Going Where It's Dark (28 page)

F
orty minutes later, Buck smelled the scent of meadow grass, as wonderful as anything he could remember smelling in his life. Well, maybe not better than chicken pot pie. He could hear the buzzing of a bee and the distant noise of a car on the road as he emerged from the Hole, like some newly hatched grub, half blinded by sunlight.

He couldn't believe the colors! It was as though the world had turned brighter than it had ever been before—the orange of an autumn tree was more orange than he could remember. A yellow bush, brilliant in the afternoon sun. The greens—a fantastic variety!

And the heat! Why was he wearing a jacket?

Buck shaded his eyes with one hand as he turned and stared up at the hump of mountain under which he had crawled, that somehow connected the Hole to the Pit on the other side.

How far was that? How long had it taken?

He was too tired to figure it out. Buck folded up the headlamp and slipped it in one pocket, then removed his helmet and jacket and climbed over the rocky entrance of the Hole. Weaving slightly from fatigue and hunger, he stumbled into Wilmer's meadow and grabbed a handful of daisies, remnants of summer, and stuffed them in his mouth, barely chewing in his eagerness to swallow them down and stop the ache in his stomach.

He could tell that his mind wasn't computing quite the way it should. As though he was slipping in and out of sleep. He knew he was hungry, knew he was sore all over, that he had to get home, but somehow felt he couldn't go home without his bike.

Buck made his way along the line of woods until he came to the road. It took all his energy to go down in the gulley and then up onto the shoulder, where he stood with his thumb outstretched, waiting for a ride. Cars didn't come by all that often.

The first one that passed him whizzed on by, but the second—a beat-up SUV—slowed to a stop, and the driver leaned toward the passenger window, looking him over.

“What the heck happened to you?” he asked jovially. “Looks like you had a little accident. Come on, get in. But you better get a potato sack from back in there and spread it on the seat. You're muddy right up to your armpits.”

Buck did as he was told and exhaled with relief as he sank into the seat. When did car seats get so soft? Hitchhiking was another thing he was forbidden to do, however. How many rules had he broken since he'd started caving without David?

The car moved forward, but the man glanced over. “Is that what happened? You in an accident?”

“Yeah,” said Buck, and leaned back, eyes half closed, his limbs absolutely exhausted.

“Where you headed?”

“Uh…BBBBBBrandon Junction.”

“Whew! That far, huh? Somebody waiting for you there?”

“Yeah.” Lying came easy now. Easier than answering questions. Buck honestly did not think he had the strength for that.

“Well, that's a couple more miles than I was planning on going, but I think I could run you that far. Tom Hoover, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Buck, and closed his eyes completely.

They rode another few minutes in silence and the driver said, “Been strange weather, hasn't it?” And when Buck didn't answer, he said, “Seemed like fall was here for sure, and now it's summer again.”

No reply.
Don't fall asleep,
Buck told himself. He had to get his bike.

“You know,” Tom Hoover said, “you look like somebody who could stand a little lunch, and I got half a beef sandwich back there.” He reached around behind his seat as he drove and pulled out a small white sack with a mustard stain on the side. “You want it?”

Buck's eyes opened and he reached for the sack, nodding. And then he was pushing the bread and beef toward his mouth as though he couldn't get it in fast enough, and the man said, “Hey, hey! You don't wanna make yourself sick now. Go a little easy.”

Too tired to be embarrassed, Buck swallowed, almost without chewing. Another bite and another, before he finally began to slow, and shoved the remaining crust in his mouth.

“How long since you've eaten, buddy?” the man asked.

“It's…bbbbeen a while,” said Buck.

“I can see that.” The man had red hair on his arms and the backs of his hands, and Buck's head nodded as he stared at the glow of those hairs in the afternoon sunlight. At least, he figured it was afternoon.

“Well, wish I had something more to offer, but all I've got is coffee. You want some of that?”

Buck nodded again, and when Tom handed him the thermos, he didn't even bother to pour the coffee in the plastic cup that formed the top; just lifted it to his mouth and drank and drank and drank until it was gone. Then he lifted it a final time to drain out every little drop before he remembered any manners at all.

“Thank you,” he said.

They must have ridden for ten minutes, and then the man said, “Okay, young fella, Brandon Junction coming up. Don't see any car here waiting, though. You sure of where you're going?”

Buck wiped one arm across his mouth and tried to wake up. “Yeah. Brandon Junction and MMMountain Road.”

“Well, I don't know that I could get you through on Mountain, because there's all kinds of police cars and fire trucks and I don't know what down that road a ways. You heard about the kid…the kid who…” The man was studying Buck hard now, and then he said softly, “Holy Moses, Mary, and Joseph…You know what? I think I'm going to drive you right there.”

He turned the wheel, and finally, a few minutes later when they reached Mountain Road, Buck woke up.

He could see the rotating blue and red lights before he could make out the police cars. Then the fire truck came into view, and after that a rescue squad truck. Little groups of people stood talking among themselves, watching the rescue workers moving about the opening of the Pit. The top had been removed.

As the car came closer, a policeman turned and motioned for them to go around. Instead, Tom stopped the car, and as the officer started over, Buck opened the passenger side door and got out.

Standing there in the field with Isaac and Ethan and Rod, Pete had his back to the car, but as Buck approached, Ethan's eyes widened and his lips moved, but no sound came out that Buck could hear.

Pete Ketterman turned, his face suddenly drained of color, and he stared in astonishment as Buck came up to him.

“Where's my bbbbike?” Buck said.

“B…Buck!?” Pete was asking it like a question, as though he couldn't believe what he saw.
“Buck!”
he said again, and then Rod and Isaac said it even louder. “It's Buck!”

And everyone turned—the firemen, the officers, the rescue workers, but the next thing Buck knew, his dad was breaking through the crowd, rushing toward him, and Buck was enveloped in Don Anderson's strong arms, in a hug that almost knocked the breath out of him.

He fell asleep in the car going home. Vaguely remembered his dad shaking Tom Hoover's hand; might have remembered stumbling up the stairs and onto his bed. He slept hard and deep with only wisps of dreams floating through his head, none of them making much sense.

When he woke again in the early morning, it wasn't because he'd had enough sleep, but because he was overwhelmingly thirsty. He found a stack of cookies and a glass of milk, warm now, on his nightstand. He devoured them, went to the bathroom, then slept some more.

When he woke at last, Buck sat up and saw that Mom had thrown a towel over his bed before he crashed, and he was still streaked with mud. The clock read 5:30, and he was confused. He went into the bathroom and drank two full glasses of water, then rested his hands on the sink and startled suddenly when he saw himself in the mirror.

There were bluish circles under his eyes, yet the eyelids were red. His hair was matted on his forehead and caked with dust, his face streaked on all sides by sweat marks in the dirt. And man, did he ever smell.

Someone had already removed his shoes and jacket, but he turned on the shower and stepped in fully clothed, then watched drowsily as brown rivulets of muddy water streamed off him, pooled around the drain, and were swallowed up in a circular motion. He reached for the shampoo and poured a huge glob over his head, almost too weak to wash his hair, but clawed at it a few times and scratched his itchy scalp, then simply stood with his head down, watching the water stream off the ends of his fingers.

He wondered if he had actually fallen asleep standing up, because he was finally conscious of the water turning cooler, and realized he must have used all the water in the hot water tank. Buck turned off the shower, took off his wet clothes, and dried off.

It was only when he had pulled on a clean pair of jeans and an old Orioles sweatshirt that he realized how hungry he was. Ravenous. He could hear conversation coming from the kitchen and figured that Gramps and Joel were home; heard the clink of dishes and realized that the family was probably eating dinner. What day was it?

He thought he remembered his mom grabbing his face in her hands when Dad had brought him home, thanking God and crying. Knew that Katie and Joel and Uncle Mel had been somewhere in the picture, but he couldn't remember where. Now the clock on his dresser said two minutes past six. The meal was probably half over by now, but Buck started downstairs.

Katie heard him coming and met him at the bottom. “He's dressed!” she cried, and almost knocked him over when she hugged him. And then, jokingly, “He walks! He talks! He's alive!”

He managed a grin. And when he walked in the kitchen, all faces turned in his direction, everyone offering him something from there on the table—Joel with the platter of spareribs in his hand, Mom offering a bowl of green beans….

The air was filled with exclamations and questions, until finally Gramps said, “Will you let the boy eat? Hasn't had a meal in three days!”

Three days! That was how long he was underground?

“What day is it?” Buck asked, running one hand through his hair, totally confused.

“Tuesday, Buck, but you've been sleeping since yesterday afternoon, and we figured you needed that more than food,” said Dad.

Buck didn't know about that, because those spareribs sure looked good. He filled his plate with a little bit of everything on the table and let them do the talking while he ate. Katie said that a photograph of him yesterday at the Pit was going to be in the county paper, and that more photographers had been here at the house, taking pictures of him when he got out of the car.

“My bro, the celebrity,” said Joel, grinning.

Buck remembered only some of it. Figured he'd been hugged about a hundred times, filthy as he was. What he remembered most was that everybody wanted to know where he had gotten out and he wouldn't tell them, only the police. And they weren't about to broadcast it, because they didn't want anyone else getting lost down there.

“Nat's called at least six times, Buck, and a reporter wants to come by tomorrow and do an interview,” his mom said. “I told her it was up to you.”

“Sure,” Buck said, and tore into another sparerib, the small bones piling up on the edge of his plate, making Gramps smile.

As for finding out how Buck had gotten into the Pit in the first place, Mel said, Rod was the one who'd finally told his parents, and they had called the police. All four boys had been interrogated at headquarters, where the whole sorry tale had come out. At first they'd said that Buck had been horsing around with them, but then they admitted how it really happened.

Three days after Buck had been dropped in the Pit, rescue workers had swarmed to the scene and were waiting for a professional caver, the smallest man they could locate, to come over from West Virginia and see if he could get through that opening behind the boulder. Scrape marks on the cavern floor had told investigators where Buck had been.

Now, after he finished his mashed potatoes, the best mashed potatoes he'd ever tasted in his life, Buck asked, “So what's ggggggoing to happen to Pete and the guys?”