Rock Bottom (Em Hansen Mysteries)

by Sarah Andrews

  Fritz had taken on the look of a caged lion, pacing up and down the beach while Wink was working, tossing rocks into the water, eating too many cookies, carrying two in each hand while still chewing on another, drinking beer before lunchtime, and sleeping little. His beloved trip was turning into a nightmare.

  At last the dory again rose above the waves and we launched. Wink had sacrificed the hatch cover from his rear compartment in order to find enough wood this time. He had been able to cover the hatch with an old poncho, but he was running out of rubber and caulk. The dory was floating low in the water. He had managed to tinker the pump into working again, though he had to reach inside the hold to switch it on now, rather than push a button in the cockpit. “Let’s get going,” he said, as if in charge.

  I glanced at Fritz. He stopped in midpace like he’d been hit by lightning. “Okay then!” he said, a little louder than he needed to, asserting his command over the group.

  “We’ll make the Ledges just great,” said Wink, lifting up his T-shirt to scratch his belly in a gesture that showed Fritz his flesh in an insulting way.

  Fritz turned and aimed his sunglasses at him.

  Don said, “The Ledges? Is that where we’re headed tonight, Fritz?”

  Hakatai said, “I’ve never been there. What’s it like?”

  Mungo said, “It’s pretty neat, actually, though it gives me the creeps that the rock you sleep on sort of slopes toward the river.”

  Bored to the point of irascibility from too much waiting, Nancy chimed in with her opinion of the Ledges, followed by Olaf and Lloyd. The cog wheels in Fritz’s brain appeared to have jammed. I could almost see the smoke created by the heat of that friction pouring out of his ears. The loose cannon had rolled right across the deck onto Fritz’s toes. Fritz could see that his team wanted to go there, so he said yes, we would head for the Ledges.

  We stopped briefly to admire Matkatamiba Canyon, managed to make it through Upset Rapid without further casualties, and pulled up to the campsite called Ledges and tied up for the night. That’s when things went from wholly awful to much, much worse.

  APRIL 15: LEDGES

  Ledges Campsite lay so deep in the narrows of the canyon that by the time we reached it, the sun had long since gone out of sight over the rim of the Inner Gorge, abandoning the campsite to an early dusk. Gnarled ribs of Muav Limestone crowded dark and steeply around it, forming a crude horizontal corduroy that rose to a first major step at least a hundred feet almost straight up. The strata that formed the ledges on which we would cobble together our camp sloped slightly toward the river. There was no beach, only the sloping rock, which stepped down and ended with a three-to four-foot drop-off at the water. There was limited space to tie up, and we had to lash the rafts to the rocks. It was hazardous to climb in and out of them to unload gear, and we had to rig the kitchen just a few feet from the water along one of the few stretches of nearly level rock. A thin coating of damp sand covered an active seep of water that ran out from the bottom of the cliff. Up against the canyon wall the sand was a bit deeper and thus mostly dry at the top, but it, too, sloped steeply and was crowded by willows, so there was only enough space to set up a few of the tents. Olaf defied his own convention by rigging a sleeping deck on one of the rafts, saying that no self-respecting mouse was going to sashay down across all that rock to bother him there, and Gary set up a cot just a few feet from the drop-off into the water. I suggested that he not roll over into the river during the night.

  The dory was leaking badly, and there was no life left in the battery that ran the pump, so it was beginning to sink. It wallowed in the current, tipped heavily bow down, the aft compartment still relatively watertight, yet Wink seemed almost pleased with himself. He stood in the cockpit of his boat admiring the view.

  “What are you going to do with this thing?” Fritz asked.

  Wink turned slowly toward him and ran the middle finger of his right hand up beside his nose as if adjusting that expensive pair of sunglasses he wore.

  Fritz’s face darkened with rage, and he moved his fists to his hips. “It would serve you best if you straightened out your attitude!” he snapped.

  This startled me. I had never heard him speak in that tone. Brendan grew extremely quiet beside me, holding his breath.

  A staring match ensued. Slowly the current swung the dory around until Wink’s head had twisted as far as it could go without unwinding off his neck. He could no longer maintain eye contact without awkwardly shifting his stance, so he let the boat move his gaze back to the river.

  Mungo moved to distracte Fritz by asking his assistance with the fire pan. “Come show me where you want this thing,” he said.

  It was a grim evening. We ate quickly and washed the dishes in the buckets by the river and then just sat staring into the fire while Brendan did his math homework. Wink told a few stories, but no one seemed to be listening. People began to turn in early.

  Dell Oxley sat by the fire nursing a beer, and Mungo, who was usually last to bed and early awake, produced a bottle of Scotch, which he had kept packed in bubble wrap in an ammo can. He offered some to Fritz, who muttered something about not needing it. Mungo said, “Well, I didn’t bring it all this way to carry it home again.” He poured himself a short one and set the bottle on the rock beside his folding chair.

  “I’ll have some!” said Wink. He grabbed the bottle before Mungo could retrieve it and splashed four fingers into a metal cup.

  “Jesus!” cried Mungo. “Take it easy there, boy!”

  “Aw hell, I can handle it!” said Wink, delivering one of his trademark one-eyes. He took a swig, said, “Nice!” and walked away along the edge of the ledge, heading toward the latrine.

  “Where the hell is he going with that?” Mungo growled. “When a man pours that much single malt into a tin cup he ought to sit still and drink it, not take it to the crapper!”

  “I’m just as happy if he finds someplace else to be,” said Glenda. “I thought his stories were getting rather stale this evening.” She got up and headed up the slope toward her tent.

  Molly let out a low whistle and said, “Well, I guess everyone hits bottom eventually.”

  “Yeah,” said Nancy. “Rock bottom. That’s when your girlfriend finds your stories boring and your boat won’t even float.”

  Mungo said, “And you can’t even find paying work by dressing up funny and telling tales you don’t believe to a bunch of fundamentalists. He probably thought you were going to hire him, right, Molly?”

  Molly shook her head at the thought. “I couldn’t do that to the rest of the department. He doesn’t take responsibility for his actions. That would make a lot of extra work for everyone else.”

  “You’re so reasonable,” said Mungo. “I wonder how much farther that dory is going to make it.”

  Fritz said, “I’m done in. You about finished with your homework there, Brendan?”

  “Yeah, just let me finish this one problem.”

  Fritz turned toward me and said, “Ready, my love?”

  “Sure, I just need to take the usual stroll.” I stood up and glanced toward the pathway through the willows that led toward the latrine.

  Fritz scowled. “I’ll walk you down there,” he said and hoisted himself out of his chair.

  Brendan closed his notebook. “I just need to use the river,” he said. “See you at the tent.”

  Fritz took my hand and we walked over the damp sand and along the sloping stone toward the brush where we’d hidden the toilet. Trying to soothe my husband with humor, I said, “Hell of a way to get a little privacy together.”

  “I can’t even think about that,” Fritz said leadenly.

  I squeezed his hand. I felt wretched that I couldn’t do anything to make the torment stop.

  We were halfway to the latrine when Wink lurched out of the willows swinging a now empty tin cup. When he saw us, he swung it high, adding a little flip to his wrist at the end of the arc. “A fine, smoky single malt!” he c
hortled. “Bet you can’t handle this stuff, flyboy!” He ran his tongue around his lips, which bristled with a five-day beard. The effect was nauseating.

  Fritz pulled me closer to him but said nothing in reply.

  Wink planted his feet, blocking our way, and began to sing an obscene drinking ditty, the words slurring as if he was already feeling the Scotch.

  Fritz said, “Get out of our way, man.”

  Wink put his fists on his hips, mocking Fritz’s authority pose. “Little woman gotta go tinky?”

  I tightened my grip on Fritz’s hand.

  Fritz’s voice descended to a growl. “I’ve had enough of your behavior,” he snarled.

  Wink cocked a hip provocatively. “Well then, motherfucker, why don’t you change it?”

  Fritz took a step forward, but I pulled back on his hand. “He’s not worth it,” I said, though anger was rising through every nerve in my body. I steered my husband carefully around the doryman.

  Fritz tracked along with me, but his eyes stayed on Wink.

  Suddenly Wink careened toward the river, heading straight toward the brink where Brendan stood relieving himself.

  Fritz yelled, “Brendan! Look out!” and lunged after Wink, nearly yanking my arm from its socket.

  Brendan scuttled up toward the fire, hurriedly stuffing his penis inside his pants.

  Wink threw his head back, and howled with laughter. “Oh, that’s so ripe!” he roared. “You little piss-ant, I’ll bet you peed yourself!”

  Fritz’s free hand began to rise toward Wink’s neck. I held on tightly to the other one and yelled, “Don’t! Look, he’s trying to make you mad!”

  Brendan called, “I’m okay, Dad! Please, Dad!”

  “Please, Dad!” Wink mocked. “Please, Daddy, I am so scared!” There were daggers in his voice, saw blades, hatchets, all things sharp and lethal. He sauntered over to the pail of beers that were cooling in river water and bent to grab one, carelessly dropping his tin cup on the rock.

  Mungo was on his feet now, hurrying toward Wink, calling, “Cut the crap, you worthless son of a bitch!”

  Fritz leaned into Wink’s face. “I’ve got you in my sights,” he whispered. It was a small phrase, something that would have meant little had I not known Fritz’s job in the navy: flying a jet into the night to drop bombs over Iraq.

  Notes of Gerald Weber, Chief Ranger

  Investigation into Death of George Oberley

  April 19, 4:15 P.M.

  Made repeated telephone calls to God’s Voice Ministries of Las Vegas, NV, in search of Lisette St. Denis Carl, the woman who reported overhearing Calder’s threat on Oberley. Automated telephone answering system did not yield a return call. Called back using “donations” line advertised on their Web site and reached a live voice immediately. On notification that I was calling as part of a law enforcement investigation, I was transferred to Terry Carl, brother of the deceased televangelist. Transcript of that conversation follows:

  Weber: Who am I speaking with?

  Carl: This is Terry Carl at your service. How may I help you, brother?

  Weber: I am trying to reach Lisette Carl, who was recently a participant on a river trip down the Grand Canyon. Are you—I see that your name is also on the passenger list from that trip, am I correct?

  Carl: [pause] Yes, that is correct. How may I serve—ah, assist you, sir?

  Weber: I wish to speak directly with Mrs. Carl. Is she available?

  Carl: She is not here, sir. She is not an employee of this organization.

  Weber: But you are in touch with her. You could get a message to her for me.

  Carl: [pause] And what message would that be?

  Weber: It is urgent that she contact me. Immediately.

  Carl: Could you share with me the cause for this urgency? Is there perhaps some way that I may help?

  Weber: Were you present when she overheard a conversation between George Oberley and another man at Cremation Campground on April ninth?

  Carl: No. [pause] No, I was not.

  Weber: Well then, you can best assist me by relaying my message to Mrs. Carl. Or better yet, give me a telephone number through which I can reach her directly.

  Carl: She doesn’t have one.

  Weber: Excuse me?

  Carl: She uses only a cell phone. [pause] And I don’t have that number. She changed it recently. But perhaps I can reach her through other channels.

  Weber: Where does she live? The address listed for her on the river trip manifest, I note, is that of your religious organization, which is highly irregular. So what is her home address?

  Carl: That is not my information to release, sir.

  Weber: Okay then, you can explain to me why this woman is so difficult to reach.

  Carl: Mrs. Carl is a revered member of our church family, and as such is in great demand. If she were to make herself available to everyone who called—

  Weber: This is official law enforcement business!

  Carl: I [pause] hear what you’re saying, sir, and will do my utmost to reach her and have her return your call. I can see your number on my caller ID and am writing it down.

  Weber: Fine. Now, exactly how was George Oberley involved with your group?

  Carl: Dr. Oberley? We are interested in God’s word. He was loosely involved in assisting us with interpreting earth history in light of the Book of Genesis.

  Weber: “Loosely involved.” Exactly what does that mean?

  Carl: He offered his expertise. I am given to understand that he was traveling with another river group and thus camping nearby on a few evenings. It was [pause] kind of him to offer, but he had little information that was of use to us. There are many who wish to serve God but take rather long paths in finding Him. Is there anything else? I have a lot to do, catching up with the management of our humble church after having been away.

  Weber: Your name is Carl. Are you related to Mrs. Carl?

  Carl: She is my sister-in-law. She was my deceased brother’s wife.

  Weber: And your brother would be?

  Carl: The Reverend Amos Carl.

  Weber: The one that died on TV?

  Carl: [pause] We all greive his passing. Now, if there is nothing else…

  Weber: Just get your sister-in-law to contact me. It is urgent that I speak with her. Remember that.

  End of communication.

  Summary note: Terry Carl seems an unreliable witness.

  APRIL 16: MISSING MAN FORMATION

  It was still pitch dark outside when I became aware that Fritz was already awake. I had heard him come and go several times in the night, checking the boats. All was quiet outside, the only sound the slight burbling the river made as it boiled over hidden rocks and slid past the blunt face of the ledge on which our camp rested. I slid to the edge of my foam mat and curled my body up next to his, sliding my hand up underneath his sleeping bag, which, in the warm air of the canyon bottom, he had left unzipped and simply thrown over himself like a quilt. “You’re awake,” I whispered.

  Keeping his own voice low to avoid awakening his sleeping son, he whispered, “Go back to sleep.”

  “We stick together, Fritz.”

  He found my hand with his own and squeezed it. “I know.”

  “I love you, Fritz. Have I told you that lately?”

  “There’s been a lot going on.”

  I whispered, “You didn’t ask him to come on this trip. It wasn’t your idea, so it’s not your failure.”

  He squeezed my hand again.

  I put my head on his shoulder. “Really, the man’s provocative as all hell, but if we ignore him, he’ll find someone else to annoy. He’s just got a thing about authority.”

  Fritz did not reply. He rolled toward me, and I nuzzled up under his chin and kissed the warm, bristly skin of his throat. I ran my hand up and down his belly in just the way he loved the most, but he did not respond to that, either. When I bent a knee and hooked my leg over his, he whispered, “I think I’m just going to get
up, so you and Brendan can get some more sleep.”

  I did sleep after he left, though fitfully. As sunlight finally found its way down inside the fold of the canyon, I rose and shrugged my way into a fleece jacket and a pair of jeans, unzipped the mosquito netting, wiggled my feet into my sandals, and rose to greet the day.

  It was a typical enough morning, though the strange setting of the inclined slab of rock seemed to have everyone in a quiet mood. In the kitchen area I found Fritz sipping meditatively on a cup of coffee while Molly Chang stirred a pot of oatmeal. Brendan had made a cup of cocoa and sneaked a shot of coffee into it. When the oatmeal was ready we all ladled it into bowls and added raisins, nuts, and reconstituted powdered milk. We’d all been together for over two weeks now, so little conversation was necessary. I was grateful that Wink appeared to have chosen that morning to sleep in, though I wondered if he would waken with a hangover, and worried that it would lead to even worse antics.

  At half past seven, Glenda Fittle floated serenely down the slope from her tent arrayed in a gauzy nightgown topped by a fleece jacket in a vivid shade of orchid. Her hair lay wild about her shoulders. “Good morning, all,” she said cheerily.

  Mungo raised an eyebrow her way. “Is your companion feeling the aftereffects of strong drink this morning?” he inquired. “We haven’t seen him yet.”

  Glenda knit her brow ever so slightly with curiosity. “I wouldn’t know. I thought he was out here with y’all.”

  Mungo looked at Fritz, who in turn looked at Glenda. “He’s not in your tent?”

  “No.”

  “Then where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was he there earlier?”

  Glenda shook her head. “He tossed his sleeping bag in there when we first set up camp last night, but it’s still in its stuff sack. I figured he must have slept on his boat.” She rose to her tippy-toes and peered over the edge into the dory.