He glanced at his hands in the scant moonlight, noting the flayed skin and spots of blood from rope burns. The pain started to cut through the numbness, and he tried to remember if he had antibacterial ointment and bandages back in his room. Probably, he told himself. He was always prepared. But nothing could have prepared him for what had happened tonight. Nothing.
He started toward the hill and almost tripped over the heap of rope at his feet. There was probably no way the rope could be traced back to Dale, but Emilio didn’t like the idea of leaving evidence behind.
He untied the rope from the base of the monument and bundled it up, then he lifted the bulk of rope against his chest and started hauling it toward the water, loops trailing down and trying to tangle his feet. The mass of rope, all 350 feet of it, was heavy, but Emilio managed with much strain.
At the water’s edge—or as close to the edge as he dared go—Emilio tossed the rope toward the lake. It made an impressive splash and immediately started to sink beneath the surface.
Emilio stood watch until the rope was completely out of view, then he turned and made his way back to the dorm.
Chapter Two
EMILIO STUMBLED OUT of Fort dorm at 8:50 the next morning, feet shuffling lethargically along the walkway as if he were a zombie in a Romero film; he even wore the blank-eyed expression of the undead. He’d slept too late for breakfast or a shower, so after scarfing down a cold Pop Tart, he’d applied an extra helping of deodorant, changed into clothes that passed the smell-test, and hurried out of his room.
Phil had stayed buried under the covers, snoring like a sick animal. Emilio envied his roommate, who routinely skipped his morning classes—a luxury that Emilio couldn’t afford. He had to maintain a B average in all his coursework in order to keep his academic scholarship. Even though he hadn’t gone to bed until nearly 4 a.m.—tossing and turning for at least another hour before finally drifting into a fitful sleep—he couldn’t blow off his 9 o’clock Art Appreciation class.
He followed the narrow paved path that led around the left side of the Curtis Administration building, taking him onto the main quad by Admissions and Eunice Ford. He overhead a couple of girls from the dorm giggling and talking about Steve’s stunt last night, one of them commenting approvingly on the lacrosse player’s endowment. Emilio shook his head then hurried on, headed for Granberry Hall.
The building was rectangular, made of red brick with stone steps leading up to recessed entrances. He bounded up the nearest set of steps and into the art studio. Granberry had originally been built as a gymnasium, so the studio was a large open area that ran the entire length of the building, the massive space filled with canvases, easels, sculptures, and countless other art projects in various stages of completion. Emilio threaded his way through the maze of art, then ducked through the doorway that led to the classrooms.
Most of the other students had already arrived by the time Emilio wandered into class, taking his seat near the back of the room.
The desk next to him, usually occupied by Dale, was empty.
A queasy hollowness invaded Emilio’s gut. He tried not to overreact, reminding himself that Dale routinely arrived to class late. But Dale never missed. Never. In addition to being a jocular prank artist and brazen adventurer, he was also a serious student.
Dr. Finley walked in at the top of the hour and didn’t waste a second before launching into the morning’s lecture.
Emilio did his best, trying to take notes while studying the slides shown by the professor, but his eyes kept straying to the empty seat and the events of the previous night.
At 9:30, he conceded that Dale wasn’t going to show up for class. Tentacles of worry began worming into his brain, taking hold as he dismissed Dr. Finley’s droning litany and focused on the clock.
Time became elastic, stretching and warping until a minute seemed like an hour. The second hand of the clock crept with such excruciating slowness that it seemed to be mocking Emilio. Of course, if he were that concerned about his friend, he could just get up and walk out of class. This wasn’t high school, he reminded himself. But while the thought held a certain appeal, he knew he’d never be able to do it, no more than he could ditch class altogether. Dale hadn’t called him Mr. By-the-Rules for nothing.
Finley started wrapping things up around 9:55, and Emilio, gathering up his books, was the first out the door.
Entering the open studio, he paused and looked around. At the far end of the room he spotted Connie Jenkins, sitting at a long table and sketching in an oversized pad. She wore jeans and a white blouse that really stood out against her mocha-colored skin. As if feeling his eyes on her, she looked up, smiled, and checked her watch. She slowly closed her pad, left it on the table, then walked toward Emilio.
* * *
Connie had a free period from 9 to 10 on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, which she typically spent in the Granberry art studio. Both Dale and Emilio had Art Appreciation at 9, so she liked to wait for the boys to get out of class so the three of them could walk across the quad to Hamrick Hall together, where Dale had World Civ and she and Emilio had Biology. Today she’d spent her free hour working on her assignment for Figure Drawing, a charcoal sketch of a porcelain doll that Dr. Hembry had brought to class. For some reason, Connie just couldn’t seem to get it right—something around the eyes that she couldn’t nail.
When she saw Emilio, she smiled, grateful to put aside the troublesome drawing, and headed over, consulting her watch. “Cutting it close,” she said. “Dr. Finley doesn’t like to leave you much time to get to your next class, huh?”
“Yeah, well, luckily Limestone’s small enough that you can get most anywhere in less than five minutes.”
Connie glanced back toward the classrooms. “So I guess Dale didn’t make it to Art Appreciation either.”
“You mean he wasn’t in Psych this morning?”
Connie laughed as they exited the building and started down the steps. “I didn’t expect him to be. Not after your late night adventure. But I’m surprised he didn’t show up for his 9. It’s unlike him to blow off an entire morning.”
“Did he call you when he got in last night?”
“Of course not, he knows better than that. This girl has to have at least a solid seven hours a night in order to function. Why do you think he didn’t ask me to be his accomplice?”
“So you’re saying you haven’t spoken to him at all this morning?”
“It’s not like we’re attached at the hip or anything. We’ve only been dating since last December. What, you think I’m the kind of girl that likes to smother a guy, calling him every fifteen minutes?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s just…”
Glancing over at her friend and getting a good look at the pained expression on his face, Connie came to an abrupt halt halfway across the quad. It was then that she noticed the bandages on his hands. “Emilio, what’s the matter? Did something go wrong last night?”
The way Emilio chewed on his lower lip and cut his eyes away did nothing to calm the fears that were sprouting like poisonous mushrooms in her mind. When he didn’t answer right away, she swatted him on the arm. “Talk to me, Em. Did Dale get hurt or something?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so. I’m not sure.”
“You’re not exactly inspiring confidence right now. How can you not be sure if he got hurt or not? Weren’t you there?”
“Yeah, I was watching the rope like he asked me to. He was down there for a long time, too long, then he panicked or something and I had to haul him back up.”
“Oh Jesus.”
“But he was okay. I mean, relatively speaking. He’d lost most of his gear and had a gash on his arm, and I think he almost drowned. But he was walking and talking and seemed fine, just shaken and…”
“And what?”
“I don’t know, distant or something.”
Connie let out a deep breath and felt her body sag slightly. She had tried not to worry too much
about Dale’s dive in the Quarry—after all, he’d done a lot of crazy things in the short time she had known him and always seemed to come out okay—but Emilio had scared her. The relief of hearing Dale had come out okay was almost overwhelming.
“So,” she said, regaining equilibrium, “what exactly happened down there?”
“Beats me. He wouldn’t talk about it. In fact, he didn’t say much of anything at all. Just said he was tired and walked off.”
“That doesn’t sound much like him. Dale loves to regale us with details of his exploits.”
“Like I said, he seemed kind of shaken up.”
“Maybe I better call him.”
Connie rummaged through her purse, then snatched her phone from a nest of wadded up tissues and old peppermints. She first dialed Dale’s cell, then, having reached his voicemail, tried his home phone. The guys that shared the house with Dale—Steve Kenton, Brock Vincent, and Zeke Wood—didn’t have an answering machine, so fifteen rings in, Connie hung up.
“He’s probably still sleeping,” Emilio said. He sounded unconvinced.
After taking a moment to consider her options, Connie grabbed Emilio’s hand and started dragging him toward the parking lot. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Where do you think? To check on Dale.”
“But what about class?”
“We’ll copy someone’s notes. You’re not going to flunk just because you miss one class.”
Emilio glanced back toward Hamrick as he allowed himself to be led. “Okay, but I have to do an hour of work study at eleven.”
“I’ll have you back in plenty of time. Now move your ass.”
* * *
They took Connie’s Jeep Wrangler and didn’t talk during the short trip. As they pulled into the driveway of the nondescript white stucco, Emilio said, “Do you think I should have followed him last night? Made sure he was really okay?”
Connie looked at him with a slight smile and put a hand on his knee. “We both know better than anybody that there’s no more stubborn a mule than Dale Sierra. If he didn’t want to talk, there’s nothing you could have done.”
“I didn’t even call him this morning. I saw the shape he was in last night, and I didn’t even call this morning to see how he was doing. I guess I was hoping he’d be in class and back to normal and I could just forget about last night, but when he didn’t show, I—”
“We’re checking on him now,” Connie said, opening her door and stepping out of the jeep.
Emilio followed her to the front stoop then stood next to her as she rang the bell. They waited for a minute, and when there was no answer, she rang the bell again. Then, clearly distraught, she opened the screen and pounded on the door.
Emilio suddenly found it hard to stand still, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. What if his friend wasn’t okay? What if he’d sustained some kind of internal injury, something that hadn’t been apparent last night? If anything happened to Dale, Emilio would hold himself responsible. He never should have—
The sound of the lock disengaging startled Emilio, but he started to smile as the door opened. That smile withered, however, when he saw Steve at the threshold.
Steve wore only a pair of boxers, his longish, dirty-blond hair tangled and sticking up in wild tufts, his face unshaven. His eyes were red and his lids droopy. “Whachawant?” he said around a yawn.
“Hello Steve,” Connie said. “We just dropped by to see Dale.”
“He’s still sleeping.”
“You sure?”
“Course I’m sure, I share a room with him. He’s snoozing like a baby, which I’d still be doing if it wasn’t for you guys showing up at the crack of whatever the hell time it is.”
Connie smirked and crossed her arms over her small bosom. “I hear you had quite the eventful night.”
“Word’s getting around about that, huh?” Steve said with a lopsided grin, his best feature. “That stunt’s the stuff school legends are made of.”
“So did they expel your ass or what?”
“Nah. You think they’re going to bench the best player they got on the lacrosse team? Hell no, not when they want to snag a championship title this year. I got probation is all. Light slap on the wrist.”
“You’re on probation and yet still decided not to go to school today?”
Steve shrugged. “That damn fag guard had me in his office ’til after four, then the Dean of Student Affairs came in and reamed me out. After all that excitement, I decided to take a personal day.”
“Very responsible of you,” Connie said. “Now if you don’t mind, we’d like to come in and talk to Dale.”
“Told you he was sleeping, but if you want to wake him up and incur his wrath, be my guest. I’m going to make me some cereal before crawling back in bed myself. Want any?”
“I’ll pass.”
“Your loss; I’m a culinary genius when it comes to Fruity Pebbles.” Turning his attention to Emilio, Steve smiled and said, “What about you, Emily? Want some? They’re real fruity.”
Emilio shook his head as he and Connie stepped into the dark living room. The thick curtains prevented much sunlight from filtering in, but even in the gloom it was easy to see the place was a mess. Beer and soda cans everywhere, dirty dishes, school books strewn across the floor. The usual state of affairs for the house.
Steve stumbled past them on his way to the kitchen, reached into his underwear and scratched his ass. Emilio wrinkled his nose and turned away. He knew Dale and Steve were friends, but Emilio had never liked Steve. Steve was crude and had a mean-spirited sense of humor, reminding Emilio of too many bullies he’d known in high school.
He trailed behind Connie as they headed down a short hall and turned left into one of the bedrooms. It was not quite as dark here as in the living room, a small desk lamp in the far right corner shedding a muted glow. As was the rest of the house, this room was a disaster area, but the left side of the room—Dale’s side— was less disordered. Actual sections of floor could be seen among discarded clothes and magazines and CD cases.
Though the sparse light didn’t quite reach all the way to Dale’s side of the room, Emilio could make out the form lying on his stomach in bed—Dale, his face turned toward the wall. He was still wearing his wetsuit, which couldn’t have been comfortable, and his covers had been knocked to the floor. Clearly he’d had a restless night, but now he was utterly still.
Too still.
“Dale,” Connie said, but her voice was hushed and tentative, a Church voice. She looked at Emilio and a silent communication seemed to pass between them, a shared fear that kept both paralyzed.
But then Dale snorted, mumbled, and rolled onto his side.
Laughing shakily, Connie strode over to the bed and slapped her boyfriend on the ass, the sound loud as a firecracker in the dim room. “Wake up, asswipe.”
Dale snorted again, passed gas, then lifted his head, opening only one eye. “What are you guys doing here?”
“We thought you might be dead,” Connie said then titled her head appraisingly, hands on her hips. “Looking at you now, I’m not entirely convinced you’re not.”
Letting his head drop heavily back to the pillow, Dale threw an arm over his eyes. “Leave me alone.”
Emilio stepped closer to the bed. “We were worried about you. I mean, after last night—”
“I told you I’m fine!” Dale snapped, his voice sharp as broken glass. “You deaf or just stupid?”
Emilio recoiled as if slapped, stung not only by Dale’s words but by the tone in which they were delivered.
“No need to get so nasty,” Connie said, a hard edge to her own voice. “You did something dangerous and foolish last night, from what I hear damn near got yourself killed at it, so forgive us for being concerned for your wellbeing.”
Dale sighed and pushed up to a sitting position, leaning against the wall that served as his headboard. He rubbed the crust from the corners of hi
s eyes before looking first to Connie and then to Emilio. “Sorry guys, but I’m really exhausted and just want to crash. I don’t mean to be harsh, but I’m not up for company right now. I just want to sleep for about a week.”
“Are you okay?” Connie asked, putting a hand gently on his arm just under the gash in his wetsuit. “Really okay? No bullshit?” The wound was red and scabbed over, dried blood crusting on the skin. It had obviously not been tended to since last night. “This could get infected if you don’t take care of it.”
“I will, I promise. But later, right now I just want to go back to bed.”
“Why don’t you take a quick shower and get cleaned up? No offense, but you smell foul. I’ll fix you something to eat, help bandage you up, then you can—”
“For Christ’s sake, Connie, I don’t need a mother right now. I just need some fucking space!”
Connie jerked her hand away, as if from a flame, a bark of a laugh escaping her throat—part indignation, part disbelief. “Okay, you want space?—I’ll give you all the space you can handle. Vast acres of space.”
Getting to her feet, she stormed past Emilio, pausing at the door. “Let’s go, Em, we’re obviously not wanted here.”
Emilio didn’t move for a moment, staring back at Dale who had already stretched out on his side, his back to his friends. “Do you need anything?” Emilio said.
“Yeah, I need you guys to go away. I don’t know how many different ways I can say it.”
Connie stepped back into the room and took Emilio by the elbow. “Come on, let’s get back to campus.” Turning toward Dale’s back, she said, “When you get over your case of Thoughtless Bastard Syndrome and are ready to apologize, you know how to reach me.”
They hurried into the hall, Emilio slightly dazed. Dale was acting like a stranger, his behavior at odds with everything Emilio had come to expect from him over the past seven months. Dale liked to joke around, and Emilio wasn’t averse to some good-natured teasing. But he had never known Dale to be cruel. Until today.
The Quarry Page 3
