himself enough to jump, he’d land on a narrow ledge that ran a solid thirty feet northwest. More protrusions, another rocky outcropping. Tim’s a third of the way up the wall now, going strong. He’s gonna make it. Climb to the top, phone for help, rescue himself and his friend . . .
Oh, the stories they’d tell after this. A bachelor party that would forever live in infamy.
There, a glimpse of green on that top ledge, where no green should be.
I get out my whistle, preparing to blow in triumph, when:
A different whistle sounds. Shrill. Three times in rapid succession. The universal signal for help. The sound bounces off the canyon wall, echoing all around me. But by the third shriek, I’m pretty sure it’s coming from the northwest, where Martin and Neil had set out.
I grab some of the smaller rocks at my feet and quickly build a cairn on a larger boulder to mark this location.
The whistle again. One. Two. Three.
Followed by the sound of a male voice, booming down the canyon.
“Help, help, help. Someone, we need help.”
I forget about snakes and race toward them.
CHAPTER 18
I am gasping for breath by the time I find them. I spot Scott first, standing up on a huge boulder, waving his arms frantically with a bright orange whistle pursed between his lips. I have a moment of confusion—Scott was supposed to be headed in the opposite direction with Miggy. How the hell did he end up here? And how did he cross from south to north without me seeing him?
Then I spot the blood. So much blood, splattered across the rocks.
For a split second, my restless mind hopscotches across too many memories at once. Paul, on the ground, staring up at me with an apologetic smile as he bleeds out. A shot-up gangster I barely know, resting his head on my lap while gasping out his last words. A young boy, a teenage girl, a new mom. The progression of their images from official missing photos to unofficial death masks dances across my vision.
I am more than a finder of lost people. I am a repository of final moments, with too many of them having been seared into me.
“Water,” Scott’s babbling. “Do you have water? He needs water.”
I blink my eyes, focus on the matter at hand.
Scott is standing over Neil’s body. The young man’s face is covered in blood, his spiky brown hair matted at one side, his eyes closed. He moans. First sign that he’s still alive.
I scamper onto the rock beside Scott, dropping my pack and grabbing my thermos. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. I found him like this. I’d been with Miggy, but he, um, he suggested I might want to talk to Neil.”
I yank my bandana off my face, soaking it with water. My hands are shaking so badly I splash it all over the boulder. I start dabbing at Neil’s face, looking for signs of the core wound.
“Keep blowing the whistle,” I instruct Scott. “We need more help.”
Just then, Neil’s eyes fly open. He stares right at me as I recoil sharply.
“Shhh,” I murmur. “You’re okay now.”
He’s lying at an awkward angle, having fallen with his pack still on. Maybe he stumbled and whacked his head. I want the explanation to be that innocent, even as I already doubt it. I already noticed smears of red on the stones around us. As if Neil staggered around, shaking his bleeding head—fighting off an attacker—before collapsing.
Neil blinks at me several times, clearly trying to get his bearings.
“What . . . what happened?” he asks. He licks at his chapped lips. I grab my water bottle and pour some liquid straight into his mouth. He swallows gratefully.
“We were going to ask you that.”
“ ‘We’?” For the first time, he notices Scott. Something tightens in Neil’s face, then disappears before I have a chance to grasp it.
“Scott found you. He called for help.”
On cue, Scott sounds the whistle again. I can hear more sounds bouncing around the canyon. Rocks sliding, footsteps pounding. The cavalry arriving. I hope.
Neil winces at the sharp noise, raising a hand to his head. I grab it before he can touch the sticky mess.
“Not yet. I’m still trying to inventory the damage. What hurts worse?”
“My head. The . . . back of my skull.” Neil shudders slightly. “Jesus.”
“Can you move your limbs?”
He lifts his arms and legs. Then, before I can warn him not to, he twists his neck from side to side.
I can see the back of his cranium now. Definitely the source of the carnage. I give up on the bandana and pour the last of my water straight onto his hair. As a bloody river flows away, I can make out an ugly gash up high. Probably a couple of inches long. Probably in need of stitches, or at least superglue. Though how you crazy-glue someone’s head, I have no idea.
A rush of heat and gasping breath, then Martin bursts upon us. I don’t look up, intent on delicately probing the wound. Neil grimaces but holds steady as I examine the damage.
“What the hell . . .” Martin draws up short as he spies Neil, blood and more blood.
“Head versus rock,” I announce. “The rock won.”
Beneath my fingers, Neil
laughs faintly. Or maybe hysterically?
“What happened, son? You trip and fall?” Martin squats down in front of Neil, peering at the young man’s face.
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?”
“I was staring at an opening. Trying to decide if I should investigate. Then I heard something. A noise. I turned . . . I don’t know. Here I am.”
Martin thins his lips, frowning. “Rocks rain down from these cliffs all the time. How do you think we got so many at our feet? You shouldn’t have been standing so close. It’s dangerous.”
I stop examining Neil’s wound long enough give Martin a pointed stare. “Now is not the time.”
“Asshole,” Scott mutters, much less diplomatically
“I wasn’t standing that close to the cliff,” Neil bites off, batting at my hands and struggling to sit up. “I know what I’m doing. Five years of chasing you through these goddamn mountains, you think I don’t know what I’m doing?”
“Shhh,” I try to steady him, but he’s too pissed off. Ready or not, Neil sits up. More blood immediately wells at the back of his head. I thin my lips at my disobedient charge, then glare at Martin again.
At least Martin has the decency to appear contrite. For now.
“Careful,” I murmur to Neil as he shifts to a more upright seated position. “Head wounds bleed a lot.”
“I know. I played soccer. Not my first split skull.” He stares at me. “What happened? Who are you?” Then, as my eyes widen in alarm: “Just kidding. It takes more to scramble my brains than you think.”
Noise from behind. Luciana and Daisy are weaving their way rapidly toward us. Not far beyond them come Miggy and Bob, leaping frantically from rock to rock. Well, Miggy is leaping. Bob is just stepping. But they’re both hustling as fast as they can. Maybe our group that’s not a group is stronger than I thought.
Still no sign of Nemeth, but he’d probably made it to the far end of the cliff wall by the time Scott blew the whistle. Without any means of contact, there’s nothing we can do but wait for his return.
The remoteness of our location. The lack of access to outside help.
Kneeling before a wounded man, I refuse to think about it.
Daisy and Luciana arrive first, followed shortly by Bob and Miggy. Miguel takes one look at his injured friend and immediately looks like he’s going to be ill. He turns away sharply. Daisy, on the other hand, scrabbles onto the rock and heads straight to Neil. She stops mere inches from him, whining intently, as Luciana arrives thirty seconds later, panting heavily.
Neil gives Daisy a reassuring pat. “I’m okay. I promise.”
Daisy licks his cheek.
Abruptly, Neil draws the dog toward him and buries his bloody face in the ruff of her neck. After another second, his shoulders start to shake.
He’s crying. Because of his injury? The intensity of the moment? Grief over what last happened in these mountains so many years ago?
It feels wrong and intrusive to watch. We stare at anything but the sobbing man and consoling dog until finally Neil pulls away, swiping at his eyes with his dirty hand. Daisy licks his face again. He laughs roughly.
“Honestly, best kiss I’ve had in years.” He laughs again, hugs her close, laughs even harder.
Forget his physical recovery; I’m no longer certain he’s mentally with us. But he lets the dog go, then stares straight at Martin and declares in a defiant tone, “All right. We only have a few days, right? Let’s do this.”
* * *
—
We do not do this. Neil may think he’s all well and good, but the second he stands up, gravity proves problematic. Bob has to grab him, while Scott scurries forward to prop him up from the other side. It takes both of them to get Neil slowly back to our temporary base camp at the midpoint of the wall.
Miguel trails far behind, looking at anything but his injured friend. Neil doesn’t seem to notice, but I do.
We arrive just as Nemeth does.
“I thought I heard a whistle. What happened?” Then, gazing upon Neil’s bloody face: “Crap.”
Neil’s laugh again. “Yes, sir. That’s me. Mr. Fuck-Up. Pity when you could’ve had Saint Timothy instead.”
Scott and Miggy exchange startled glances.
“Let’s get him back down to sitting,” I instruct. “And water. He needs more water.”
My supply is out, but between the others, fluids are rapidly produced. As the resident first aid experts, Luciana and Nemeth take turns inspecting Neil’s bashed skull.
“Nauseous?” Luciana asks. “Headache? Tunnel vision?”
“I’ve had concussions before,” Neil mutters, raising a hand to block the sun. “Scale of one to ten, give this a four. Rest. Just need to rest.”
Daisy takes up position next to him, while Luciana sits on Neil’s other side. Martin and Nemeth walk a short distance away from the rest of us. As if that will keep us from hearing what they’re saying in the middle of an echo chamber.
“We need to abort and get this kid down the mountain immediately,” says Nemeth, hands planted on his hips.
“Get him down the mountain? How? He can barely walk. You know we don’t have enough daylight left.”
“Then we head back to camp. Right now. Make him comfortable, trek out at sunrise.”
“I found the remains of a campfire.” Martin, voice tense. “Right before the whistle blew. Near the opening of a large cave.”
“Old campfires are a dime a dozen in these parts. Plenty of people enjoy building a fire and hanging out after a long day’s hike. Doesn’t mean a thing.”
“But the one I found was encircled by perfectly matched stones. Like the one at the lean-to. I’m telling you, Tim had a thing for balance and symmetry. It’s his. I know it.”
Nemeth, staring hard at Martin: “First hazard of any search and rescue—seeing what you want to see versus what’s really there.”
Heaven help me, I raise my hand. “I found something, too.”
Both men stop arguing, turn to stare at me. Nemeth is scowling while Martin regards me with the kind of feverish intensity only a grieving parent can know. I’m now the center of everyone’s attention.
Deep breath: “I’m not convinced Tim would take shelter. I thought he might try to climb the cliff face instead.”
“You didn’t even know him.” Miggy speaks up, tone hostile.
“I didn’t. But I’ve been learning about Tim through all of you. And all of you loved him very much.”
Neil chitters, “Saint Timothy!” Scott glares at him.
“Tim didn’t have any rock-climbing gear,” Nemeth states at last.
“Maybe he didn’t need it. Pulling back, I was able to identify a path of sorts. Tricky, and probably terrifying. But the cliff wall is riddled with protrusions and ledges. If someone was desperate enough, he could think it worth trying.”
“No way,” Nemeth says, just as Martin speaks up. “What did you find?”
“Something dark green. Maybe an article of clothing? It’s about a third of the way up. Too high for me to see clearly. But there’s definitely something there. I marked the spot with a cairn. You can take a pair of binoculars and check it out for yourself.”
Martin reaches immediately for his pack, as if to retrieve said binoculars. Nemeth grabs his arm.
“For God’s sake, man, the living matter more than the dead.”
“Take him back to camp.” Martin jerks his chin at Neil. “Do what you gotta do. But I’m not walking away. Not with this much daylight left.”
“So you can get your head bashed by the next falling rock?”
“She said dark green. Tim was wearing a green windbreaker. You know that. This is what we came here for. Now, let go of my arm, if you plan on keeping yours.”
My eyes widen at that, wh
ile the group swallows a collective gasp. Nemeth remains exactly as is, face set, hand wrapped tight around Martin’s wrist.
Then—
“Uh, guys.” Neil with his little laugh, sloppy, concussed grin. “Before you kill each other, might wanna consult with the rest of us.”
Nemeth and Martin remain fixed on each other, not inspired by the suggestion.
“I’m not going back to camp,” Neil continues breezily. “Not cuz I don’t want to. Sleeping bag? God, that sounds good. But, no way I can walk. The rocks are moving. Racing like a current. Do stones eat brains? I’ve never thought about it, but I think they enjoyed mine.”
Martin is startled enough by this new level of insanity to stop growling at Nemeth and regard his son’s injured friend. In response, Nemeth releases Martin’s arm, also considering.
“I’m gonna sit here,” Neil continues. “No. I’m gonna sit over there. Nice, shady spot where the sun can’t stab me in the eye. More water. More rest. Then maybe the rocks will hold still. And eventually I can make it back to camp. But right now? Not gonna happen.” Neil pauses. “Whoa. Why is my head bloody? Who are all of you? What the fuck?” Longer pause. “Never mind. Psych!”
We are all alarmed now, but Neil has a point. He’s in no shape to move, and given the rough footing here . . . I’m not sure we can even carry him out.
Bob tentatively raises his hand. “I don’t mind checking out the green fabric Frankie spotted. I mean, as long as Neil needs to rest . . .”
“You can’t make it up that path,” I inform him. “It’s meant for modestly sized humans, not aspiring Bigfoots.”
Bob bursts into a smile, clearly delighted by the comparison. Some of the mood lightens.
“We can go.” Miggy and Scott, united again.
We all take another breath, glance at Nemeth.
Martin speaks first: “I’ll go with Miguel and Scott to check out Frankie’s discovery.” He hesitates, then looks at Nemeth. “Maybe you, Luciana, and Daisy would like to explore the area around the cave I discovered. Given how the campfire’s been constructed in a certain individual style.”