by R E Swirsky
***
“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”
The Russian trembled. He felt the urge to move to the edge to see her crumpled body, but the roll of the outcropping made it impossible to venture out far enough see straight down the cliff face without the risk of falling.
“Let’s get you off the mountain. Your penance is nearly paid.”
Pain surfaced in the eyes of the Russian as he looked up questionably. “There’s more?” He trembled again.
Barney moved towards the edge and casually tossed the water bottle and Lucy’s backpack out into the abyss before he began his descent back down the scree slope. “C’mon, I said!”
The only sound on the mountainside was the roll of rocks bouncing and tumbling as the two men descended slowly, placing each foot carefully in front of the other. Coming down was much quicker than the ascent, and within thirty minutes the two were back on the main trail below the Crux.
“Hello!” A shallow voice called out from somewhere high above.
Barney turned instinctively towards the voice. There were already others on the mountain. More would come soon. Two barely discernible hikers stood near the top. One waved down at him. He wanted to ignore them, but he’d already acknowledged them by turning. He gave one quick wave, turned away, and hollered out to the Russian who had fallen well behind to pick up his pace.
Forty-five minutes later, the two were back in the Russian’s black rental Prius and en route to Canmore. It was near noon and Barney still had many plans for the Russian before the day’s end. For three solid days, the Russian had been dry since being forcibly escorted from Ottawa. It was clear he badly wanted a drink. Now was the time for Barney to see that the Russian received his much-wanted drink.
By noon, the two were back in the pub of the Georgetown Inn in Canmore, and the Russian’s black Prius was secretly whisked away into a warehouse only two kilometres away. In less time than it took the Russian to finish his three pints of beer and an order of fish and chips, his Prius was returned, prepped for what was to come next.
By the end of the second beer, the Russian had regained much of his old composure. It was as if the morning jaunt up the mountain was days ago and nothing more than a bad hallucination, save his tired and wobbly legs. He chatted Barney up, talking about all sorts of topics, from government policies to Russian women, staying clear of anything to do with the horror that occurred up on the mountain.
“Let’s go,” Barney said, placing a number of bills on the wooden bar to cover the bill.
“Go?” The Russian’s glassy eyes remained on his empty tumbler; his alcoholic thirst was not yet fully quenched.
“Yes. Come on. We’re going for a short drive up the valley.”
“I’m tired. My legs.…”
“Move,” he said and tugged the Russian up from his chair.
The Russian got behind the wheel, accepting the keys from Barney, not even curious about how he ended up with them. Three beers was nothing for the Russian, and he drove like a pro as if he had not downed a single drop, steering the vehicle up the twisty, gravel mountain road to the Spray Lakes Valley to the south with what seemed expert precision.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“Just a drive.” Barney offered a smile. “You did a good job up there today. I thought we should both take a drive to see more mountains before you head back tomorrow.”
The Russian gave no reply for a few moments. This was no stupid man in the passenger seat, and he was careful not to speak too quickly. He may have become nothing more than a weeping bowl of jelly on the mountain, but down here he had morphed back into what he was before, opinionated, arrogant, and feeling close to invincible.
“I want to be clear on one thing. This is over, right?” He stole a glance at Barney as he steered the Prius around a sharp curve near the top of the mountain.
“We’re nearly done. You’ll be heading home tomorrow.”
“Nearly done? I did what you asked.” His voice trembled.
“We need to make sure you understand what it is we’ve asked of you to do and why.”
He cleared his throat and continued to drive. They had reached the top of the steep climb, and the gravel road flattened and followed a small narrow reservoir on the left.
“Well? Do you understand what this was all about?” Barney asked.
“I do,” he replied. “You want me to stop drinking and driving.”
“And what are you doing right now?”
He frowned but didn’t reply.
“You hopped in the driver seat again. No hesitation or refusal. You accepted the keys from me willingly and jumped right behind the wheel.”
“It’s because you have a gun. I always do whatever anyone with a gun asks me to do,” he said forcefully. “You handed me the keys. I took them, yes. But I won’t drink and drive anymore. I promise.”
The road straightened out. Dust curled up and covered the road as a small truck came towards them from the other direction and slowly passed by, spitting up a short shower of fine rocks and more dust.
“No you won’t. And you know why you won’t?”
“Because you’ll be watching me.”
Barney nodded.
The afternoon passed quickly and it was pushing into evening when they finally returned back to the inn. The inn was busy with a number of locals and guests eating in the lounge and enjoying a pint. Drinks were ordered and more food came. A pre-season Canadian football game played on the small flat-screen TV on the wall near the bar. A few watched, but most ignored it. The Russian and Barney settled into a small table in the corner near the fireplace. They weren’t hiding, but neither did they make themselves an attraction.
By ten o’clock, the Russian was once again in his groove, feeling good about himself, acting cocky and talking as if he was once again the master of his own universe. Barney had switched to non-alcohol beer much earlier, making sure he remained sober. His task was not yet complete.
It was time. The purpose was to make sure the Russian’s blood alcohol level had peaked well over the legal limit. As with many alcoholics, the Russian could function surprisingly well over the legal limit, where most would barely have the ability to stand upright.
“I’ve got one last thing for you to do.”
“No more,” the Russian replied and waved one hand at Barney in a dismissive way.
He laughed. “This one’s easy.”
“What, then?”
“The reason I’ve hung around all day was to monitor you after what you did up there. We need to be sure you understand. You know what you did, and we know what you did.”
“What you made me do.”
“Me? No, not me.” He shook his head and pointed his finger at the Russian. “You did this. You pushed her.”
“But you made me do it.”
“Oh? So who am I, exactly?”
The Russian only stared back blankly. He had no answer to give. He had no idea who this man was or where he or the others had come from. They arrived under the shroud of night and stole him away as he staggered out from one of his usual watering holes. No one noticed and no one seemed to care. And then he was given a choice: do what was asked of him and correct his life, or die.
“Well?”
To argue was of no merit. “What more do I need to do?”
“What I have to say is actually good news. I told you we are not all bad.”
“So?”
“Back in the parking lot where we parked earlier before climbing the mountain, we left a package for you. It’s in the outhouse at the start of the trail. In the southwest toilet up in the rafters is an envelope.”
“What’s in it?”
“You’ll see when you get there.” He nodded towards the door.
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“But.…”
“What? You’ve had four beers since we returned, a nice big meal, and you don’t want to go? C’mon. You drove with two
or three times that much most nights back home.”
He looked confused, but relented immediately. “Then it’s over? Once I get the envelope, it’s over?”
“Once you leave here to get the envelope, you’ll never see me again.”
The Russian hoped it was true.
“That is, unless you start drinking and driving again.”
He shook his head hard. “I won’t. You’ve cured me. What I’ve done…you know.” He teared up and Barney almost believed it was sincere.
“Then go. Go now.”
The chair screeched across the wooden floor as the Russian stood up to leave. He patted his pockets and pulled out the keys.
“The southwest toilet?” he asked just to be clear.
“Yes, the southwest toilet.”
And just like that, the Russian was shuffling down the short hall with a slight stagger, past the washrooms, out the rear door, and was soon inside his Prius.
The evening sky had already faded to a pale blue as he headed east from town onto the freeway, the summer sun settling behind the Rockies only a half hour before. Darkness was coming.
He was happy it was over. Not even the ache from the climb that pervaded every muscle in his body could dampen how free he felt. He smiled and wanted to shout something, anything, just to be heard.
Maybe it was the effects of the liquor, but after saying his last goodbye to the tall man who went by the name of Barney, he felt like he had won. Of course he had won. How much worse was pushing a young girl off a mountain than running one over with his car? He was alive and not a thing had happened to him. Nothing happened to him after he ran over Susan Boake in Montreal eight years ago, and again today, nothing hurt him. He received no real punishment of any kind. Of course he had won.
But had he?
Something was different this time. He was sober when he slammed Lucy off the side of the mountain.
Every detail from the day suddenly pounded back. Climbing up the mountain step after step, knowing what evil thing he was expected to do once they stopped climbing, worried each time they stopped to take another photo that this was the moment. And then, as each hour passed, he knew a little bit more about her, and by the time they reached the top, she was no longer just a random face. She had a name. Lucy. Lucy was very real: a real person with real people who loved her.
And then she screamed. It was a short scream that faded almost immediately. But it was forever etched into his memory, and his brain sizzled as if the entire scene had been seared there permanently by a red-hot branding iron.
This was his price for winning. Something had happened to him, something very real. A seed was planted in the form of a memory—a memory that would torture him to eternity. But would it be enough to prevent him from drinking and driving again?
The freeway was wide open. He accelerated until he reached the speed limit and then slowed, staying at the cruising speed to keep pace with the cars up ahead and those behind him.
Could he really quit drinking and driving? He knew there was a better question.
Did he want to quit drinking and driving?
At this very moment he did, but he knew it was a false wish as he’d almost reached his goal for inebriation tonight. Maybe tomorrow he would answer the question differently.
Suddenly, the car started to accelerate.
“What the.…”
He removed his foot from the accelerator and tapped the brake. Nothing.
“Help!…Oh…oh.…”
His speed increased rapidly until he was moving much too fast. He pounded at the brakes, but the car wouldn’t slow down.
The car drifted to the right. He tried to pull it back to the left, but it continued nearer to the right shoulder. The steering wheel seemed tight and impossible to turn.
“Damn hell!” he screamed out.
Suddenly, the car braked and shot to the left side of the highway, crossing over both lanes and moving onto the opposite shoulder before straightening. He pulled hard on the wheel, but the vehicle remained on the left. The car accelerated again. He tugged again and slammed the brakes, but nothing seemed to work.
“My God! No…!”
The vehicle lurched to the right, then left again, and crossed both lanes once more to the right.
To anyone watching, it was clear the driver was either drunk or suffering from some medical emergency.
Then, just before the Prius crossed onto the bridge above the Bow River, the right front wheel braked just as the car turned sharply to the right, causing the vehicle to veer off the road and skid sideways, pushing up gravel and dust until it slammed into the concrete bridge abutment, caving in the driver’s-side door and deploying the air bags. The Prius flipped up high into the air, dropped over the abutment, and rolled down the embankment a number of times before coming to rest upside down in the frigid glacial waters of the Bow River.
In a matter of seconds, the icy water rushed in through the shattered windows. The Russian was alive but heavily dazed. Blood ran up his face as he hung upside down, strapped in tight by the seatbelt. He struggled frantically to reach the buckle to free himself, but the deflated airbags swirled around with the incoming water, making it impossible to move his arms where he wanted. Seconds later, the water was swirling around his hair.”
“Gawd, no!”
And then his forehead and eyes went under. Water splashed up and into his nostrils. He thrashed his head around, but it was of no use.
“Help.…”
He tried for one last gasp of air, but it was too late. An icy coldness, heavy and painful, filled his lungs, and he writhed and jerked around until blackness overtook him.
As the wheels of the upside-down Prius continued to spin away, a black SUV passed over the bridge above. A pair of eyes stared out from the passenger window down at the Prius. The vehicle slowed but did not stop.
