Shadow of the Raven

by David Sundstrand

“What’s the matter? You okay?” she asked.

  “Oh yeah, just fine.” He forced a smile. “Here we are, in danger of being hunted down by a couple of good ol’ American sportsmen. One way out, we fall to our deaths; the other, we’re stuck tight and die of thirst. I’d say we’re between a rock and a hard place.”

  She wrinkled her face in disbelief. “‘Between a rock and a hard place’?”

  “It’s a joke. You know, ironic humor.” He gave what he hoped was a devil-may-care smile, not the rictus grin he suspected was pasted on his face. Maybe his clumsy attempt at humor would convince her that the panic she’d seen in his face wasn’t really there.

  She grinned back. “Well, now that you put it like that, I realize that I’ve been terribly insensitive.” She shook her head again. “Let’s go for the slide. Anything’s better than jumping around like mountain goats.”

  Frank knew there were worse things, like being stuck in nasty tight places, places where you couldn’t move your arms, places that suffocated the life out of you.

  Linda leaned forward, peering down the narrow chute. “You’re right. It’s pretty tight. Where’s it come out?”

  “You drop out onto a sandy spot. From there, you go to the right, where you come to the floor of the ravine. After that, you’re back at the place where we climbed up.”

  “You? You mean ‘we,’ right?”

  Frank shook his head. “Nope, I don’t fit.”

  “What do you mean? You’re not staying up here while I slide off to safety. No way.”

  “Why would I stay here? I’m not doing the heroic bit. It’s just that I’m going to go a different way. Okay?”

  “What way is that? You said we’d be sure to get hurt.”

  “No, I said, ‘One of us is sure to be hurt.’” He held up his hand as she was about to protest. “Wait. I’m not going to try to jump back. I’m going to drop down the crevice to the sand. It’s only about fifteen feet. No problem.”

  She gave him a doubtful look. “You could be killed or break bones.”

  “I can’t—I can’t be in tight places. That’s it,” he snapped. He struggled to sound matter-of-fact. “I wait here for you to clear the chute, then slide the packs down to you and head for the jump. Only I won’t jump. I’ll hang and drop off the edge. I’ll be a couple hundred feet from where you’ll come out.”

  She squinted her eyes, trying to read his expression, then shrugged her shoulders and scrunched up her face in acquiescence. “Okay, but you’re going first. I can slide the packs myself.”

  Frank eyed the camera resting against her stomach. It sure wasn’t in the nice safe aluminum case. Instead, she had secured it with a waist strap to keep it from banging around. “Don’t fool around trying to take pictures. If you’re spotted, you’ve had it.”

  She stared past his shoulder at some invisible spot.

  “Jesus, Linda, don’t take any chances. These guys could be very dangerous.”

  “Don’t worry about me. You’re the one who’s doing the bungee jump without the bungee.” This time, she raised her hand to silence him. “Frank, it’s the only way I’m going to do it. We’re wasting time.”

  “Okay, I’ll go first, but as soon as I’m out of sight, you move, right?” She nodded her head just a little bit, as if to say, I hear you. But she wasn’t giving any definite response—not very reassuring.

  “Good. That’s worked out,” he said, sounding brisk and businesslike. Who was he fooling? “When you start down the chute, you’ll get to a point where you have to slide. Don’t try to stop yourself. You could get stuck, and you don’t want that.” He heard the tightness in his voice. “Keep your legs straight and put your arms over your head. You’ll be landing in sand feet first, so you’ll be okay. Bend your knees.”

  “I’ll be careful. You be careful, too.” Her face was serious, her eyes fixed on his.

  He shrugged off his backpack and unsnapped the fanny pack and water bottles.

  She put a hand on his arm. “Don’t kill yourself. I’m not sure I know the way out.”

  He grinned. “Piece o’ cake.”

  He was running much too fast on the uneven surface, flying over the face of the rock. Here and there he felt loose gravel and sand slip under his boots. Skidding to a stop dangerously close to the edge, he flopped down on the rock, skinning his hands and knees. The edge, round and smooth from erosion, provided nothing to hang on to. There was no way to lower himself over the side and drop, and no time to work it out. It was either jump or run back and try the chute. Not a real choice. Scrambling to his feet, he picked the widest point and jumped into the void.

  Frank tried to roll, but the sand grabbed at his feet as he plunged forward, arms stretched out. Pain shot through his shoulder, and he lay gasping for breath for the second time in less than eight hours.

  He let himself go, unclenching his hands, the world falling away on all sides. The breeze whispered ancient secrets among the rocks. High above him, turkey vultures drifted in lazy arcs across a jagged strip of blue sky, searching for the dead. He fought to sit up, pain shooting through the injured shoulder. His right arm felt next to useless. Steadying himself against the smooth granite, he regained his footing and tottered off toward the point where the chute emptied out into the canyon. He hoped his memory was correct and Linda would land in a sandy patch.

  He’d only dropped through the chute once, more than twenty years ago, when he and Jimmy Tecopa had come here to play hunter, hide in the blind, and watch the sheep come down to drink at the spring. Jimmy had slipped down the chute, shouting with glee, but somehow Frank’s leg had folded back under him, and he’d been stuck, held fast between unyielding granite walls.

  Jimmy had climbed back up the rocks, cut one of the springy willows growing by the spring, and attached his belt to it. Bracing himself between the rocks, Jimmy had managed to lower the belt loop down so that Frank could grasp it, and Jimmy had pulled him up far enough to free his leg. Finally, he’d dropped onto the sand, his leg numb but uninjured. In Frank’s mind, Jimmy had saved his life and his sanity. Nevertheless, the hour spent trapped between the rocks had left him with a permanent fear of confined places.

  He rounded the corner where the narrow defile opened out onto the boulder-strewn slide. There were the packs and water bottles, but no Linda.

  The crack and boom of a gunshot ruptured the morning stillness. Heart thumping, Frank ran toward the mouth of the chute, where the packs and water bottles lay scattered on the sand. Linda’s body slipped out of the narrow opening in a crumpled heap. She gave him a small, twisted smile, her eyes unnaturally bright. “You’re right. There’s a point where you can’t stop. You just start sliding.”

  “What the hell were they shooting at?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Damn, they know we’re here.”

  Drawing up her legs, she sat up. She gingerly flexed her arms, rotating them back and forth as if she were turning on a faucet.

  “I stayed for pictures. I’ve got them both, right in here.” She flashed a look of defiance and tapped her backpack, which held the aluminum camera case.

  “For Christ’s sake, what happened?”

  She drew in a breath. “I watched you run across the rocks and nearly fall into the ravine, which probably would have been just as good as stepping off into thin air. Some careful approach. I thought you were going to hang and drop. What happened?”

  He shook his head in irritation. “Never mind about that. Then what?”

  “Well, after you went over the edge, I heard noises from above me, in the canyon. So I crawled up a ways and took a look. There were two guys making their way down the talus slope to the right of the falls. You were right. They were above us.”

  “Yeah, but why did they shoot at you? They must’ve seen you.”

  “I’m coming to that.” She paused for a moment to complete an examination of an extended leg. Blood oozed and beaded from a scrape along the outside of her knee. She poked at
it carefully, smearing the blood along her calf. “I’m not sure they saw me.”

  Frank leaned carefully forward and looked back up the chute. Nothing but good old blue sky.

  “We better get out of here. Go back to the ravine, where we’re less exposed.” They picked up the packs, canteen, and water bottles and slipped into the protection of the crevice, temporarily safe from discovery in the alcove that extended along the base of the lower monolith. They sat in the sand, which was still damp from the last runoff. “Now, what happened up there? Why did they shoot at you?”

  She unscrewed the top of her canteen and raised it to her mouth. It blocked her face from view and exposed the pale skin of her throat, which pulsed evenly and damn near endlessly, the quiet gurgle of her swallowing filling him with irritation.

  He couldn’t stop himself. “Well?”

  “Well, I got their pictures.”

  “Got their pictures?”

  “Frank, I took their pictures. They’re right here, in my camera.” She grinned. “Like I was saying, I heard these noises. Then I saw them come down the slope.” She paused, waiting for him to interrupt.

  He waited—silent, ready to explode.

  “The little guy came first. He came down the slope sure-footed as a sheep.”

  Frank nodded encouragement.

  “The big guy followed, knocking rocks loose and starting small slides at every step. It must’ve been him I heard. I’d already dropped your pack and the water down the chute. I wanted to watch what happened to them before I sent my pack down with the camera, so I still had it. Being a photojournalist as well as a damn good reporter, I snapped on the telephoto and took their pictures.” She smiled triumphantly.

  “What did they look like?”

  “The big guy was maybe in his early forties, but it was hard to tell through the lens. He had the sort of looks that don’t age all that much. You know—groomed, well cared for. He was blond, rugged, picture-perfect. Wore all the right clothes. He was the one with the rifle.

  “The little guy was very dark-skinned. His face was weathered. I couldn’t get a fix on his age—older than thirty and younger than fifty. Definitely not from Brentwood or San Marino. He wore jeans, a scruffy khaki shirt, and a beat-up straw hat. He was carrying a pack and two canteens. He didn’t have a gun.”

  Frank felt a sinking feeling. The money for illegal guiding was too tempting. He’d heard rumors that some of the people from the Paiute and Shoshone communities had taken illegal hunters into the desert for sheep.

  “What was the shooting about?”

  “Actually, I’m not sure. After I took the pictures, I let my pack go down the chute. It was then I heard the shot. It scared me a lot, so when I started down the chute, I didn’t do a very good job of slowing down. I just sort of fell and slid, but I’m okay.”

  Frank frowned in thought. “It was the second sheep. It was still alive. They must have been finishing it off. I thought for sure they’d spotted you and that you were a goner.” He breathed heavily. “God, I thought I’d brought you up here to get killed.” His chest clenched with the beginnings of rage. “Jesus, I’d like to get those bastards.”

  “We’ve got ’em.” Linda tapped her pack again.

  He nodded. “Yeah, maybe we do. Now all we have to do is get back to the truck.”

  Frank stopped to catch his breath where the canyon narrowed between a rounded shoulder on the left and a gray basaltic cliff some ten or twelve feet high. A dark blade of rock rose out of the sandy wash about a third of the way in from the cliff face.

  Nine days earlier, Frank, Deputy Harris from the Inyo County Sheriff’s Department, and the unhappy guys from the coroner’s office had bagged the corpse and lugged it down to the county truck; now there was nothing. The thunderstorms that had swept across the desert the last few afternoons had washed away the last traces of Donnie Miller’s life.

  Linda reached into the cargo pockets of her hiking shorts and drew out a red paisley kerchief. The midmorning heat made the air quiver. Mopping her face and neck, she looked inquiringly at Frank. “Can’t take it, huh?” She grinned at him.

  She sure as hell had been keeping up. She was in shape, very good shape. He looked back at the place were Miller had lain in the sun, food for worms.

  “This is where you found the dead man, isn’t it?” She regarded Frank more closely—the reporter look. She seemed unconcerned in the face of danger. Did she feel she was in good hands, or was she one of those individuals who maintained “grace under pressure”?

  “He was next to the cliff there.” Frank gestured toward the rock face. He hadn’t told her yet that he knew who the dead guy was. For now, it was a closed book.

  “Hey, those are petroglyphs.” Linda crossed over to the rock face and squatted down to examine the pictures of the bighorn sheep pecked into the rock. “Why are these so far down? Were these very, very short people, or what?” She looked up at Frank, wisps of hair clinging to her neck.

  “Actually, that’s probably as high as they could reach. They were little guys, but not that little—maybe five one or two on the average. The canyon floor was probably five or six feet lower when these were made. Making these might have been a stretch.”

  “How did you get the body out of here?”

  He gave her a crooked grin. “Carried him. It’s a very adventurous job. You get to carry rotting guys on hot days. Builds character.”

  “Muy macho, Señor Francisco.”

  “Actually, that’s my name.” He began moving down the canyon.

  “Actually, I knew that. I’m a reporter.”

  11

  The afternoon breeze drifted in small swirls, coating a stagnant back eddy of the Mojave River with a film of fine dust. The corners of Roy’s thin mouth turned up in a private smile as he watched his brother playing near the edge of the water.

  Home sweet home. It had been a long time coming.

  When Betts and Cass moved them to Los Angeles, away from the desert, everything went to hell. They were all trapped in a two-room apartment with Betts and “Uncle” Cass. No place to get away, no place to hide, except for the cellar—not as good as under the trailer, but better than being inside. The old Victorian house in south Los Angeles had been cut up into four units. Cass, Betts, and the three boys were in the smaller of the two downstairs apartments at the back of the house, where it opened up on a tiny patch of bare dirt next to the Harbor Freeway.

  Before Cass came along, the succession of “uncles” had been short-time live-ins with a taste for liquor, pot, television, and occasional rutting with Betts. The boys had been left to their own devices, which had been okay with Roy. He’d found things to do, some of them unpleasant but largely unnoticed. But Cass was different from the other uncles, to whom they had been all but invisible. Cass decided to “take a hand” with the boys, “teach ’em good manners” and the importance of obedience.

  Cass’s instructional technique had been to smack them whenever he decided they were “out of line.” Being out of line meant not minding their own “beeswax.” Mostly, it meant being in the same room with him. Roy was quick and kept out of reach, but Jace never ran. When Cass reached for him, he froze, closed his eyes, and waited. Donnie began to whimper as soon as Cass looked at him. The whimpering whipped Cass into a regular fury. He rained down blows on the silent Jace and the screaming Donnie, sometimes not knowing which of them to hit. When he could catch Roy, he hit him a good one with a closed fist to make up for lost opportunity. Roy never cried. He was only twelve, but even then Cass found the odd eyes and reptilian stare disturbing. The boys spent more and more time in the cellar—out of sight, out of mind.

  Roy hadn’t let these transgressions against his person and his brothers pass unanswered. He broke things that belonged to Cass and left them for him to discover. Cass always exploded into a paroxysm of rage, screaming curses and threats. It was very gratifying, and, to Roy’s surprise, a sure thing, easy to strike back. He stole Cass’s porno magaz
ines and videotapes. They were of special interest to Jason, despite his being only eleven. In some areas, Jason was ahead of his older brother. Roy hid the magazines in the cellar and gummed up the tapes with cooking oil before returning them to a cardboard carton in the closet.

  When he discovered a videotape of Cass and Betts doing it, he squeezed glue into the VCR. Cass nearly came apart, screaming how he was gonna turn them over to the court as “fucking incorrigibles.” Betts never interfered, not even when Cass hit Jace again and again, trying to get a reaction, or pounded on Donnie for pissing his pants with fear. Cass had some sort of pension, and Betts figured she’d finally hit pay dirt. She was living the good life of sweet wine and funny smokes.

  When Roy talked Jason into shitting in Cass’s shoes, Cass went white with rage. He locked them in the cellar and promised they’d stay there until the guilty party confessed to doing such a “filthy thing.” Cass had come to know his boys, so he turned on the weakest link. He told Donnie that there were poisonous snakes under the house and that the snakes would come out at night and get them, unless, of course, they told who’d put shit in his shoes. Donnie couldn’t stop crying. Jace wouldn’t open his eyes or move. Roy told them it was a lie, that Cass was just trying to scare them, but it was dark in the cellar and Cass took the lightbulb when he left. The cellar door closed on three upturned faces, leaving them in darkness. They heard him turn the hasp against the latch plate. Then they heard things scrabbling around under the house. Jace and Donnie were too scared to move.

  On the second day, Cass called down through the closed door, “You ready to tell who did the filthy thing?”

  “Yes,” said Roy, who still had a boy’s voice.

  “What’s that? I can’t hear you.” Cass was always saying that, real loud in a big voice—“I can’t hear you”—like soldiers in war movies.

  “Yes. I’m ready to tell. It was me.” Roy’s voice was flat. He was experiencing flashes of red at the corners of his vision, like lightning in a dark tunnel.