No Footprints

Table of Contents

 

 

 

For Susan Sandler

When life is too good, I get wary.

I
was
wary—guardedly thrilled that not only was I the go-to stunt double on
Faster!
but I was the one doing the final location scan on this site I'd pushed for—the Golden Gate Bridge with the evening fog flowing in. Now the mother of all fogs loomed just to the west. It was perfect for me running the walkway, noting the effect on light, visibility, mobility, so we could update the storyboards for the scenes here. With luck—

But I already had so much good luck I must've been siphoning it from strangers.

Best of all, Mike, my brother who'd been missing for twenty years, was finally home. Right now he was driving across the bridge in a snazzy silver convertible with the top down! When I made it to the Marin side, he'd be waiting. And in four short days the whole family'd be at Mom's for the celebration we'd feared would never come, Mike's birthday dinner with him cutting his cake. I was so happy it positively terrified me.

I'd passed the first bridge tower minutes ago, moving through the November cold as fast as I could while still being able to check out the walkway surface, the railings to the roadway, and the water. I'd guessed the towers would provide some shelter and they did. Fingers of fog were wagging across the roadway and parts of the city were already covered, but
I could still see San Francisco glowing in the last dazzle before dusk. Even here on the walkway there were good visibility breaks in the fog. Two guys in parkas leaned against the railing in one of the alcoves, arms around each other's shoulders. In the next alcove a tourist took a last picture, packed up his camera, and headed fast for land as if he'd just realized how frigid it was going to be once the sun was really gone. It'd be a long mile back to the city side.

That view had been my selling point. There'd be raised cameras on the far walk, shooting over the traffic and across the running double—me—catching the sharp glow of the city in last light in the distance.

Something grazed my arm.
Pay attention, Darcy!
I skirted a propped bike, barely missing two women trying to zip their jackets without slowing down.

On the roadway, cars clopped over the gratings, icy wind rushing between them. I should have worn a cap. I hadn't. Now my long hair lashed my face.

I glanced up. The dense fog wall was at the far side of the bridge.

Mike ought to have passed by now. Where was he? I checked the roadway but it was useless. Couldn't he have found a brighter car? Yellow like the warning jacket the bike patrol wears, or red, like the bridge itself, or even darker red, like the coat on a woman ahead of me on the walkway. Maybe he'd already gone by. I'd started out running too fast; now I was paying the price, but I'd never let him, of all people, see me slowing down after a mere mile.

Was that a horn?

It was! I turned in time to see Mike wave.

The woman in the red coat—red
jacket
—jerked toward him with a big, surprised smile. Did she know him? Headlights bounced off her, revealing a snazzy drum major's jacket complete with buttons and braid. A notice-me
jacket. With the wind snapping her black hair, she looked terrific. Even I could barely take my eyes off her.

But she didn't wave back or give a nod of recognition. She looked, even from a distance, shocked.

Then the headlights were gone and she disappeared into the dark. I turned to look for Mike. He'd accelerated forward into the fog.

Headlights hit the woman again. She was leaning against the red metal railing looking at the view, her body in her red jacket blending into it. The bridge was almost entirely in fog now, but the city was spotlighted gold. As if it were rising up to meet the last ray of sun. As if—

Omigod!

‟No!”

She wasn't sightseeing! She was putting down her purse and reaching for the railing. She was going to climb over. She was going to jump!

‟No! Wait! WAIT!” She was a few car lengths ahead. I ran full out, but I wasn't picking up speed.

She snapped toward me. Headlights flashed on her face. Her mouth was quivering so violently I could see it at this distance. She looked heart-breakingly sad and, at the same time, panicked. For a moment our gazes met. She started toward me.

Then, as if catching herself, she jerked her head toward the water, bent down, picked up her purse, and tossed it over the railing.

No!
‟No! Wait! Don't!” I was screaming, but there was no way she could hear me, not over the wind and the cars. She was ten yards away.

She hoisted herself up on the railing.

Why didn't they make it higher? Four feet, that's nothing!
I pushed my legs faster. It was like I wasn't moving at all. Like I was running in slow motion. Like everything around me was slo-mo. The wind was slapping my hair, holding it out before it hit my face. The fog fuzzed the edges of
everything. The woman was shifting oh so slowly, slightly back and forth on the cold railing two hundred forty feet above the water.

Her leg slipped over it and down the far side.

‟Stop!”

She was sitting on top, as if astride a horse.

‟
Stop!
”

She leaned forward almost parallel to the walkway, pulling her other leg up. She was on the railing,
lying
on it.

The wind itself could blow her over. The suicide call box was right here, and the cameras. Why didn't the Bridge cops see her?

I was gasping. My legs felt like lead.
Hurry, dammit!

She was slipping off.

‟Hang on!” I shouted. ‟Don't move! You're okay!” Only another few steps and I could grab her. ‟I'm coming!”

She slid over the side. I caught my breath. The metal catwalk there was a couple of feet wide. A place for suicides to stand and think. The last step into eternity, somebody'd called it.

She was poised there, turned away from the bridge, toward the water. She was still holding on. Ahead of her was nothing but air, and water.

I lunged for her.

She jerked forward, out of reach.

I caught her jacket.

The snaps unsnapped; the jacket went loose.

She struggled to get free. All that was holding her was cloth.

Frantically, I pulled back on the jacket, the button biting into my hand.

The fabric slipped, and she was wriggling her arms out. In a moment she'd pull loose, the jacket would slip right off, and she'd fall.

No matter how tightly I held it, she'd fall.

I had to grab her body. I had to
let go
and grab.

If I misjudged—

I yanked hard on the fabric. She jerked back into me. I let go, flung my arms forward, and slammed them around her chest. I grabbed my own wrist and held on.

I was half over the rail, my knees jammed against the uprights, panting, gasping.

She braced her legs, thrust her shoulders forward.

My hands were slipping. With every bit of strength I had left, I braced my own knees and rammed my hands into her ribs.

She let out a scream, then slammed back against me, elbows flying. Her head smacked hard into mine.

My arms went numb. I couldn't feel my hands. From memory alone my one hand was connected to the other wrist. But in a minute that would fail.

‟Let me go! I have to—”

Praying my grip would still hold, I leaned back and pulled with everything I had.

She came flying back over the rail and we toppled together onto the cement walk. My head hit it so hard I couldn't see. I could feel her pushing free. I tried to hang on, but my hands weren't working at all now. I could barely breathe.

She managed to stand. Her pale, terrified face loomed above me. She looked as stunned as I was. It was like a moment beyond time. Her black hair was snapping in the wind. Across her eyes emotions flashed and were gone, one after another, instant after instant.

She reached toward me, as if to thank me. But something stopped her and she turned away. When she turned back her expression had changed.

She leaned in close and said, ‟I did one decent thing in my life and you ruined it. Now it's going to be harder, but I have to . . . By the weekend I'll be dead.”

In an instant, she was gone.

My head swirled, my hands and feet were pins and needles. I tried to push myself up but couldn't. Desperately I strained to make out footsteps—her walking away, running even, but the cars clanked too loud over the roadway grates. I was struggling to hear—to
not
hear—a splash. As if! Two hundred and forty feet down!

In a minute I was over and on my knees, and staring at something red. Her jacket! The red jacket with the brass buttons was lying there abandoned.

What did that mean? Had she run a few yards one way or the other, climbed over the railing there, and jumped? I shot glances in both directions. No sight of her.

She could have climbed over and still been on the apron, clinging to the slippery rail. It was a foot lower than the walkway. Maybe she was on the far side . . . But if she changed her mind, climbing
back
over the railing wasn't easy. It'd be a
five
-foot barrier then.
Oh, God!
I peered into the fog. I couldn't make out a form. I eased back off my knees, braced my legs, stood, staggered over to the railing, and stared down.

By the weekend I'll be dead.
Unless she had a change of heart, she'd be back to try again tomorrow. Or the next day, or the next. Without me here
to save her. I squinted into the thick gray, looking both ways, willing my eyes to spot her. Visibility was terrible. Looking down, as if . . .

Hands pressed in on my shoulders, not hard, but definitely firm. ‟Let's move back from the railing!” a man urged, in an official tone.

‟What?” How long had he been behind me? I hadn't even heard him come up. His arm slipped around my shoulder with firm authority. I could feel myself being hauled back like a boat into dry dock.

‟I'm okay,” I insisted, looking over at the Bridge Patrol guy. He was staring at me. Hard. ‟I'm not the jumper. You saw it all on camera? The woman in red? Saw her almost jump?”