Tyler woke to the morning sun filtering through the cabin window. Mayson was awake beside him, her eyes fixed on the mountain wilderness outside. Drawing her into his arms, he kissed her with a startling hunger. He was beginning to crave her delicate body’s quiver, her soft sigh, knowing precisely where her lips would wander: over his nose, and into his hair. He knew then to stroke her neck and when his fingers slipped down her spine, her legs would curl and with another sigh, her lips would return to his.
With a determined effort, he tugged the reins on his passion, breaking their last kiss. Rising, she peered fretfully out the window. “I just don’t understand. I’m the one who warms your bed, yet she’s the one you cry out for in your sleep.”
“I hurt your feelings,” he said as he recalled the dream.
“Why should they concern you?” she pouted. “You love Kara.”
“Kara has nothing to do with this.”
She didn’t respond, which meant her entire being was responding. Lying back, he counted the seconds. Finally she shouted, “I know Kara has nothing to do with this! Don’t you think I know that? I hate her, Tyler. She broke your heart and yet you still can’t let her go.”
Rising, he began to dress. “I don’t want to discuss this.”
“Because Kara’s some sort of sacred ground; yes, I know that well.”
“Then why do you keep bringing it up?” He threw on his sweater.
“Because I’m jealous.”
“You’re not jealous.”
“Stop telling me how I feel.” She watched him lace his boots. “So where is your dream woman now? Did she marry someone else? Move to China? Or vanish in the Bermuda Triangle? She wasn’t on the space shuttle. I would’ve heard about that.”
As he grabbed his jacket and started out, she yelled, “Tyler, you can’t keep running away!”
He swung around, his jaw quivering. “You just don’t know when to quit.”
Confused not by his anger, but the deep pain in his eyes, she watched him vanish.
When she emerged from the bathroom later, she found him brooding at the window. There were so many questions she wanted to ask and yet so few he’d answer. “We’re leaving today?”
“It’s too dangerous to sit still.”
“What if Harvey’s package doesn’t arrive? And you haven’t plotted a course on the map. What roads can we take that aren’t sealed off?”
“There’s only the one, north. We’ll get through with our new car and IDs.”
He was much too confident. How could they possibly pull off the miracle of Naples? “Even if we get off the mountain, they’ll be waiting wherever we go.”
“Listen Mayson, I don’t make the goddamned rules, okay?”
“Why can’t we just stay here?” she asked.
About to reply, he stopped at the door’s sudden rapping. As he opened it, Lou entered in her tattered coat and boots, a scarf covering her head. “I reckon you’ve been waitin’ on this,” she said, and stuck a package in his chest. “Feller drove it up in his fancy jeep; a lot newer’n Jimmy’s.” She studied Mayson. “A little sleep brought that rosy glow back to your cheeks. I reckon you’ll be wantin’ breakfast. There’s plenty when you’re ready to come down.”
Tyler emptied the package on the counter: new ID cards, family pictures and the promised biographical research. “Well I’ll be darn,” Lou marveled. “Just like that, you’re somebody differn’t.” Her eyes narrowed. “Enough to get you off the mountain, you figger?”
“We were taking a vote when you came in,” Mayson said.
Lou now recalled the other reason for her visit. “I reckon y’all need to know somethin’ and I hope it ain’t as bad as I think.”
“What?” Mayson’s eyes widened.
“Well, you know Earl and me don’t watch much TV, ‘cept since Wednesday, we’ve been followin’ the news pretty regular, seein’ as you two is the stars and all. Anyway, this mornin’ the news feller was talkin’ about a burglary last night. And them burglars, whoever they was, were pretty darn mean to break into those folks home on Thanksgivin’. Noisy as hell too, seein’ as they woke ‘em in the process, then kilt ‘em both.”
“Who are you talking about?” Tyler asked.
“Them folks in Mountain Creek, Pennsylvania.” She nodded at the package. “I damn near jumped outta my skin when that news feller said Madelyn Stump, ‘cuz I was lookin’ right at her name just as I was her address there.”
They gaped at each other in shock. Harvey dead? It couldn’t be. Tyler quickly turned the TV on to GNN as a Wall Street report ended. The hourly news was next. “What do we do now?” Mayson shrieked.
Pray. Run like hell, Tyler thought. His heart pounded as the news update began. The manhunt remained the lead story; the pair were still believed to be hiding in the eastern Tennessee mountains, and were still wanted for a murder they hadn’t committed and a records conspiracy that didn’t exist.
The anchorman moved on to the next story. “After two weeks in the Orient, Secretary Culpepper is returning home with a new trade agreement...” The vision of oriental prints and vases in the Culpepper York County mansion gripped Tyler suddenly. Betsy had enjoyed the trip more than Travis.
“Just tell us about Harvey!” Mayson insisted as Tyler slipped off with his treasured reflections...
They flew down the lush slope as Matt Culpepper and Kelly Carlisle prepared the sleek cruiser for launch. Kara lugged the picnic basket. He juggled the heavy cooler. Sixteen years old, they moved with a child’s energy, yet appreciated the joys of adulthood. And on that brilliant summer morning, anything had seemed possible.
“They’d never leave us,” Kara said. “We have the food.”
“And the beer,” he added, although uncertain it mattered. “Matt wants to be alone with...”
“Hurry!” Kelly shouted above the engine.
“She sounds desperate,” Kara said. “Come on!”
They reached the dock before Matt could get away, Kelly taking their provisions as they jumped aboard. Starting off now, the day breezed by as they cruised the river, sunned on the bow and sucked down the new contraband acquired only with careful planning: ice cold beer. Anchoring finally in their special cove, they swam, ate lunch, and played on the beach. Kara scooped up another piece of glass, dazzled as always. “Where did it start?” she asked. “How long has it drifted?” She watched Matt pull Kelly into the trees. “Maybe the beer wasn’t such a good idea. “Do you know what Betsy and Travis would do if they knew we had it out here on the cruiser?”
“I know what Travis would do,” he smiled. “Send Matt to military school like he’s always threatening.”
“How much beer does it take to get drunk?” she asked.
“Six, I think.”
“Then you’d better take the helm on the return trip. Matt’s way past six.”
The York mansion had glittered for the evening barbecue, the terrace crawling with guests. Filling their plates, he and Kara ducked into the magnolias as the sun slipped over the river. Her perfumed hair scented the evening breeze. “What is it again?” he asked.
“L’ Air Du Temps. And I’ll expect a bottle for my birthday.”
He now asked the question that had been on his mind recently. “Kara, are we going steady?”
“I don’t really know what that means,” she shrugged. “But if it’s like Matt and Kelly, we moved past that long ago. I can’t even define my life without you. When I look back, you’re in every memory. When I look forward, you’re in every dream. Beginning to end. What we have, Tyler, will sustain us the rest of our lives. We’re ‘best friends,’ that’s what I’m...”
“It’s true!” Mayson’s yelling jerked Tyler from his reflections. “Harvey’s dead!”
The anchorman now stated, “Authorities believe this is the latest in a recent series of burglaries to plague Mountain Creek, having found no evidence linking Harvey’s murder to the conspiracy involving his late friend, Swanson, and the fugitives, Corelli and Waddill.”
“This doesn’t change our plans,” Tyler said. “Lou, have you talked with Vernon yet?”
“This mornin’,” she nodded.
“Did they question him?”
“Some feller with a foreign name Wally couldn’t pronounce too good; he bought Wally beer as long as he kept talking. Drinkin’ and talkin.’ Wally ain’t never had trouble with either. He said the feller was real interested in the Norris case and claimed to be a history writer doin’ research. Real big feller with a bad limp.”
“Leopold!” Mayson exclaimed. “What did Wally tell him?”
“That he remembered the girl leavin’ Luke’s with them boys the night she disappeared. He couldn’t recall their names but said one was real tall. Smoked a fancy cigarette, with black-and-gold ringed filters. Them same butts littered the girl’s grave when they dug her up.”
“Falkingham,” Tyler nodded. “He must’ve been smoking Dunhills even back then.”
Lou asked, “Them hearin’s the news feller was talkin’ about. They’ll be on TV next week?”
“That’s right,” Mayson confirmed.
“Well, now I know forty years adds more ‘n a few wrinkles to a person’s face, but supposin’ Wally was to watch them TV hearin’s real close and finger the new judge as one of them boys? It’s a long shot, but there don’t seem no harm in findin’ out if he can do it.”
“Just make sure he keeps his mouth shut,” Tyler said.
“Wally ain’t too good at that as I said, ‘cept he did manage to keep real quiet about the girl’s murder forty years ago, lettin ‘em put the juice to Edgar when he know’d he was innocent. Made Wally madder ‘n hell when I pointed that out; he damn near broke my eardrum sayin’ he and George put their John Hancocks to statements for Crenshaw, all official-like, the same day the girl’s body was dug up.”
“Who’s George?” Tyler asked.
“George Elroy. He was with Wally at Luke’s the night the girl left with them boys, only George seen more ‘n Wally - enough to get hisself a job at Dennis Crenshaw’s lumber mill. Dennis was Jasper’s brother. And he’s dead now, too, ‘fore you go askin,’ same as George. Anyway, George seen them boys with the girl later that night on Gray’s Ridge. That’s where the college kids did their neckin’ in them days.”
“So Vernon and Elroy gave statements to Crenshaw, who then saw more than three suspects - dollar signs, specifically,” Mayson mused.
“And after getting the statements, Crenshaw must’ve then scooped up the Dunhill butts,” Tyler continued. “Evidence gathered for blackmail, not prosecution.”
“As long as the evidence existed, he knew he was safe,” she added. “They wouldn’t kill him for fear it would come out. Instead, they met his demands, hoping to buy time until the incriminating evidence could be acquired.”
“But it never was,” he said. “It ended up in Morris’s hands, who was killed to keep the secret safe.”
“But it’s not,” she said. “We have to assume the evidence — Vernon and Elroy’s statements and the Dunhill butts, at the very least — wasn’t recovered. Likely it’s in a safe somewhere just waiting to be found. Maybe Crenshaw entrusted it to his sister’s Minnesota family, who then turned it over to Morris.” Thoughtful for a minute, she then asked, “Did they know its contents?”
“If so, they’d be dead now,” he replied. “Assuming they didn’t, Morris wouldn’t have shared the discovery or left the safe behind. He’d have taken it back to New York.”
“And hide it where?” she asked. “A rented locker at La Guardia?”
“If so, it’d be gone by now.”
“How about another storage facility?” she asked. “The Post Office, maybe?”
“Don’t you think those pricks have already checked those places? If Morris drove from Snow Peak to St. Paul to catch his Saturday flight, he could’ve dropped the safe off anywhere along the way.”
“Then why return to Duluth later that day?” she asked. “If it was to hide the safe, he would’ve certainly had it on the plane.”
“So what you figger to do?” Lou asked.
He shrugged. “Find the safe, if it exists. There’s no other way to prove who murdered the girl.”
“Well, when the time comes, I can guarantee Wally’ll tell them John Laws all he knows. Won’t take no more ‘n a keg of premium draft. And in the meantime, I reckon you’ve got a lot of figgerin’ to do and I’ll just get in the way. When you’re done, there’ll be omelets and spoon bread waitin.’ Done threw the grits out, though. Not that it bothers Mayson. She don’t like ‘em, no matter how much she pretends.”
As she left, Tyler said, “I’m sorry about Harvey. I can’t imagine where we’d be without his help.”
“I can,” she smiled mournfully. “It’s an hour from now I’m not so sure about.”
As he retrieved the map from the car and began plotting a northern course, she rearranged their wallets, replacing the old IDs with the new ones. “I’m Blanche Berry this time.”
“That’ll be hard to forget,” he said as he studied the map. “Harder to say with a straight face. Who am I?”
“Clement Alvin Berry.”
“Nice... I’ve just gotten us to St. Louis.”
“If only it was that easy,” she sighed. “What should I do with the old IDs?”
“We’ll dump them in the lake before leaving.” He folded the map. “Are you ready?”
Her stomach lurched. They were leaving after breakfast. Would it be their last?
Grabbing the records under the bed, he followed her out. “I’m still trying to grasp how you carried this damn box halfway across Naples.”
“The same way I carried the boxes from Cellini’s warehouse to the store shelves. You do what you have to.”
They looked up as a black chopper glided south across the mountains. “FBI,” he said. “One just like it dropped Falkingham off at a party on the Potomac once. He’d gotten shit-faced playing golf that afternoon, so rather than going home to change he arranged for a chopper-hop to the party. Can you believe the arrogant bastard? He landed on the hosts’ lawn in his seersucker pants and alpaca sweater, his nose glowing like a cherry, a Dunhill dangling from his lips.”
“You were there?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah. I watched him make a complete ass of himself that night. But why should he care? He’s only Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.”
“And crony of the FBI Director in the conspiracy of the century,” she replied. “No doubt everyone in the Longbridge administration is.”
“Except Travis Culpepper.” Tyler grabbed the box again and followed her down the knoll.
“Why not him?” she asked.
“He just isn’t.” He’d explain later. The box was like lead in his arms. “That chopper means something’s up.”
“Do you think Director Chapman was on it?”
He shook his head. “I doubt he’ll show up until...”
She caught the sudden flash of alarm in his eyes. “Until what — he knows where we are?”
“Tell Lou I’ll be there in a minute.” He started off.
“Answer me, Tyler. Is that what you were going to say?”
“Yes, Goddamnit.”
Putting the box in the car, he returned to find Mayson and Lou sitting gloomily at the table. “Earl’s in the shed messin’ with his lawnmower,” Lou said. “It needed fixin’ last summer when the grass was growin,’ but he waits ‘til we ain’t got none to do somethin’ about it. The man’s always done things backwards.” She nodded. “Sit yourself down. You best be goin’.”
He glanced at Mayson’s untouched plate. When would they eat again? Or would they?
Setting his plate out, Lou watched him eat quickly. “I ain’t gonna’ ask where you’re goin.’ It’s best I don’t know, ‘cuz them John Laws will be callin’ again, sure ‘nuff.”
“Come on, Blanche Berry,” Tyler said as he rose. “It’s time to hit the road.”
Lou gave them warm hugs. “When you’re fixed to go, honk that Beetle if’n Harley Bogins left it with a horn. I’m gonna fix you up a dinner bag for the road.”
Back in the cabin, Mayson slipped on Tyler’s charcoal sweater. It’d be cold driving down the mountain. And was there any reason to assume their new rattletrap had a competent heater? When they finished packing, Tyler grabbed the suitcases. “Why don’t you toss the old IDs while I pack the car?” he said.
As he left she scanned the cabin again, her eyes snagging on a scrap beneath the counter, where she’d rearranged their wallets. Robert Hunter’s number. Or was it a phone number at all? By calling every area code in the country, hadn’t she proven it wasn’t? Still, she retrieved the scrap and hurried down to the lake.
After packing the car, he returned to the Adkins cabin. “Coffee’s brewin’,” Lou said as she met him at the door. “Go get your woman. I’ll have the thermos filled when you get back.”
Shrugging, he returned across the camp. Why did every woman feel it her life’s mission to make a man wait? His only spats with Kara had been over this same irritating subject, one that... He turned suddenly at the groaning air. A strange noise was rising above the trees. He scanned the peaceful mountains, the sleepy cabins, the empty lane, the... A terrible thunder suddenly shattered the sky.
Instinctively, he scrambled up the knoll and quickly cresting it, turned - to see the dust rising and the patrol cars streaming, bumper-to-bumper, into the camp. Lou burst from the cabin as Earl hobbled from the shed. Cars doors flew open and an army spilled over the campgrounds. “Give’em hell!” he thought to himself as he watched Lou’s arms wave furiously.
Bursting into the empty cabin, he then quickly dashed down to the lake. Mayson spun as he swooped like a madman from the shivering trees. “They’re here!” he told her breathlessly. “Hundreds!”
“Where?” she cried in alarm.
Desperately, Tyler scanned the towering mountains; yesterday they were a protective barrier, but today they were a prison. Did direction matter? “Let’s go!” he shouted.
Quickly they fled north across the jagged shoreline, swatting brush, trudging through marshes, and stumbling over rocks. Finally reaching the mountain’s base, they paused to catch their breath. “Corelli! Waddill!” boomed a voice over the water. “Give it up! There’s no way out!” The first Feds trickled down to the shore, half heading north, half south.
“They’re trying to outflank us,” Tyler said.
Again the air vibrated. “This is Special Agent Nicholas. Our forces are surrounding you. Surrender now.”
Oddly he watched Mayson’s eyes shut tightly. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked her.
“Praying,” she replied.
“Well, do it on the climb.” Grabbing her arm, he plunged into the dark mountain wilderness. The brush thickened, daylight reduced to thin cracks in the canopy. At times it disappeared entirely, leaving them to grope blindly on their treacherous ascent.
“Corelli! Waddill!” Nicholas’s command reverberated over their jagged breathing. “Give it up!”
The slope steepened and slippery rocks dominated the higher elevations. Mayson moved slower and grunted louder as she pulled herself up, root by cold, wet root. Clearly she was running out of gas. Tyler began stopping every twenty feet to allow her to catch up, then every ten. With each shiver of brush, each rattling stone on the slope, his heart stopped until she finally crawled, huffing, over the rocks. If there was a woman who could beat this damned mountain, it was Mayson Corelli.
“What are you grinning at?” she asked.
“One hundred pounds of Italian grit.” He studied her flushed face. “You’re tired. Let’s rest.”
“I’m fine.”
“Just five minutes.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“Well, I’m not.” Dropping wearily on the rocks, he gazed at the endless mountains as he pondered their situation. Her foot soon tapped impatiently. “Do you plan on sitting here all day?”
“Just wait a goddamned minute. There’s no bus to catch. I’m considering our options.”
“Which are?” she asked.
He was about to explain when he spotted a gray trickle approaching on the lower ridge. “There,” he pointed. “Those troopers are cutting off the north and, given their numbers, plan to seal off the summit as well. That means our only option is south.” He reached for her handbag, crisscrossed over her shoulders. “Let me have it.”
“I can carry it, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” He started off on the new route. Moving laterally proved even more dangerous than vertically. Like snails, they molded themselves against the slope-less granite and inched their way over infinite space. With less brush, they were exposed for minutes at a time. How long until the first gunshots cracked the air?
Reaching one rocky parapet, they caught their breath and then moved on to the next. An hour passed, along with a quarter-mile of mountain ridge. Soon the slope angled enough for them to walk again over the rocks. The barking returned from above, which meant the troopers had crossed the ridge. “The dogs will pick up our scent,” Mayson warned.
“So what am I supposed to do about it?” he growled.
“Try being a little nicer.”
“You plan on giving me hell up to the last minute, don’t you?” As he reached for her hand, she jerked it away. “Damnit, quit doing that.”
“Then stop grabbing me every five minutes.”
The hounds’ barking faded as an eerie silence settled over the wilderness. Afternoon shadows lengthened on the ridge as they reached another tree cover. With both the mountain’s peak and base likely sealed off, where would they be when night fell and the temperature plummeted?
They leapfrogged across another quarter-mile of rocks as the hounds bayed again overhead. Then without warning, he jumped into a thicket. “No!” Mayson said as she swatted at his offered hand. “You’ve treated me like an invalid ever since we started. Now stop.” Stubbornly she jumped, her legs collapsing as she tumbled forward at his feet. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”
Tyler examined her scraped palms. The left was bleeding. Wrapping it with his handkerchief, he pointed at her ripped slacks. “Maybe you won’t be so hardheaded next time.”
Her nose wrinkled. “What’s that awful smell?”
“Stink weed. It may mask our scent from the dogs.”
“We jumped into this brush because of stink weed?”
“You have a better idea, Miss Brooklyn Trail Guide?”
“Of course, only...” He yanked her into the trees as the air suddenly thundered. Branches rattled overhead and dust swirled at their feet. As if shot from the sky, a chopper hovered above the thicket. Frozen, they waited until its vibrations finally faded. “Now what?” she wondered aloud as it vanished over the ridge.
Before he could reply, two more choppers appeared; one climbing the slope, the other descending. Like the first, they, too, vanished into the eastern sky. He pulled her from the thicket. They continued south until they reached a deep gorge.
“I had no idea the Black Hole of Calcutta was in Tennessee,” she gasped. “How do we cross it?”
He studied the dark, bottomless abyss. “Very slowly, I’d say. Come on.” Foot by ginger foot, root by root, they crossed the deep gorge; a tedious hour passed until they finally reached the other side. Again he picked up the hounds’ barking. “They’re below us now.”
“No doubt on the trail of some stink weed,” she mocked him.
The sun slipped over the ridge and with the temperature plummeting, they continued on safer ground. Their sweaters would offer little comfort when the night chill settled in, he realized. Without food, water or destination, their situation couldn’t seem more hopeless as the choppers now returned. Diving for the closest thicket, they watched them break rank; one climbing the slope, another descending, the third approaching on a lateral course. Pressed to a tree, they waited as the first, then second vanished over the ridge; reaching their thicket, the third hovered just feet above, its vibrations deafening as dust swirled in their eyes. Would it land? Open fire? When they were certain of both, it suddenly streaked away. Lifting Mayson’s chin, Tyler found her eyes filled with terror. “Hey, come on. Have you forgotten the old saying, ‘It ain’t over ‘til the fat lady sings?’ “
“But hasn’t she, Tyler?”
“Hell no,” he smiled. “The only singing I’ve heard has been that damn Brooklyn songbird: ‘Non dimenticar means don’t forget you are my darling...’” Soon her soft soprano took over. He’d come to appreciate her voice’s subtle qualities; its happy lilt, its razor-sharp anger and the gentle glide in between.
Her fear ebbed as she finished the song. “Tyler, when you say I’m your best friend; what does that mean?”
“That we’re like songbirds, I guess, the kind that don’t fly off, but are always there for each other — at least until we can’t be any longer.”
“When is that?” she asked.
“When we die.”
“For me, it means we’re there to remind each other the sun is always shining. That no matter how black the sky may appear, at least one ray of happiness can be found, one spark of hope. Even if we die in the next minute, I have hope in this one because I’m spending it with my best friend.” Her solemn eyes demanded a kiss; as the sun slipped over the ridge, he tenderly obliged. As it ended, she shivered, “How much colder can it get?”
“A lot, I’m afraid.” He studied the darkening sky. “We need to start moving. We’ll stay warm that way.” They didn’t stop again until they reached the next thicket an hour later. By then, the hounds’ barking had returned to the wilderness. But he now caught a new threat on the ridge below: a detachment of Feds and troopers snaking towards them. “We’ve got to turn around,” he urged.
Light was fading as they returned across the treacherous terrain, soon reaching the deep gorge it had taken an hour to cross. They’d have to dedicate another to its re-crossing, clearly a more dangerous proposition. “We’ll have to move slower this time,” Tyler said. He studied the darkening sky, then the steep shelf that curled, horseshoe-like around the gorge. “Do you remember the drill?”
“Grab the root, get a foothold in the rocks, then take the next step. And of course, don’t look down,” she answered. “As if I’d do something so stupid.” Still grumbling, she followed him onto the steep slope. Then, like timid monkeys, they started across the rocks, clutching with one hand, grabbing with the other. Progress was slow but steady as they rounded the horseshoe-shaped gorge. Reaching the bend, they rested, then resumed their tedious journey.
The mindless drill soon echoed her thoughts and she grew tired. Grab the root, plant the foot, take the next step. This was hell, an eternal journey, where thoughts never transcended the body’s idiot-like motions. Grab the root, plant... Suddenly the earth collapsed. “Tyler...!” she screamed.
He turned to find her clinging to a root, feet kicking wildly as she tried to regain a foothold in the rocks. “Wait!” he shouted, crawling back to lift her safely onto the rocks. “You’re damn lucky that root didn’t snap,” he sighed. “I know you’re tired, but you’ve got to concentrate on what you’re doing. We don’t have much further.” She was terrified and exhausted, but he couldn’t let her lose control. Taking a few moments to calm down, they resumed their creep across the rocks. “You’re doing fine,” he encouraged her. “We’re almost there.”
How could he tell, she wondered? Just feet ahead, he was barely visible in the gathering darkness. Grabbing the next root, she extended herself. When her foot wouldn’t reach the ledge, she grunted, then tried again. “Shit!” she cursed.
He turned, smiling. “Your purse is caught on the root behind you. Just ease it off.”
But with one frustrating tug after another, she remained captive. The root had many knots and her purse had managed to coil around each one. Again she jerked it helplessly.
“Don’t put so much stress on the roots!” he warned. “Calm down and don’t forget where you are!”
“Forget where I am?” she panted. “I couldn’t forget even if I wanted to.” Finally she managed to free herself and once again, her weight shifted easily as she grabbed the next root. Her heart shuddered as the dark ledge now merged with the dark sky. Her foot slipped, spewing rubble into the gorge.
Again he found her swinging helplessly and crawled back to the rescue. She kicked and clawed in a desperate attempt to regain a foothold in the rocks. “Grab my hand!” he said as he extended himself.
The root started to give way. “Tyler, help me!” she screamed, dangling wildly.
He lunged a split-second too late as the root snapped. Horrified, he watched her fall screaming into the gorge. “Mayson!” he shrieked, quickly beginning a reckless, spider-like descent of the treacherous slope, reaching the bottom minutes later with his hands raw and his joints burning. Surveying the dense woods, his eyes lifted to the rocks from which she’d fallen. Did he dare hope she was still alive?
Shouting her name, he started across the gorge, swatting vines, crunching brush, and stumbling over rocks. Chopper thunder rattled the trees and then faded as he plunged deeper into the gorge. An eerie silence returned to the darkness, closing around him as he finally reached the point of her fall. Slowly his gaze drifted up to the rocks glowing in the moonlight. Wasn’t he looking for a body? Certainly there... He froze at her sudden moans. Plunging through the vines, he found her sprawled on the ground, broken branches scattered all around her. One leg restlessly scraped the earth, the other lay motionless. She grabbed his arm as he knelt to examine her injuries. “I’m... all right,” she told him.
Gently he rotated her head in the moonlight. Blood glistened along the scalp. Lifting her clotted hair, he found a deep gash in her temple. He slid the purse off her arm and wedged it beneath her head. Then he pulled his sweater off. “Tyler, no...” she protested.
“Hush!” He ripped the sweater, transforming it into a bandage which he applied to her scalp wound. “You have a concussion. We’ll rest and then move again before dawn.”
“You... don’t understand,” she whispered painfully.
“Lie still! Save your strength.”
As he examined her more closely, she stroked his nose and strong jaw, finding comfort in their familiar lines. How much she wanted a lifetime of this. But it wasn’t meant to be. “Tyler, I... can’t go.”
“Why? It’s just a concussion.”
“No, amore mio,” she whispered with a new intimacy. “It’s not just... a concussion.”
She’d never appeared more beautiful as the moonlight enhanced her face’s exquisite angles and deepened the glow of her fawnish eyes. She smiled serenely despite the pain, as one who’d come to grips with her fate. “Mayson, what is it?” Tyler asked.
“I can’t move... my leg.”
Inspecting it, he cringed. Twisted grotesquely, blood trickled down a calf swollen twice its normal size from a compound fracture. Very soon the shock would fade and a terrible pain would take its place.
“Tyler... you’d better go.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Listen to yourself, the one who gives new meaning to the word.”
“That’s right,” she swallowed hard. “I am stubborn. And I insist you go... while it’s still... dark.”
He smiled. “You never shut up, do you? You fall halfway down a mountain, shred that poor tree and still your mouth is running.”
“And my heart; do you know... what it’s doing?”
“Tell me,” he stroked her cheek. It was like ice; shock — nature’s remedy for pain.
“It’s singing. You performed a... miracle. Didn’t you know?”
“I perform so many. Which one are you referring to?”
“The one where you turn the shrew... into a songbird.”
“Mayson, you were a songbird long before meeting me.”
“I was nothing... before you.” Her temple burned now, her leg’s throb deepening by the minute. “Tyler... there’s not much time.”
“Hush.” He pressed his finger to her lips. “Just once, stop talking long enough to listen. I’m not going anywhere, so don’t waste another breath.”
“But you’ll... die!”
“No one’s gonna...” His eyes shot up as searchlights suddenly scanned the night sky. Were teams approaching the gorge? “Mayson, we need to get you to a hospital.”
“No.” her eyes shone defiantly. “They’ll kill you.” The searchlights now crisscrossed the trees overhead. The hounds’ barking grew louder. Her face twisted with pain. “My leg...!”
Inexplicably, the searchlights faded from the darkness, as did the hounds’ barking. The stupid bastards were leaving. “Tyler, go.” She writhed as if agony was a condition that could be crawled out of.
Grabbing a twig, he placed it between her teeth. “Bite on this. They say it helps.” Lifting her gently over his shoulder, he scooped up her purse and started off. Mercifully her screams faded and she soon slept. The wilderness silence echoed with his thrashing, a warning to all within earshot. Soon the mountain shelf rose in the moonlight. Whoever waited, he prayed they would be wearing Tennessee gray and not... A spine-tingling squeal pierced the darkness. Had a hound just fallen from the rocks as Mayson had? Moving on, he froze again at the sound of metal clicking. Once, twice... he counted a dozen sharp echoes.
As he crept closer, the moonlight exposed the gleaming rifles above. Dark-suits, Tennessee Grays or both? Did it matter any longer? He continued towards the rocks.
“Stop!” a gruff voice ordered.
Squinting, he made out the silhouetted figures on the ledge above. The order had come from the center: the tall man, with the tall hat – a trooper? Again the man barked gruffly, “Waddill?”
Unable to suppress a wry smile, he shook his head. After weeks of running, their odyssey was now ending with the most witless one-word question ever asked. “Waddill? Hell no, I’m Jack the fucking Ripper!”