Long Gone Man (11 page)

Twenty-six

The black
SUV
was coming
too fast and making no allowance for the switchback they were approaching. It caught up to Singer on a curve and then she lost sight of it behind the rock wall of the turn. Then suddenly the black vehicle was behind her again.

The distance between their vehicles closed to the impossible. “Idiot,” she yelled at the reflection in the rearview mirror. Wasn't it enough the fog had almost killed her without this fool hogging the road now? “Go by.”

Taking her foot off the gas and letting it hover over the brake, Singer edged over as far as she dared. Beastie coughed its objections to less gas, and an image of her van losing momentum and starting to slip back down the hill, going faster and faster backwards, made her press down a little more on the accelerator, before she quickly eased off again as the other vehicle jerked out to the left. There wasn't enough room for the driver to get around her. She cursed vividly.

The black vehicle was alongside her now. Singer braked, expecting him to slide by. Instead, the driver swung his vehicle into Beastie. Singer's scream joined the grinding sound of metal.

There was the jolt of impact, but the old Dodge was heavy and unyielding. Singer's attacker veered to the left and jerked back to hit Beastie again, a more solid strike this time, designed to push the van over the side of the mountain, but the Beast refused to be budged.

Beastie's front fender ripped away with a shriek. Beastie still didn't give in. It was Singer who made the mistake.

Shock and fear made Singer steer away from the impact. The soft shoulder did the rest. It grabbed the right front wheel and hung on, pulling the Beast to the edge. Singer slammed on the brakes.

Singer hadn't made it this far in life without an instinct for survival. Run first and think later was what kept her breathing, so she didn't hesitate now. She was out of the van and diving for cover in the bracken without even asking herself if the driver really meant to push her off the cliff.

The wall of vegetation, nettles, and blackberry canes tore at her flesh. Crouching down, she waited while her heart did backflips against her ribs.

It didn't take long. The black vehicle reappeared. The windows were darkly tinted. She couldn't tell who was inside or even how many. The
SUV
passed slowly by Beastie. Singer pushed farther into the tangle of thorns and brambles and hunkered down behind a rock. Regretting her choice of bright orange skirt, she rolled it up tight and clutched it to her body. She heard the crunch of tires on gravel. Her muscles tensed, ready for flight, and with every fiber of her being she concentrated on what was going to happen next. The sound of the motor changed and she knew the
SUV
had stopped. She didn't raise her head, going on some primary instinct that said if you couldn't see them they couldn't see you.

A small, brown bird landed on a blackberry cane a foot to the right of Singer's face. Unconcerned, it began to sing. Singer stayed still, muscles trembling from forced stillness, and wished the bird gone. A door shut and then a harsh screech told her the driver was inside Beastie . . . only a few feet from where she was hidden. She barely breathed. Finally she heard the slam of Beastie's door. Her fingers dug into the grit, her only weapon. If unknown hands grabbed her, she'd toss the dirt in her captor's face and then throw her weight towards them and hopefully break free.

She heard the sound of an engine, heard the grating sound of tires on gravel. And then the sound of the engine fading as it went around the rock wall.

She stayed frozen in place. Someone might have stayed behind, waiting for her to show herself. She waited for several more minutes. It must be safe now. She climbed haltingly her feet, still unsure. Cramps dug into her calves. She leaned down and rubbed them while her eyes searched for danger.

There was the sound of an engine.
Maybe it's a different car,
Singer thought and backed away, deeper into the brush.

And then she fell off the mountain.

Twenty-seven

Singer cried out as she
dropped ten feet straight down and hit an outcrop. Her fall didn't end there. She slid, sending debris crashing down before her, while gravel from above pelted her. The sound of her screaming added to her terror but neither slowed her fall off the side of the mountain.

Her hands scrambled to grab on to something, anything to stop her descent—brambles, grass, branches, anything would do. Her fingers tangled around things and broke away as she continued downward.

Rubble and debris fell with her, bouncing off her body. Jagged rocks grated her skin.

Her plummet ended when she whacked into the trunk of a stunted tree growing out of the rock face. The impact knocked the breath out of Singer, but for the moment she was safe—splayed against a small tree hundreds of feet above the rocky beach below, but safe. She gulped for air and stared up at the sky, afraid to shift her weight even a fraction of an inch in case she destroyed her delicate balance on the tree beneath her. Everything hurt. She whimpered.

Tentatively and delicately, she raised her eyes to the mountain face above her. There was no sign of another human, no one leaning out to see if she was dead. She was still considering the wall of rock above her when she felt a delicate tremble beneath her.

“Please,” she said.

A shudder ran through the tree. Singer hurled herself forward, landing on the roots of the tree, which were already tearing loose from the mountainside with a great groaning. She screamed, fingers digging into the earth beyond the roots, desperately hunting for purchase. Her hand closed around a rotted branch sticking out of the rubble.

Rocks fell from under her scrabbling feet. First a few, then more fell. A great moan and then a cracking sound came from the tree roots. A giant root ball broke loose from the face, cried its horror, and then the tree thundered down the mountain, sending up a spray of dirt and stones after it.

She continued to grip the meager piece of wood. Her arm felt like it was being pulled from its socket. She tried to swing closer to the face. Her feet were pedaling in the rubble, searching for a hold, while the fingers of her left hand madly scratched but found nothing to hold on to. The exertion propelled her away from the cliff. She dangled there, turning slightly. Seconds passed. And then the piece of timber she clung to cracked.

Singer always knew what her dying word would be. It was a certainty, as it was the only word that ever came out of her mouth in times of trouble, a prayer offered to a very odd deity. She said that word now. “Shit.”

And with that she began her dramatic descent.

Twenty-eight

The first part of her
drop was only six feet. A small rock shelf stuck out from the side of the cliff. She hit the projection and crumbled to her knees.

On all fours and panting like a dog, she gasped out, “Oh, thank you, God.”

But the ledge was covered in dirt and fine gravel that had rained down from above. It was like landing on little ball bearings. Singer began to skid backwards.

She threw herself forward on her belly, fingers outstretched and wildly digging for safety. There was nothing to grab hold of. She slid to the rim at an unhurried pace, unable stop her movement. First her feet bumped off the ledge. Frantically pulling them back, she tried to burrow them into the rock. There was no roost for her feet, nor a small crevice for her fingers to grab on to, so her slide off the outcropping continued. Her feet went over, then her shins, and then her knees.

Arms outstretched, fingers spread wide, her nails scratched in the grit. Her movement paused. A brief flash of hope. And then slowly, almost leisurely, she slipped away.

A fir tree caught her in its branches, easing her down its side, before releasing her down the mountainside. With her face pressed into the grit, she went sledding downward on her belly. Into her head popped a vision of snow and silver runners and long, swift glides down hills, a memory from a long-gone New England childhood.

Here and there outcroppings halted her journey but none of them held. She tobogganed down the mountain on her stomach, face knocking along, fingers clutching for something to save her, until she smacked into a pile of rubble at the bottom. Bruised and battered, but not yet dead, she lay in the heap of deadfall in the arms of the small evergreen that had fallen before her. She stayed there, perfectly still and waiting for what would come next.

Nothing moved and there were no deep cries from large objects being rent from the earth above or below her. Around her were huge boulders and rocks mixed with trees that had already fallen down from the rock face.

A fir branch sticking into the bottom of her bare right foot told her she'd lost a sandal. She was grateful for the sharp prick of needles along her legs and arms, the pain telling her she wasn't paralyzed. Time passed.

Her hands were on fire. She lifted them to see blood seeping from long ribbons of pain on her palms and from ragged and torn nails. But she was alive. She'd fallen hundreds of feet and she was alive. The wonder of it brought tears to her eyes.

Pain quickly replaced gratitude.

“You'll have to move sooner or later,” she told herself. But she didn't want to, didn't want to leave this stable platform. Cautiously she lifted her head. Carefully she pushed herself up. Nothing shifted.

Singer examined herself. Blood sprang from lacerations on her arms as she watched. The front of her blouse was shredded, and dozens of tiny stones punctured her skin from her feet up. Some of the gravel was deeply embedded in her skin, little black mounds of agony. She studied her hands more closely, turning them from front to back and front again.

It would be a long time before they touched any instrument. A new kind of fear ate at her. Without her hands there was no music. How would she live? Best not to think of that. Concentrate on the here and now.

With movement came intense pain, sharp and cutting. Her whole body was on fire with it, and with each blink of her eyes the agony flamed to the level of torture.

She tried to rise and fell back, screaming in pain. Seagulls, flying up from the beach twenty feet below, answered her cries. They circled above her, diving to see if she was food for them yet, dipping and calling to each other before soaring away.

Tears came. They rolled down her face, salting the scratches and cutting rivers through the dirt.

“Slowly, take stock,” Singer told herself. Her left ankle was swollen and covered in blood. She made small, torturous circles with each foot. She tested each leg. Moving up her body she decided nothing was broken.

She crawled from the embrace of the tree and tried to stand. Hurt raged through her. She fell back against a boulder. Settling her weight on her right foot and leaning on pieces sticking out of the deadfall, she struggled from rock to rock, sometimes dragging herself over trees half her height, making her way down to the rocky shoreline. By the time she'd hobbled down to the small beach, she'd stopped crying. Even that took too much energy.

Once, waiting for the waves of pain to ease, she lifted her head and took in the scene before her. A long, white ferry was making its way sedately towards its dock at the end of the harbor, while small sailboats danced across the jeweled surface around it. One boat was quite close to shore. Hope sprang to life in Singer. She raised her hand and waved furiously, ignoring the pain. Several people leaning over the side of the yacht waved back.

She cupped her hand around her mouth and yelled, “Help!” The wind stole away her plea. A man raised his hand with a glass in it and toasted her. The boat sailed on.

Singer cursed them. And then she put them out of her mind. She needed a crutch. She rummaged in the deadfall for something to use and found a branch with a crotch formed by an offshoot. She tucked it under her left shoulder and had one last look above her for danger. No one stood gazing down at her. Would someone from above even be able to see her without leaning way over the edge? Would they be able to shoot her from up there? One thing was certain: they weren't coming down the face of the mountain to finish her off. The mountain protected her from that worry and with luck they'd think the fall had done the job for them.

She leaned on the smooth, silvered piece of wood and slowly worked her way back towards the harbor.

A hundred yards
farther along, the shore narrowed to the width of a few yards and the land rose steeply on her right. A small stream curved down the side of the mountain to join the ocean, and a path ran alongside it, giving access to the beach from the road above. A broad, wooden walkway had been built over the stream, but now, at the end of summer before the winter rains had come, the water under the walking bridge was barely ten feet wide and very shallow.

Someone had created a makeshift home under the bridge. Christmas lights had been strung along the underside of the bridge, and a three-foot artificial Christmas tree, still with silver tinsel hanging from its ragged branches, sat expectantly next to the shabby shelter that had been created from old blankets and bits of canvas. A bucket seat from a car sat invitingly in front of a fire pit.

Joy sprang to life in Singer. She climbed to the hovel. “Hello, is anyone here? Hello?”

There was no answer but still there was shelter and safety and the person who had created this would eventually return to help her. For now she was out of harm's way. Safe. If the person trying to kill her peered down from the road above, they wouldn't see her under the bridge. The fire pit and old seat were hidden from anyone on the path.

She wanted to sink down into the welcoming arms of the plastic seat, but first she craved a drink and wanted to wash away the blood. She hesitated only a moment before she pushed aside the blanket. A rank, feral smell overpowered her.

Singer backed away from the entrance and let the flap fall. There was nothing inside that could help her. Her eyes searched the campsite from a neatly stacked pile of aged cedar shingles, fuel for the fire, to a blue plastic cooler. Battered and missing one handle, the cooler yielded gold in the form of a bottle of beer and an open can of soda.

Singer passed on the cola and picked up the beer. Her hands were too cut and swollen to close over the twist top, so she wadded up the remains of her skirt and wrapped them around the cap. It finally gave way. It was a sign. Things would be all right now.

Singer gulped down half of the warm liquid in one long guzzle and then she limped to the chair and fell into it. She sipped the rest of the beer slowly, taking stock.

She'd found a hidey-hole and for the moment that was enough. As soon as the bottle was finished, she'd bathe her wounds in the stream and then she'd wait. She wondered how long it would be before the owner of the shack came back to help her.

She was raising the bottle to her lips to drain it when the man appeared.