Blood mountain, p.13
Blood Mountain, page 13
Scary John is back.
“I’m not sick. I don’t need doctors. You know what’s sick? Society! The cruel, ugly, violent world out there! I reject it. I threw it all away.” He waves an arm. “And now you want me to go crawling back on my hands and knees?”
“No, John, I’m not saying that,” Carter says.
“I walk the righteous path,” John claims. “I reject your world. I regulate my life. I keep life simple, clean, orderly. Lao Tzu: ‘Those with less become content, those with more become confused.’”
“I don’t understand,” Carter says.
John brushes off the comment. He’s back to pacing again, the long strides of a tall, lean man. “I’m not going, I’m not going,” he repeats vehemently. “People pound me, mash me, probe me with questions. They tell me how to act, what to feel, then hand me a bottle of pills and tell me to swallow.”
He stalks, and walks, and pivots to stare at Carter. Wide-eyed but blind. His muscles taut, high-strung. Truly wired. Like before, he’s there and he’s not there. And like before, Carter wishes to make himself small. John concludes, “The world is not made for people like us.”
Us? Carter thinks.
“They will drop the bomb. They’ve already done it, and they’ll do it again—blow the whole thing up. It’s too dangerous out there, Carter,” John says, almost pleading. “This, right here, is the last true place left. I can’t let you go.”
Desperate, Carter pleads, “You’re wrong, John. I have a home. I have a family!”
The bearded man angrily steps toward Carter, hands balled into fists, the veins in his arms turned dark blue. Carter flinches, covers his head with his arms. And as if waking from a daze, the soldier stops. Blinks, spits in disgust, turns away. He does not speak. John crawls into the depths of his soul, where the demons play their wicked games, and sojourns in that shadowy place for the remainder of the night.
Mumbling indecipherably.
Carter makes a promise to himself.
Tonight, he will stay awake. He will wait John out. And then, in the dark, he will slip away.
57
[HERE]
Moments after Sitka departs, Grace sees a lone black bear ambling lazily through a copse below. It is twenty-five yards away. A distance that a bear can cover, if sufficiently motivated, in less than three seconds. The powerful animal vectors in a diagonal from near left to far center, as if cutting through Grace’s backyard. It pauses to chew on a berry or flower, emits a gruff sound, and swivels its head to gaze in Grace’s direction.
Grace stands perfectly still, unsure if the bear sees her, motionless against a dark gray backdrop. The bear is smaller than she imagined, though Grace does not doubt its strength. She remains calm. It all feels, to Grace, strangely … not terrifying. She is glad Sitka’s not here to raise a ruckus. That would have made everything worse. No, this is a private moment between her and nature, when the wall between them temporarily crumbles. Sky and earth, distant star to deep-delving root, Grace and black bear, fused in a sort of communion.
Bored or just indifferent, the bear saunters away, deeper into the forest. Becomes the dark forest. The wild, the dangerous, the fanged and clawed and forbidding. The beast in the garden.
Moments later comes the cry of a human voice from above: “Grace? Grace Taylor! Can you hear me?”
A whistle cuts through the air, loud and clear.
“Here!” Grace shouts. “I’M RIGHT HERE!”
Grace hobbles forward on two bad legs. One with a deep, infected gash in the right calf; the other with an ankle that has become a swollen knot of pain. A stabbing, ever-present ache in her ribs. Yet she very nearly skips toward the direction of the voice.
Sitka appears, runs to the girl, mouth open, tongue out, triumphant. Leaps up to Grace and nearly knocks her back. “You did it!” Grace tells Sitka, stroking her neck and head. “Oh, my best good girl, my best good girl!” A woman follows. She wears a green uniform, has free-flowing black hair, and the biggest smile Grace has ever seen.
“Grace? I’m Ranger Devaroix.” The woman introduces herself, giving a little wave. She unbuckles the belt of her pack, sets it on the ground. “We’ve been looking for you.”
The ranger steps toward Grace and extends a hand. Grace staggers forward and sinks into the woman’s arms—sobbing, wiping away tears, hiccupping, laughing, sniffling—swept away by a torrent of pent-up emotion.
They hug without words for a long time.
The girl smells of earth and pine and perspiration, the ranger of raspberry gum with a hint of maple syrup.
The ranger reaches for her radio. “Dispatch, this is Devaroix.” Her voice catches, choked with feeling. “I am in contact with the female subject. Her condition appears fair. No further resources needed at this time. I will contact you again after a full patient assessment. But, yes, good news. Very good news.”
Grace squeezes tight upon hearing those words, all the fear and anxiety and relief spilling out. It feels so good to be held. To cry. To know she’ll be going home. To again see her mother, her father, her brother. She looks up into the ranger’s astonishing steel-gray eyes and says, “I saw a bear.”
58
[AMAZING]
“Where’s Carter? Did he send you? Is he okay?” Grace asks in rapid-fire succession. The ranger’s face provides the answers before she can even open her mouth. Sitka circles around them, watching closely.
Makayla gently takes Grace by the shoulders, looks into her eyes. “Grace, listen to me,” the ranger says. Her voice is calm and clear. “I believe your brother is still out there—”
Grace shakes her head, disbelieving. “He can’t be! Carter left—what?—two, three days ago. It’s not possible.”
“Grace,” Makayla interrupts. “I believe that he’s safe. And I promise you—I promise—that we will not stop looking until we find him.”
The girl rubs her eyes, sags with sudden weariness. The dog is at her side. Grace absently touches Sitka, strokes her head, runs her fingers through Sitka’s silky ears.
“Grace, we’ll talk all about it. I need to know everything that happened. But right now, there are things we need to do.” She pauses, “You must be hungry.”
“You have food? With you?” Grace asks.
“I do,” Makayla answers. “I’ve been carrying it around just for you. But here, let’s sit. While you eat, I’d like to examine your wounds, make sure you’re okay, clean you up a little bit.”
Makayla needs to complete a thorough patient assessment, including a set of vitals: pulse, blood pressure, respiration, etcetera. A full head-to-toe exam. At the same time, since the subject appears to be in no imminent danger, the ranger eases into the work. She gives Grace space to enjoy this moment of rescue. Makayla unzips her pack, pulls out a medical kit—and two dazzlingly bright clementine oranges. She deftly peels one, tucking the rinds into the pack’s side pocket. Hands one to Grace. “Eat slowly,” Makayla advises.
The ranger helps Grace hobble back to her usual spot, beside the pine-bough bed and pile of stones. Grace lowers to a seated position, wincing as she does, her back against the rock wall.
Miraculously, a blue Gatorade bottle appears.
“My favorite,” Grace says.
Makayla smiles. “That’s what your mother told us.”
Grace drinks, burps softly, excuses herself, giggles. “You talked to my mother?”
“I did not,” Makayla answers. “But our people did.”
“What about my dad?” Grace asks.
“He’s worried about you,” Makayla answers. She decides to save that story for later. Working calmly, Makayla gives Grace a complete examination, palpating every inch of the patient’s body. Cleans and dresses her wounds, splints the ankle, wraps the ribs, checks Grace’s eyes, ears, nose, and throat. Gives her two Advil. “Take two of these and call me in the morning,” Makayla jokes.
Grace smiles. “You’re good at this. Thank you.”
Makayla touches the front rim of her hat, nods, slightly embarrassed. “Overall, I’d say you’ve held up remarkably well. But what happened? It looks like you were in a motorcycle accident.”
Grace puts a finger straight up. “I fell.”
“From there?” Makayla tilts her head back, hands on her lower back. “Oh my. I guess you really are Amazing Grace after all.” She rummages around in her pack. Pulls out clean, freshly laundered clothes. Wool sweatpants, warm socks, a wool hat, shirt, and fleece. “I thought maybe…”
Grace accepts the offering of clothes. She brings the items to her face and breathes deep. “Heaven,” she says. “Thank you so much.”
“My pleasure,” Makayla responds. “Listen, I’m going to walk to that spot right there and make a call. There’s a lot of people—and I mean a lot of people—who’ve been worried about you and your brother. Let me catch them up while you get dressed.” She snaps her fingers, eyes twinkling. “I forgot something!” Makayla takes out a plastic bag. Unwraps it. Sitka steps up, tail swishing, intently curious. “Yes, that’s right, this is for you,” Makayla says, and hands Sitka a rawhide bone. The dog would laugh out loud if she could. But instead, she snatches the treat in her mouth, pads away about ten yards, and begins working on it.
Ten minutes later, the ranger sits down beside Grace, who looks revived in fresh, clean clothing. Makayla produces a new surprise from her bag—a hairbrush. She says with a light laugh, “Do you mind if I…?”
While Makayla brushes the knots out of Grace’s hair, she says, “Grace, I need to know everything.”
Grace recounts every detail. Getting lost, falling, Carter’s decision to go for help.
“Did you ever see a man?” Makayla asks.
Grace turns to look at Makayla, baffled. “A man? Here? No, no.” She pauses, “Was I supposed to?” And then, piecing it together, asks, “Is this about Carter?”
“I don’t know,” Makayla answers. “But maybe, yes. I think so.”
Grace is suspicious. “What kind of man?” Her eyes again become red-rimmed, wet as river stones.
“Shhh,” Makayla says. She takes Grace’s head in her hand, inclines it toward her shoulder. Grace submits, tears roll down. “Just try to stay calm for now,” the ranger says. “You’ve been through so much.”
“You have to find him,” Grace says, shuddering, her voice muffled in Makayla’s shoulder.
“I will,” the ranger replies. “I will.”
After a while, Makayla stands, surveys the scene, taking it all in. She’s impressed that Grace has endured so well. “We still have a few items on our agenda.”
Graces looks up, curious.
“Have you ever been in a helicopter?”
She explains that they have a couple of choices. Because of the lateness of the day, and the foggy weather conditions, they felt it might be best to extract Grace—that is, take her off the mountain—in the morning. “But only if that’s all right with you,” Makayla quickly states. “A team can carry you down tonight. They have big flashlights and it would be very safe.”
“Or?” Grace says.
“Or,” Makayla says. “We spend one more night here, together. Physically, I believe you’re okay for now. The damage has been done. It’s not going to get any worse by waiting another day. I have a lightweight tent and a sleeping bag for you. And plenty more food.”
Grace’s eyebrows lift. “More food?”
“Bread, peanut butter, cheese, fruit,” Makayla says.
“Seriously?”
“We rangers don’t mess around,” Makayla replies. “If you give me a few minutes, I can get myself organized. I’m thinking”—she points—“right here for the fire.”
“Fire? Really?” Grace is thrilled.
And that is how the night passes, in the chill blue-black of shadow and dusk. A small fire turns the rock wall a luminous orange. Sitka sprawled beside it, content and warm.
Grace finishes the night by polishing off a bag of M&M’s. She yawns, arches her back, and wearily snuggles in the coziest, warmest sleeping bag the world has ever seen. “Are you sure?” Grace asks.
Makayla rests on her own pine-bough bed, wearing thick socks and a spare heating blanket that Grace’s condition didn’t require. “I’m so sure,” she answers.
It is quiet, except for a few night noises. The call of a coyote. An owl’s hoot. Grace points. “Do you see that tree there, the one where the branches stick straight out?”
“Yeah,” the ranger says.
“Do you know the name of it?”
But before Makayla can answer, Grace yawns again and drifts away. She sinks into her best night’s sleep in days.
59
[THE BOY]
Carter lies awake, listening.
John is out there, methodically whittling down a piece of wood. It is dark, and there’s a chill to the air. It feels thick and wet. Another fog rolls over the mountains.
The man pushes aside the tarp flap, appears at the narrow entranceway. He’s on his knees, wearing only sweats and a thin T-shirt. He leans in on one hand, an arm’s length away. His presence charges the air, emits a pulse of threat.
“There was a boy,” John begins. His voice low and intense.
Carter turns away, too uneasy to look at John’s face. It doesn’t matter. John has a story to tell.
“About your age,” he continues. “Skinny, like you.”
John stops, scratches a cut on his right forearm.
“Over there?” Carter asks.
Another silence. Slow breathing. “Yeah, over there,” John says. “A village kid I got to know.”
Carter decides that he can’t ignore John, whose head is now poking into his sleeping area. He asks, “What was he like?”
“I used to watch him through the night-vision goggles, you know. I’d glass the village, code orange every single day, see what’s what.”
“I don’t—” Carter says, confused.
“Marine on high alert,” John replies. “Anyway, we never talked. Two different worlds. And this boy—I felt like I got to know him a little bit. Just from watching. Jet-black hair, about your length. He liked to kick around a ball with the same three friends. Always on the move. Mischievous. Eyes, you know, looking everywhere all the time. But one late afternoon, boom, land mine. Out of luck. IEDs, we called them. Improvised explosive devices. Took off his leg. He died on the street, too shocked to even scream.”
“Oh” comes out of Carter, pushes past his lips without thought, a sound a person might make after getting punched in the gut. And then, lamely, “I’m sorry. That must have been horrible.”
“Yes,” John replies. “War. Funny thing is, that IED was never meant for him. Isn’t that something when you think about it? They blew up their own kid.” He laughs a little, a choking sound.
Carter hears John sit back, the rustling of his legs, a body trying to get itself comfortable. He hears, also, a soft sob—a sadness that could turn the stars blue. John rubs his hands together, claps them once, resettles himself. Carter cranes his neck to watch.
John’s voice seems to come from some other place, the way the wind arrives from far off. Some other time, some other world. “When I was there, I had a rifle in my hands all the time. I didn’t want to ever let it go. It was just always there, you know? Like a security blanket, I suppose. After deployment, when they sent me home, I didn’t know what to do with my hands anymore. Isn’t that strange? For weeks, I just didn’t know where to put my hands. In my pockets? Folded across my chest? Hanging at my sides like slabs of meat?
“Over there, it’s all you think about. Getting to the next minute. The one right in front of you. That’s it. We were up in this mountain outpost. The most terrifying place I’ve ever been. One night, in the desert cold, things got bad. We took on sniper fire. Pinned down, waiting for support. I was stranded up there with one other guy, Emerson, and he bled out in my arms. He just trickled away.”
John gives a delicate gesture. Reaches out with two fingers, gently lowers them. “I closed Emerson’s eyelids and said good-bye.”
Carter turns to his side, rises on his right elbow. John sits slumped, staring at the ground. A broken man. He says to the boy, to the wind, to the mountain itself, “I often wonder who died out there, and who came home.”
In the aftermath of that story, Carter promises himself that he will not cry. Not here, not now, not in front of his captor. A promise he almost keeps.
The bearded man raises his head, stares at the boy. This time, he seems to see him: Carter Taylor, eleven years old, desperate to find a way home.
“We’re stronger together,” John finally says. “I’m doing you a favor.”
He winks.
Carter sinks down to his back. Closes his eyes. Tries hard not to react, refuses to surrender. There’s no point trying to bargain. Carter is sure his words would never reach the fractured inner core of John’s reality.
He’s more lost than me, Carter realizes.
He clutches the balled-up shreds of cloth in his fist. Knows he’s leaving before the morning light.
DAY 6
60
[ESCAPE]
Carter sees that John has adapted to his surroundings. He’s become nocturnal, like many creatures of the forest. Avoids the daylight. Safer that way. So Carter feigns sleep, holds himself still, and waits for John to shut his eyes. When the rain persists, John grumblingly goes off, disappears to some near supply area, and returns to assemble a primitive shelter with sticks, stakes, and tarp. Carter observes the outline of John’s movements in the dark. John expertly sets up the shelter five feet from the entranceway to Carter’s cozy, dry sleeping area.
Carter won’t attempt an escape until his captor is safely asleep. Carter bites his lip, squeezes his hands into fists, tries to stay awake, and fails spectacularly. Eyelids flutter closed. Hours later, he awakens to a sound. A small animal scurries away. Still dark, but the unbright light of crepuscular dawn draws near. Heart thumping, furious with himself, Carter strains to listen. He glimpses the bottom of John’s foot, clad in a thick gray sock, motionless at the tent’s edge.
