Back of the closet under a pile of clothes, fist stuffed into her mouth to keep silent
She nodded and sipped her iced tea. He was just a blowhard, and she’d dealt with far worse.
That evening Lynne downloaded the photos onto her laptop, reviewing caverns and colors only glimpsed earlier in the light of her headlamp. Thus far the chambers lacked stalactites and other natural structures like in some caves she’d explored, but there were some lovely crystalline fractures running through the granite walls. She studied the photos for cracks and potential weaknesses in the rock, noting jpeg tags for a “best of” folder she’d transfer to a flash drive for the engineers.
The last few photos included odd shadows in a section she had explored in depth. Lynne squinted and leaned closer to the laptop screen. The one shadow looked like a side branch off the main tunnel she would need to map tomorrow. The other… she clicked the final photo.
It looked like a long-snouted and heavily-toothed skull. Lynne blinked, trying to reset her brain. The tripod flash threw stark shadows that could make mundane objects look odd, but this was odder than usual. Lynne rubbed her eyes, then checked her watch. It was full dark but she knew the drive well by now, and it wasn’t like time of day mattered where she was going. She studied the image on her laptop screen again, then clicked ‘delete’ and grabbed her car keys.
Lynne’s flashlight fell from nerveless fingers and hit the cave floor.
She knelt and picked it up, then slowly approached the skull—the big, long-snouted and heavily-toothed skull—that seemed to jut out of the deep shadows of the cave notch behind it like a dog poking its head out of a dog house. She had found lots of bones over her years exploring, of course. But they were usually small prey of the creatures who made the caves their home. This was bigger than a bathtub.
‘What could you be?’ She had a smattering of paleontology as part of her Geology studies, but most of what she knew about fossils came from a school trip to Chicago in 9th grade; the one trip her foster family had let her attend when Lynne’s teacher had offered to cover some of the expenses so his best student could go.
Was the rest of the skeleton attached? She leaned to look, one hand holding her flashlight ahead of her, the other reaching out to rest on the broad forehead.
A voice so deep her fillings vibrated spoke.
*You have come*
Lynne jumped back and ducked, throwing her arms over her head and waiting for the low rumbling frequency to pull debris from the ceiling. Not even dirt sifted down.
*How long the years, Jackie?*
The voice was in her head, but it was the words that pushed Lynne onto her knees, heedless of the gravel. “How do you know my name?”
She felt confusion. *You are my Jackie*
“I’m – I’m sorry, I’m not your Jackie.” Lynne hesitated, rolled off her knees so she could sit. “My name is Jacklynne Carta. I’m not – what are you?”
*I am your dragon, Jackie. I knew you would come to this place and would need me. Oh look, you brought me strings*
“I am very, very sorry but I am not who you think I am.” Lynne swallowed, then stepped closer and shone her flashlight past the jaws’ hinge and thick ridges around the ear holes, along vertebrae that stretched like a fallen redwood back into the darkness. A reflection of light caught her attention and she took a cautious step closer.
“Please don’t move,” she whispered as she bent over and picked up a glittering sharp-edged disc the size of her hand. She blew it free of dust and held it up to the light of her flash, watching the play of iridescent green.
“Oh my God,” she breathed. “Puff?”
A wash of joy. *I knew you would remember*
Four-year-old Jackie had cradled the music box close to her face as its little green-enameled dragon turned a pirouette.
“I’m sick of that damn song,” the man on the couch snarled.
“She won’t go to sleep without it,” Jackie’s Mom snapped back and then flopped down beside him and grabbed for his glass pipe. She inhaled and held the smoke in her lungs.
Five-year-old Jackie tucked the music box with its little green-enameled dragon under the porch after Mom had thrown it across the room, cracking the wood and warping the spindle so the song slurred in places. Mom said she’d done it to teach her a lesson: Jackie had eaten the last gob of peanut butter for dinner. At night she crept outside and – with her head under an old quilt to muffle sound – played it, away from the acrid haze and strange people that filled the house.
Six-year-old Jackie cupped the green-enameled dragon in her hands as she hid under her bed. She had picked Puff out of the trash where her stepfather had thrown her music box, along with all of her toys and books. This and his fists were to teach her a lesson; she had spilled watercolor paint on the kitchen table.
Seven-year-old Jackie hid the dragon in her book bag, and her book bag in the shed out back. She washed up every morning at the McDonald’s bathroom near school, until the new manager told her to not come back.
Eight-year-old Jackie had long talks with Puff late at night, planning to fly away. “If you were bigger you could carry me,” she whispered as they hid. “Please, Puff. Please grow big.”
Ten-year-old Jackie stayed away from home as much as possible, avoiding the cold-eyed man who watched her too closely when he came by to give her stepfather little packets and pick up money.
Twelve-year-old Jackie ran out of the house away from the cold-eyed man while her stepfather yelled get back here, dammit, and be useful for once.
Twelve-year-old Jackie took Mom’s cigarette lighter then denied it despite the beating. She waited until night, and then touched the lighter to turpentine-soaked rags she had brought in from the shed out back.
Twelve-year-old Jackie clutched her little green-enameled dragon in her hands, laid down on her bed, and sang their song until the smoke overwhelmed her.
Twelve-year-old Jackie woke up blinded, first in the hospital, then to the foster system.
Fourteen-year-old Jackie’s eyes healed enough for her to read again.
Eighteen-year-old Jackie worked three jobs to afford school, burying herself in books and hard effort.
Twenty-four-year-old Jackie took up rock climbing and spelunking, reveled in the need for total concentration on the task at hand, graduated with PhDs in Geology and Land Surveys, and refused to remember.
Forty-two-year-old Jackie sat weeping on the floor of the cave, remembering.
Finally she shuddered, wiped her eyes and wrapped her arms around herself. “I am hallucinating,” Lynne said aloud. “Some sort of long-term hidden PTSD, I suppose.”
*Sing the song, Jackie*
Lynne stood up, dusted the seat of her jeans off. “Visual and auditory.” She took her glasses off and rubbed at her eyes.
*I could make of myself bone from the bones of the earth, but I need you to make flesh. I got big for you. Sing the song for me. I will carry you to the sea and we will travel by boat like we are supposed to*
Lynne carefully put her glasses back on. “‘Supposed to’? There is no ‘supposed to’ Puff, except I wasn’t supposed to survive the fire.” She stepped closer to the skull. “The blind kid of a junkie? I was always supposed to be a failure, but here I am.”
She wrapped her arms around herself shivering at her memories. “There’s no song. There’s no noble kings, no pirate ships—”
“What’s all this?” Lynne spun around and squinted into a blinding beam of light. When her eyes cleared she saw Buster standing there, one hand cupped lightly around her pink mason’s string, the other holding a massive Maglite.
He ran his light over Puff’s skull and gave a piercing, appreciative whistle. “Ho-lee cow would you look at this?” He released the string and sauntered closer, stumbling a bit on the uneven surface. “Some kinda’ dinosaur, all the way down here.”
“You can see it?” Lynne took a step to the side, squintin
g, to try and cut the angle to give her eyes a break from his light.
“Don’t know how I could miss it.” Buster reached out and patted Puff’s forehead, then ran his flashlight along his jawline. “Look at those teeth! Bet this was one of those Indominus Rex guys.”
“That was a movie, Buster.” Lynne winced as he spun and shone his lightly direct into her eyes again. She was going to see spots for days at this rate.
“Maybe.” He pulled a fifth of tequila out of his barn coat’s cargo pocket and tipped it up, muscles in his throat working beneath three days’ scruff of beard then wiped his mouth. “But maybe not. Either way there’s a decision to make.” He returned the bottle to his pocket with a belch. “Who do we tell about this?”
Taking Lynne’s stunned silence as an invitation, Buster smiled slyly. “I know guys who would pay serious money.”
Lynne shook her head. “Still a movie,” she replied, then jumped as he slapped his hand on Puff’s orbital bone with a loud smack.
“Not a movie,” he insisted loudly. “We either ignore it and let the tunnel bore grind it right up, we alert the,” he made finger quotes with his right hand, “authorities and they take it from us and the job stops, or I make some phone calls for serious money.” He pulled out his phone.
Lynne tried to think fast. Waves of alcohol were rolling off Buster, and as he held up his phone to take a photo he swayed like a palm tree in a storm. Maybe he would pass out and forget? She couldn’t easily drag him out of here. Maybe she could coax him outside and then he could pass out and forget? She pulled her own phone out of her pocket and held it up.
“Hey, I already have a bunch of really good photos, but I have no bars. Why don’t we go outside where we can get a signal so I can text them to you?”
Buster swayed for a moment, one eye closed as he tried to focus on picture-taking, then hiccupped and nodded. “Good idea. Let’s go.” He fumbled his phone toward his coat pocket, oblivious as it fell in the grit at his feet, then turned and reached out with careful attention to grab onto the pink string with his right hand, holding his mag-lite in his left. “Your stupid schtring came in handy for once.”
Lynne suddenly regretted her safety line. “That’s how you found me,” she agreed. She watched him stumble a few steps, wondering how he’d managed to avoid driving off one of the switchbacks along the roadway.
“Hey!” Buster turned around so suddenly he nearly fell into her. “What’re you whistling about? Are you whistling at me, girl?” He smirked, expression satanic in the flashlight beam.
“I, uh—” Lynne hadn’t realized she was whistling the old song. “Just, um, checking the harmonance.” At his confused look she kept talking, trying to crowd into him and make him move in the correct direction. “You know, harmonance. Vibration theory. It’s a geological concept of how sound waves travel through different density rocks. It will help me work out my final recommendations.”
Buster’s eyes had glazed over (more) at “theory” so Lynne didn’t think he would call her bluff so long as she kept him moving and distracted. Time to pile it on thick. “I know you will work out all the math but any help I can give, well, I’m just thrilled to do so.”
Buster stood and swayed for a moment, then turned toward the way out. “Don’t need math,” he replied. “Not with that big boy in there. Only math I’m going to need is how to spend the money.” He stopped again and Lynne had to take a quick step back to avoid running into him. He fumbled in his pocket for the bottle, took a healthy gulp, then mumbled “where my manners” and offered it to her. Lynne shook her head but Buster waved the bottle at her.
“We got to toast,” he insisted, then scowled. “You too good to drink with me? You never drink with me. You got a problem with me?” He took a step toward her and held out the bottle. “We are going to toast our good forsh- forsh- luck and then we’re going to go somewhere and really celebrate.” He leered, his eyes cold. “And after I’ll make some phone calls.”
Forty-two-year-old Lynne reminded herself she knew how to handle cold-eyed men, even if Buster was between her and safe exit. “Sure big guy,” she agreed, taking the bottle to upend it against closed lips before handling it back. “Now let’s get out of here so we can go celebrate.”
Buster put the bottle in his pocket, then lurched forward, knocking her hard hat off and pulling her against his chest before she could move out of his way. “Here works,” he said and bent down to kiss her.
His grab had trapped Lynne’s arms between them, which made it easy for her to position her flashlight under his chin and shove. Hard. His teeth snapped together like a shot and he bellowed, let go and stumbled back, then tripped on the uneven ground and fell hard on his side with a crunch of glass, his bellow turning into a scream.
“You bitch!” he dropped the Maglite as he staggered to his feet, blood dripping down his chin and tequila staining his front. Buster shook his head and spat a red stream, then wiped his face and focused on Lynne. “You’re gonna’ be sorry for that!” he snarled, stumbling in her direction.
Lynne dodged his first rush then tripped herself. She turned her fall into a roll and scooped up his Maglite as she tumbled toward a side channel. As Buster tried to stop his momentum she clicked both flashlights off and scooted back into the channel further, trying to control her gasping breaths.
There was clattering, cursing, and then Buster spoke in the darkness from somewhere to her left.
“I have my hand on your stupid string. You want out of this cave, you have to go past me. I’ll just wait outside at my truck, where there’s light to see and more to drink. We’re not done here, not by a long shot.”
Lynne lay on her belly in the darkness, darkened flashlights in both hands, and listened to the scrapes and staggers of his footsteps recede.
He was walking in the wrong direction.
She lay quietly and counted to 300, then 300 again: ten minutes with no sound of Buster coming back. Between the tequila and his adrenaline subsiding he had probably passed out. She felt a little like passing out herself, but Lynne knew she had to find her string and follow it to the right. She clipped her flashlight to her belt, hefted Buster’s Maglite, then pulled out her phone and carefully peeped its small flash from between her fingers, letting just enough light out to see her hard hat where it had rolled some feet away, and then a faint pink line a few feet off the ground along the far wall.
String for safety. String for rescue.
Lynne sighed.
String to find a drunken idiot who had a young family in Vancouver and who – if he hadn’t passed out – might trip and break his neck, leaving them behind.
Twelve-year-old Jackie would have left without a second thought.
Forty-two-year-old Jackie told herself she was better than that.
She picked up her hard hat and settled it onto her head, then wrapped her right hand loosely around the pink string and turned left.
The old ways of moving came back to Lynne as she walked through the darkness. Months of blindness and years of partial sight had taught her to point her toes like a dancer and skim her feet along the surface, seeking out impediments to her path. She shuffled quietly, steel-toed boots locating the few rocks in her way. Every dozen or so steps she stopped and listened for a count of sixty as her pulse slowed enough that she could hear beyond the blood pounding in her ears. The left side of her face caught a slight movement of air that meant she was passing the tunnel branch at the entry to Puff’s space, and her nostrils flared to catch any changes in the scents around her.
No sound from Buster. If he had blacked out she might walk right past him in the dark, but if she turned on her light and he was still conscious she would be an easy target.
Maybe there was a better way.
“Puff?” She thought. “Can you hear me?”
*Jackie? Did the ogre hurt you?*
Ogre? Well, she could see Puff’s point. “I’m fine,” Jackie thought. “And th
e Ogre isn’t really bad, he’s just, um, he’s not feeling well, and that makes him mean. I need to find him. Can you help me? Can you see?”
*He tried to harm you. I will protect you. Sing so I can save you.*
“I can save myself,” Jackie thought back. “And I need to stay quiet right now.”
*Like when we were small. But I am not small this time. This time I am large. This time I can save you*
“Save me how?” The hair on the back of Jackie’s neck stood up. No response. “Puff?” she said aloud.
She felt air move, and had a moment to start to turn before a heavy body slammed into her, banging her skull onto the rock wall as a burst of red flashes lit in front of her eyes. Her hard hat took some of the impact before it was knocked off her head. Buster clutched at her, ripping her shirt sleeve as she bent underneath his grasp and twisted away, swinging the mag-lite like a baseball bat. It connected somewhere with a meaty thwack.
“Ow fuck me that hurt!” he yelled, and Lynne could almost taste his anger as he thrashed around nearby in the pitch black. She staggered forward then froze, one hand pressed against the wall to stay steady. The red flashes had become dull orange that strobed with each throb of her head and the darkness spun; she wondered if this sudden stomach-churning roller coaster feeling meant concussion.
A blast of tequila reached her nostrils and she almost vomited, clenching her teeth around a mouthful of salty saliva. Her breath whistled but Buster was making far too much noise to hear her. A scuffling and then he yelled again, almost in her ear. She jumped before she could stop herself and the cave floor seemed to tilt. Lynne staggered, arms flung out in the darkness to protect herself and ran right into Buster.
Hear Me Roar Page 13
