by S L Shelton
A memory assaulted me. “Hang on. Please hang on,” I remembered saying… I knew the scene was from my childhood, but I couldn’t place the context. The memory was vivid enough to startle me. I looked down at my right hand, turning my palm over to see the thin white scar that cut across the center. The memory of my dad looking up at me filled my head again.
A panic attack set in.
POP. I came off the rock again.
CRASH. Down into my harness.
“Damn it all,” I muttered as I dangled from my safety line.
Pushing out with my feet, I looked up toward my protection point, still twenty-five feet above me and fifteen feet above the overhang I was attempting.
“Come on Scott,” I whispered, shoving down my frustration.
I took several deep breaths, shaking out my arms and hands, before launching back on the rock.
Willpower, Scott. Willpower.
My fingers stretched and then closed on a hold. With renewed purpose, I moved my leg up and my toe found a ripple in the rock about the thickness of a pen, rounded on the top but thick enough for the edge of my climbing shoe to grab. I reached up, feeling for a crack I could knuckle jam before leaning, pushing passed the pain in my abdomen.
I was fast approaching my limit on the effort when my finger found the crack and I slipped my pinky and ring finger into the opening.
As I closed my hand, my finger joints expanding to lock into the crevasse, a violin began playing. It echoed off the rock and ridge, filling the air with a ghostly whine.
I wondered if I was hearing things again as I looked around but saw no sign of anyone.
My foot began to fail, so I brought my other leg up to find a better perch. I pulled up hard with my left arm, feeling the pain seep outward from my wounds as my back arched, and I pulled myself parallel to the ground beneath the massive rock jutting out from the rock wall.
Agony!
I threw my foot up and let my toe slide down until it came to rest on a crag deep enough for me to hook my heel. Once I latched it in place, I let it take most of my weight.
I hugged the stone face with my right arm, cupping the tips of my fingers over a small point of rock. The move left me suspended with my head slightly lower than the rest of my body, like a spider walking across the ceiling.
I looked backward toward the ground as I shook out the pain and tension from my left hand and then dipped it into my chalk bag.
As soon as I caught my breath, I resumed my upward movement. Left hand over my head, I grasped the outside edge of the overhang, then, taking a deep breath, I let go of the heel hook.
My legs swung down like a pendulum, the entire weight of my body hanging from my left hand. The pain that maneuver created in my abdomen was enormous, and I suddenly had the panicked notion that the sensation was one of muscle ripping in my gut—but I held on.
Almost done, I thought.
I reached up with my right hand, placing it on top of my left, and then pulled myself up in a pull-up motion. My shoulder was screaming in agony. I almost decided to let go out of fear of doing damage to myself.
Bone and meat heal on their own, came the whisper of my other voice again. It solidified my will. I pressed up until I could swing my leg over the edge and hook my heel again.
“Finally!” I exclaimed as I reached up for a more secure hold with my hands.
Once latched in place, I hung there a moment, giving my overexerted body a few minutes of rest, listening to the music as my chest heaved. I could tell now it was coming from above me.
Once rested, I continued. It became a technical climb from that point up, placing less stress on my damaged body. It was only another minute before I reached my protection pivot at the top. My hand closed on a thick bucket hold just above the twin carabineers.
As I pulled myself over the top of my rope, I saw her—a dark-haired woman in black spandex, a climbing harness, and a blue sports bra, facing the valley and playing a violin.
I grunted up and over the edge of the cliff before rolling onto my back, listening to her play as my breathing returned to normal. I didn’t recognize the music. It was classical, beautifully played, and haunting, with slow, sad rises and falls. The echo from the valley gave the piece a duet quality of sorts.
When she finished, I turned my head and greeted her.
“That was beautiful,” I said, still on my back several feet away.
“Thanks!” she exclaimed, smiling. “I’ve always wondered what that would sound like here.”
She set her violin into its open case. “It looked like you were struggling down there,” she stated plainly, still smiling.
“Yeah. Trying to get back into form,” I replied mildly, feeling an imaginary twinge and putting my hand to my side.
“Ah. An accident?” she asked.
“Something like that,” I muttered jokingly. That was usually sufficient to derail questions about my injuries.
She smiled as she reached for my hand to help me up. I winced as I rose and a worried crease formed on her brow.
I looked at her and shook my head. “It’s alright. So much better now than it was a couple months ago.”
I lifted my shirt to inspect my abdomen, looking for any telltale bruising under the skin. But it was fine—with the exception of the throbbing. I looked up in time to see the expression of horror on her face.
“Seriously. It’s not as bad as it looks,” I lied.
It had, in fact, been worse than it looked. My heart had stopped three times between being shot and arriving at the US Military hospital in Landstuhl, Germany. At one point, it had stopped for more than eight minutes.
“What happened?” she asked.
I ignored her question. “I’m Scott,” I offering my hand, deflecting.
“Nice to meet you, Scott. I’m Arlia. What happened?” she repeated, not missing a beat.
“I made one or two questionable decisions that resulted in an unpleasant confrontation,” I confessed. “I’ll survive. None of the damage is permanent.”
Her eyes narrowed accusingly, though playfully. “You still didn’t answer my question—but I guess that’s an answer of sorts. Sorta like ‘you could tell me, but then you'd have to kill me’, right?”
I furrowed my brow. “No. But I’d have to call the CIA in to debrief you,” I replied rigidly before chuckling.
She looked at me with a crooked grin, glaring at me suspiciously. “What do you do for a living, Scott?”
“I’m a programmer.”
“Ah HA!” she exclaimed ironically, still grinning broadly. “Computer nerd. Well, it’s nice to meet you anyway, Scott.” She looked at the protection point for my top rope set up.
“That looks pretty bomb proof,” she noted. “Mind if I rope in and give this route a whack?”
“Sure,” I said. “Help yourself.”
Before the words were completely out of my mouth, she slipped my rope through a descender before taking a slow walk down the face of the rock. When she reached the bottom, I linked up before yelling “On rappel,” over my shoulder.
“On belay,” rose her response before I began walking down the face as well.
Once at the bottom, I unhooked the figure eight descender and hooked up a belay device. She quickly and smoothly tied her harness into my rope with a bowline knot, chalked her fingers, and looked back at me, letting me know she was ready when I was. I nodded.
“Climbing,” she said singingly.
“On belay.”
She moved quickly. Her movements were more evocative of a dancer than a climber. She stayed in nearly constant motion from place to place, flowing out of one position into the next. I kept a constant two-foot length of slack so that my tension didn’t interfere with her climb. In a matter of moments, she had sprung herself clear of the final crux move and was standing, waist level with the pivot point of my protection links.
She looked down on me from her perch and yelled, “Nice little workout. I can see why you had t
rouble. That fall back move is off-center when you lose your heel hook…must have hurt like hell for you.”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Shoulder and stomach.”
“Yep. Tweaked me a little bit too, and I’m not damaged.” She flashed a toothy grin. “Not physically anyway.”
Then she burst out in melodious laughter.
“Descending!” she yelled.
“Still on,” I replied.
She walked her way backward down the face until she reached the base and then leapt outward to land deftly like a cat on the ground.
“Nice climb,” I said sincerely.
“Thanks,” she replied. “—and thanks for letting me use your rig.”
I nodded.
“Hey. You wouldn’t be interested in grabbing some lunch, would you?” she asked as she began to coil my rope. “There’s a great little place in Round Hill, just down the road.”
I smiled. “Thanks. But I’ve been gone long enough. My girlfriend will probably be worrying about me, and I don’t get cell signal out here,” I replied—all truth.
“Gotcha,” she replied knowingly.
She hefted my rope on her shoulder and began the climb back to the top, this time taking the path that went around the side.
“My car’s back on Route 7,” I said. “You can leave the rope down here.”
“Nah. That’s the long way. I’m parked over at Raven’s Rock. It’s only four hundred yards from here. I’ll take you back to your car.”
Nice, I thought. I hadn’t been looking forward to the hike back down the trail anyway.
We hiked back up to the top of the rock, untied my protection ropes and straps, and then loaded our gear on our shoulders before heading down the side trail to Raven’s Rock. I hadn’t known about the utility road up here to service the communications towers—I’d use it next time I was there.
We arrived at Arlia’s car and then climbed in for the short drive to the Route 7 parking area. Once there, she helped me load my gear in the back of my car. I ached everywhere, and it must have shown because she hurried to load most of my equipment before taking my rope from my hands—much more than necessary.
“I try to get out here a couple times a month,” she said as she dropped my rope into the backseat. “It’d be nice to climb with you again—if you’re up to it.”
“Sure,” I replied, pensive. “If you want, I can let you know next time I’m coming out.” I reached for my phone to punch in her info.
She grabbed it out of my hand—no doubt noticing I was being truthful about my lack of signal—and began punching in her phone number and email address. She handed the phone back to me and smiled.
“Great. I’ll look forward to hearing from you,” she chirped with a grin and a wink. “You know…to climb.”
Except for the straight black hair, she reminded me so much of Kathrin.
“I’d like that,” I replied honestly. “But my recovery has been slow. So don’t think harshly of me if it takes a while.”
“You got it.” she turned and walked back to her car. “Be well,” she said as she got in.
That was the last thing Kathrin had said to me too.
As she drove away, I wondered how Kathrin was doing. I had sent her an email the week after I got back home, but had never received a reply. I had resisted the urge to send her a second email to avoid bothering her if she wasn’t interested in communicating after all. I also got ‘the look’ from Barb when I told her the first message had remained unanswered.
I didn’t want to upset the new stability Barb and I had found. But I had been close a couple of times. Barb had never come out and directly said she didn’t want me to contact Kathrin, but her thoughts on the matter were pretty clear. I should have been angry about that—maybe I was angry about it. Or maybe I was dwelling on it because I wanted for another excuse to be angry with her.
Damn! I thought. I’ve really become annoyingly passive aggressive.
I shook my head. Too many other unpleasant questions were floating around in there. No time for that one.
I decided to send Kathrin another message.
I miss her.
I leaned against my car typing out the short message, and the guilt began to seep in.
Why? I wondered silently. Kathrin helped me rescue Barb and the other hostages. Barb should be thrilled and thankful if we could make contact with her again.
My thumb hovered over the send button. I read the message again:
“Out on another adventure? I hope all is well with you. Would like to hear from you if you are inclined. So much to talk about.”
Guilt.
“Why the hell am I feeling guilty?” I asked out loud.
My reply came in the form of a woodpecker tapping at a rotted branch.
It wasn’t really the answer I’d hoped for, but tap, tap, tap, could be construed as a sign. I tapped send, hopped into my car, and started the fifty minute drive back to Fairfax.
**
8:30 p.m.—Arlington, Virginia
QUINN BLACK, Vice President of the Tactical Division at Baynebridge Security, felt ridiculous. He’d been driving around in random circles for almost an hour, but he had to be sure he wasn’t being followed. If caught, the information he was carrying would not only endanger his position at the firm, it could potentially cost him his life.
As he pulled into the garage structure at Ballston Common Mall in Arlington, he checked his rearview again.
I’m just being paranoid, he thought. If anyone suspected, I’d be in the basement at Baynebridge Headquarters, getting waterboarded.
He drove up to the third level parking area as instructed and parked as far away from the mall entrance as was possible. Before he had even put his car in park, someone tapped on his window.
The surprise made his chest contract. He half expected a gunshot until he saw it was the person he was there to meet—Mark. That was the only name he had for the man who had stood quietly in the corner when the DOJ investigator had given him the ultimatum two weeks ago in Fayetteville, North Carolina—cooperate or be indicted.
“You scared the shit out of me,” Black hissed after taking a calming breath. Sweat was already rolling off him in sheets.
Mark stepped back, grinning, and let him get out of the car. “Sorry… I saw you coming up and figured I’d save you some time finding me.” He cocked his head to the side. “Are you sure you’re with tactical division?” A jab at Black’s skittishness.
“I’ve been looking over my shoulder since I pulled the data,” Black complained as he closed his door. “This is a really bad idea. If I get caught, they’ll kill me after they torture me for your name.”
“Then it would probably be in my best interest to just whack you now,” Mark replied with sarcasm.
Black tensed. He had only been Vice President of the Tactical Division at Baynebridge for nine months. His predecessor had died under mysterious circumstances—made even more mysterious by the sudden appearance of a string of fake shell companies that had been generated from his division’s accounting system.
“Relax,” Mark said impatiently. “Just give me the information and go home to your wife. No one’s coming after you unless you were sloppy getting to me.”
Black reached into his folio and extracted a large manila envelope before handing it to Mark, who grasped it—but Black didn’t let go immediately.
“This buys me immunity when the arrests start?” Black asked holding tightly to the package as if letting it go would rip the life force from his body.
“Don’t ask me,” Mark replied, yanking the envelope from Black’s hand. “I’m just helping a friend. That’s between you and the Department of Justice.”
“That’s not what I was told when I was directed to meet you here,” Black snapped.
“Look, man. I’m not a lawyer or an Agent. I’m just supposed to pick up an envelope, hand you a thumb drive, then get the hell outta here,” Mark replied. “Your deal is whatever your deal is wi
th them. If you aren’t down with that, then I need to call Justice and start this over again.”
Panic seized Black.
Black had been approached by a company board member only a month ago, and the man had introduced him to Heinrich Braun of Spryte Industries. That was when he’d discovered how deep in the shit he already was, just by accepting the job in the first place. Unfortunately for him, he had already sent inquiries about the accounts, the high volume and the large amounts in the transactions before he’d met Braun…and those inquiries had ended up in the hands of a forensic accountant with the Department of Justice.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
And now he had just handed over a package that could end his life if discovered. It contained a listing of corporate dividend payouts—except the people on the list didn’t hold stock in the companies paying them, and the companies that were making the payments didn’t exist.
“No, no. It’s all there,” he sputtered, caving to the veiled threat. He couldn’t back out—he knew they already had evidence on him. This was his only chance to extract himself from the mess. “Wait! You aren’t with Justice?”
Mark shook his head. “Just doing a favor for a friend,” he replied.
“Then why should I trust you?” he asked with a slight squeak to his voice. “I’m risking my life here.”
“Did you look at the printouts?” Mark asked knowingly.
Black stared at him blankly for several long seconds, and then nodded. “Yeah,” he mumbled finally in almost a whisper.
“Then you know that trust is running pretty thin at the moment.”
“I get it,” Black replied as he got back into his car. “I’m sorry. I’m just—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mark interrupted sarcastically. “Just on edge.” He handed him a thumb drive. “Here. This is yours.”
Black looked at it hesitantly, as if it would bite him if he handled it incorrectly, but then he took it from Mark anyway.
“Put it on the routing system the next time a payment comes through, and you’ll never have to see me or do a drop like this again,” Mark said. “Don’t screw it up, or the deal is off.”
