ALLISON PULLED UP TO HER street’s bank of mailboxes after work Friday afternoon and took out the usual stack of bills and junk mail. But the letter in the middle of the pile was far from usual. Parker’s handwriting. She knew it in an instant. She ripped the envelope open and began to read his nearly illegible scrawl.
Hey Sis,
Yeah, of course I’m alive. Tell Mom, okay? She’ll believe you more than she would me. I want to write to her, but I’m not sure how, you know? Her losing Dad and all. Us too, but she’s the one who needs words talking about how because he’s moved on, she needs to move on too, and I don’t know those words. The right words, that is. You’re the writer-type person, not so much me. And tell her I love her and think about her and all that stuff too, all right?
Doing fine here. Just processing things the way I process them, ya know? You probably want to know where here is, don’t you? I ended up getting off the grid—that’s a big shock, huh?—out in Mazama. Still in Washington, so Mom should be happy about that.
Do you know where that is? I didn’t till I found it. Hadn’t even heard of it. It’s pretty close to Winthrop, that cowboy-themed town north of Lake Chelan. Built a place for myself here in the middle of nowhere. Didn’t take long because it’s small. But it’s got a couch if you ever want to come visit. I hope you’re well. Hope you and Kayla are killing it with your architecture stuff instead of killing each other. Hope you and Mom aren’t missing me too much. I’m guessing you aren’t, but I might be wrong.
If you ever want to come visit, I wrote out directions for you. But if you don’t feel like making the drive over here, don’t worry about it. I’ll be coming back to say hi pretty soon. I hope. Don’t ask me to define soon.
I have my cell, but the coverage is lousy, so it’s shut off most of the time. But you can write to my PO box. It’s on the envelope. I check it every week or so.
Love to you, Sis, and love to Mom,
Parker
Parker Moore stood on the edge of the cliff and stared down into the craggy valley below. Five thousand feet down. Maybe 5,500. He grabbed a loaf-size rock in one hand and held his stopwatch in the other. He tossed the rock over the edge, starting the timer at the same moment the rock left his fingertips.
He squinted at the stone as it rocketed down the face of the cliff, then shattered against the massive boulders below. Parker peered at the readout on his watch and did a quick calculation. Best guesstimate: just under 5,000 feet. He repeated the exercise twice more. The average of the three tosses came in at 5,100 feet. Plenty of height for a serious rush.
He’d spotted this peak in the heart of the North Cascade Mountains two years ago, but he’d never had the time to scale it till now. Odds were few had climbed to the top. It had required four hours of hiking through rough trails to reach the base, then another four hours of climbing, several of them in clouds with intermittent rain and less than one hundred feet of visibility.
Long before he reached the top, the trail had vanished. He’d crossed large open areas with no guidance or direction. Which was fine. It was exactly what his life had become. The unknowing had become his companion, and he sank into the comfort of only having to understand one step in front of himself at a time.
Now, as he stood on the cliff in the fading twilight, he smiled, knowing the odds were even lower that anyone had ever done what he would do in the morning: leap off the cliff five thousand feet above the ground with a wing suit snugged up tight around his body and a parachute on his back. BASE jump where no one had jumped before. Something about the risk fueled him like nothing else in life, and this would be his most insane jump yet.
He didn’t sleep well that night—not a surprise, since he never slept well before he tempted fate with one of his “insanity missions,” as Allison called them—but the feeling during and for a time after his jumps made a little insomnia well worth it.
The light from the east woke him at a few minutes past six thirty. As he munched on his last Mountain Bar, Parker eased over to the edge of the cliff and gazed down. A smattering of clouds moved toward him along the base of the cliff to his left. He needed to hurry. He was crazy, but not crazy enough to jump into a cloud bank that obscured the ground. Parker had found his exit the day before, an old abandoned logging road that ran parallel to the cliff. He could just make out the line as it snaked through the logged-out ground, where new growth had yet to fully reclaim the land.
He packed up, slipped into his wing suit, and checked his pack once more before strapping in and walking to the edge of the cliff. He stared into the valley with its rock-strewn, thick-treed tapestry sprawling out before him.
Then, as always, came the best moment. And the worst. Both at the same time. The anticipation, the slam of his heartbeat spiking, the monsoon of fear, the embrace of the fact he could be dead in less than thirty seconds all crashed through his mind. He glanced at the clouds. No more time to savor the prejump rush of emotions. Time to go.
Eyes closed. Always eyes closed for fifteen seconds before a jump. Enough time to pray to God, if God existed, to tell his mom and Allison he loved them, and tell Joel they might be reunited sooner rather than later. Then open his eyes, no hesitation, and go.
A quarter second later Parker was no longer the man who’d stepped off into nothing. He was Iron Man, the Human Torch, a sentient comet streaking through the sky going wherever he chose. A bank to the left on a whim, then right, then straight, then right again, the rush of the wind pummeling his face, the rush of the ground coming up to meet him—but not yet, not yet.
All concerns, worries, inadequacies disappeared. Nothing existed except this moment. His body felt like a fighter jet, able to maneuver with great agility and speed. The shrug of a shoulder, the pointing of his toes, and the suit changed the speed and angle of his glide.
Parker laughed and dove straight at the ground till he gathered enough speed, then planed out, achieving the sensation of weightlessness.
Too soon—every time it was too soon—the ground filled his vision and Parker pulled his rip cord. A second later his chute would fill and he’d slow from over a hundred miles an hour to less than ten. He pulled. No chute. And he continued to rocket toward the earth. No!
Panic yanked on his mind, but Parker refused to give it quarter. Think! Calm. Find your secondary chute. His hand flailed for the ring. He’d practiced it a million times, but never when he was plummeting toward the earth at terminal velocity. No panic. No time for anything but getting hold of the ring and pulling.
He glanced at the ground. C’mon! Had to release it at least four hundred feet above the road. Any less and the chute wouldn’t open in time. His fingers latched onto . . . No, that wasn’t it. Find it! There! He grabbed, yanked hard. Seconds later his reserve chute popped open and relief flooded him.
He pulled hard to the left. Only seconds to adjust so he could catch the edge of the road. His boot clipped the branch of a young Douglas fir tree but nothing else. A few seconds later he yanked down on his cords and skidded to a halt on the old logging road.
Adrenaline pumped through him more powerfully than he’d ever known, and he fumbled to unclip himself from the chute. His breath came in ragged gasps, fear still tightly clenching him. But then a sliver of laughter started deep down and grew till it filled his entire being.
Parker gazed up at the cliff he’d just launched himself off of, and his fear transformed into the biggest rush of exhilaration he’d ever had. He’d done it. Yet again he’d cheated death, conquered the fear of jumping off into nothing, not knowing how it would end. And for a moment, more than a moment, he felt like a man.
When Parker reached Mazama five hours later, he stopped at the gun store in town, strode up to the front counter, and watched the twenty-something clerk behind it. The kid was on a short ladder, pulling two boxes of ammo off a shelf about ten feet high. Parker tapped his foot in double time to the insipid song from Nickelback or a band like them that poured out of the speakers overhead. Molasses. The kid must cover himself in it before work every morning. Would be impossible to move that slow without some kind of assistance.
Finally the kid came down off the ladder, handed the ammo to the guy in front of Parker, then asked, “Is that all you need, Billy?”
“Yeah, thanks, Bo.” Billy twirled the toothpick in his mouth.
“You headed up into the hills this weekend?” the kid asked.
“Gonna try. I figure we’ll have to head up there on Saturday if we’re gonna go, ’cause I checked the weather, and it’s saying the clouds are going to be spitting pretty good on Sunday.”
The kid jabbed a finger of each hand in two different directions and grinned. “Which route you thinking of taking?”
Parker’s foot was now tapping triple time. He squeezed his lips together and moved up next to Billy Joe Hunter, then started rapping his fingers loudly on the glass counter.
“You mind, pal?” Billy said and turned back to the kid. “I’m thinking we’re gonna head up Cooper Canyon.”
“Sounds good. I’ve been wanting to get up there for a couple of months now.”
“Yeah, gonna get up there, get something hopefully, maybe camp up there, maybe not. Just don’t know, you know? We’ll find out when we get up there and see the lay of the land. I’m gonna spend the night. I got a new tent, supposed to be good in the wind, rain, snow, probably earthquakes too!”
Billy laughed at that, and Bo joined in.
“Excuse me,” Parker said.
Billy turned, eyes cold. “Yeah?”
“I’d like to grab some ammo before the moon comes out.” Parker tried to smile, but it probably came out more as a grimace.
“That right? Well, I’d like to finish my conversation with my friend here.”
Parker nodded and stepped back a pace.
“So as I was saying, it’s a new tent. I got a new pack—well, not completely new—but the guy said it was only used twice, didn’t even look like it was used once, so I made a good offer on it and the guy takes it, so I’m trying out all this new gear, and should be a good trip.”
“Excuse me, Bo? Is it possible for you to grab me some ammo while you’re talking to Billy?”
“You got a problem, pal? Maybe somethin’ you wanna say to me?” Billy shuffled into Parker’s private space.
“Me? No.” He narrowed his eyes. “You. Yes. You want to tell me you’re going to give me a minute to buy my ammo and get out of here.”
“Really, you want to tell me more about that?”
Billy’s breath stank.
Parker started to speak when his dad’s voice barked into his mind. “A true man knows how to hold his frustration in. A true man is patient. A true man doesn’t fight petty battles. Instead, he fights the ones that change the course of the world. A true man . . .”
Parker stood up to his full height and moved forward an inch. Bumped the toes of his boots into Billy’s feet.
“I asked you a question, pal,” Billy said.
The distance between their noses was now less than three inches. The guy was taller than Parker by an inch, maybe two, but Parker was thicker, and the thickness had grown into solid muscle over the past six months. Billy? His thickness wasn’t from muscle.
“I was thinking about asking if you wanted to step out . . .”
“A true man . . .”
“No, let me back up. I wanted to say something else.” Parker clenched his teeth.
Shut up, Dad.
“Yeah, wanna tell me what it is? Sounded like you were ’bout to invite me to a party outside. That about right, cowboy? I love parties.” Billy grinned as he twirled his toothpick and winked at the kid behind the counter.
“A true man . . .”
Parker slid his right boot back half an inch. Then his left boot joined the right.
“My name is Parker,” he said as he forced his tone to mellow. “I haven’t been much beyond my property and a couple of miles around it, and I’m looking to expand a bit. Wondering if you could suggest a good spot for me to do a little light hunting. Where I’m not going to disturb any of the locals.”
Billy stared at him for at least five seconds, his countenance moving from ticked off to puzzled to playful.
“Sure, friend. I can let you know where to go.” He thumbed toward the kid behind the counter. “You mind if I finish up with Bo here first?”
“Not at all. Take all the time you need.”
Parker moved away and perused the fishing poles along the wall to his left. Five minutes later Billy the hunter strolled up to him.
“Billy Culver.”
Parker took Billy’s extended hand. “Parker Moore. Pleasure.”
“Agree.”
For the next fifteen minutes Billy described the best places to hunt, to hike, to fish, to explore.
“Thanks for all that, Billy. I appreciate it.”
Billy nodded and said, “What kept you from taking a poke at me a few minutes back?”
“My dad. Heard a few of his sayings ringing in my ears.”
“Yeah.” Billy chuckled. “Dads can do that to ya. The good, the bad, and sometimes the brutally ugly.”
Billy sauntered off but turned before he’d made it five yards. “Would’ve been a heck of a fight, Parker. But ya woulda lost.” Then he grinned, turned, and kept going.
Parker meandered back to the counter.
“I need to grab some nine millimeter ammo from you and some targets.”
“No problem.” Bo still moved like an ice-encased slug. But it was okay. At least for today.
After a stop for groceries, Parker headed to his cabin. Thirty-five minutes later he reached the edge of his property and parked his ATV under a small lean-to he’d built in a cluster of aspen trees to shelter the four-wheeler from the harsh winter he’d heard would visit him in the late fall. He’d walk the rest of the way. As soon as his cabin came into view, Parker moved to the right, behind a cluster of trees and thick bushes, and slowly circled his home. He stopped as he peered into each window, looking for movement. This was his routine. Stupid? Probably. But to learn to think like a cop, he needed to learn to think like a crook, and this was how they’d approach a break-in. The good ones anyway. At least according to what his dad used to say, and his dad would have known.
Parker finished the circle and made his way to the back door. Another part of his routine. “Never go through the front door. That’s a good way to get killed.” He listened for a moment, then pushed through. He never locked it. Few even knew his place existed. And there wasn’t much to steal. His laptop maybe. That was about it. If his imagined criminal wanted in, they’d get in, locked or not.
He shoved his groceries into the fridge, then pulled the ammo out of its sack and headed back out the door. He wandered back and forth at the edge of his property where the trees kissed the small meadow, till he reached the ten-feet-tall and ten-feet-wide hay bales he’d stacked. Parker secured a paper target at chest height and marched off the distance once, then turned around and marched it off again, to be sure. The precise distance used at the academy. He pressed the toe of his boot into the dirt and drew a line. He set his feet, clicked off the safety, and pointed the gun. Gaze down the target. Forget that a kick was coming. Relax. Deep breath. Ease the trigger back. Boom!
Parker grabbed the binoculars that hung on his belt and lifted them to his eyes. First shot. Almost perfect. Almost dead center. Parker looked skyward.
“How was that shot, Dad? Huh?”
Half-second pause, then pull the trigger again. Boom! Boom!
Another two shots dead center.
“Those two, Dad? What about them? Will that work for you?”
Three more, all within an inch of each other.
“Good enough? Want me to step back? Yeah? How far? Three feet? Five? How far? Just let me know.”
Parker reloaded and took aim. Dusk began to settle and Parker exhaled his breath slowly. Glanced at his watch. Two hours. Enough practice for today. He slogged over the bumpy ground, slowed as he approached the target. A jagged circle of holes ringed the center of the target. Not good enough. All had to be inside. Then he’d step back five paces. Then another five. Just fifteen feet more till he reached his brother’s distance.
As Parker made his way back to his cabin, he studied the sky. Only a hint of clouds. Bright star hovering. Probably not a star, probably Venus or Mars looking down on him, telling him it would be all right tonight.
Parker tacked the target to the wall above his kitchen table and stared at it. Then fixed his gaze on the target next to it, the one he’d fixed in place the day before. And the day, and day, and day before that.
He turned one of the stove’s three burners to high, filled a pot with water, and set it on the burner. Nothing fancy tonight. Nothing fancy any night. Simple and filling was fine with him. He took a package of deer meat from one of his three kills out of the fridge and set it on the counter. He’d whip up some noodles to go with it and be done.
While he waited for the water to boil, Parker strode out the front door and over to a small detached shed he’d built. But not for tools. For training. The walls were mirrored, the floor padded. There were three grappling dummies, a punching bag, even a wooden muk yan jong sparring post he’d built from one of the trees he felled for the cabin. Free weights lined one wall. Training bands and ropes and a variety of handcuffs lined another.
Parker marched up to the muk yan jong and sparred with the inanimate post he imagined was real. Five minutes later sweat poured down his back, and his forearms and legs ached from the punishment. Time to throw noodles in the pot, meat in the oven.
He patted his stomach. Getting stronger. Felt his upper arms. Little fat left on those prime cuts of meat. Guns. For the first time in his life, he could call his arms guns. He’d earned it. Twenty-four pounds lighter since getting here five months back. Ten more pounds to go to hit his goal weight. Dad would be so proud.
Yeah. Sure he would be.
After dinner and cleanup, he went to his makeshift desk and picked up the notepad and pen that sat in the center. Maybe he’d write Allison another note. It gave him a way of talking without having to talk. She must have gotten the first one by now. Maybe she’d write back. Maybe someday she’d come see him. He needed that more than he wanted to admit.
Allison found her mom in the kitchen making guacamole on Friday evening.
“Can we talk, Mom?”
“Of course we can. Anytime.”
“I need to take a little trip tomorrow and want to see if that’s okay with you. If you’ll be all right without me for a day or two.”
“My ankle is doing great. You can see how I’m getting around. I’m fine, so go. Go.”
Her mom opened a bag of chips, poured half of them into a bowl, and brought the guacamole to the table.
“If Parker were here I’d have to double that amount.”
“True.” Allison slid Parker’s note out of her pocket. “Speaking of Parker . . .”
“Yes?”
“He’s doing well.”
Her mom’s eyes went wide. “You talked to him?”
Allison slid his note across the table. “He wrote to us.”
Her mom opened the note and read for a few seconds. “It looks like he wrote to you, not us.”
“Read the note, Mom.”
When she finished, tears spilled onto her cheeks.
“He loves you, Mom.”
“I know. I know he does.” She wiped her cheeks. “I’d just like to see him every once in a while.”
“You keep forgetting he’s a guy.” She reached over and squeezed her mom’s hand. “They process things differently. He’s going to be okay.”
“That’s where you’re going, isn’t it?” Her mom blinked back more tears and sat up straight. “To see Parker.”
“Yes,” Allison said. “He needs to know about what’s going on with us, and I want to ask him about the journal.”
“Do you have to tell him about your father?”
“Yes, Mom. I do.”