The Quarry

by Mark Allan Gunnells

  Closing her laptop, Connie made a decision.

  She’d been The Hermit long enough. It was time to come out of hiding and rejoin the world.

  In the bathroom, she touched up her makeup and brushed her hair. She’d run down to the dining hall and see if they had anything good for lunch. And if there were any stares or whispers, she’d just ignore them.

  But she wouldn’t allow herself to think like Emilio, constantly trying to understand the situation.

  Explanations had died with Dale.

  * * *

  Sheryl knew that she’d get into trouble if the security guard caught her down here, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t seem to make herself care about much of anything these days. Not since she’d killed Leslie.

  Not directly (Dale was to blame for that), but Sheryl felt responsible all the same. If she hadn’t messed around with Steve and then confessed, Leslie would never have been out so late at night by herself.

  I only drove my friend to her death…

  Two deaths actually. Leslie and her unborn child.

  Behind Stephenson, she slowly approached the fence that separated her from the Quarry. Although it was nearing 10 p.m., the area was lit up by ground lights that had been installed recently, leaving her feeling terribly exposed. The gate in the fence was shut and padlocked, but it was only waist-high and she had no trouble scaling it.

  She stood by the water’s edge, the water where Leslie had more than likely met her end. It stood to reason that this is where Dale would have dumped all the bodies.

  She couldn’t quite shake the fact that Dr. Brighton had still been conscious when she was found, meaning Dale had apparently intended to toss her in the lake while she was still alive.

  Was Leslie still alive when he tossed her in?

  She shuddered at the thought of Leslie regaining consciousness, struggling for air, fighting death even as the filthy water filled her lungs?

  And the images ate at Sheryl like acid.

  Sheryl glanced at the NO TRESPASSING signs that had been put up in the wake of the tragedy and laughed bitterly. As if Dale might have had second thoughts if there had only been signs telling him to stay away. Ridiculous! Fucking window-dressing meant to make it look like the administration was doing their duty, taking steps to prevent a repeat incident. An empty gesture that would not bring Leslie back. And she doubted it would appease worried parents.

  Crouching down on her haunches, Sheryl let a hand trail through the cool water.

  She’d always heard that the Quarry was dangerous, but it looked peaceful enough now. People were dangerous, not objects. And the Quarry was an object. People had hidden depths of evil. Not waters. Not unless they were polluted, and even that, once again, was a problem with people. No. The Quarry was fine. And Dale was…

  What was Dale?

  He’d always seemed so good-natured and harmless, but that had apparently been nothing but an act. She thought some people should have NO TRESPASSING signs posted around them. But she found no humor in the observation.

  She pulled her hand out of the water and allowed herself a few tears. She wasn’t sure what had compelled her to come down here tonight, but since she had been unable to travel to Maryland for Leslie’s funeral, perhaps this was the only way she knew to say goodbye to her friend. Here. At her real grave.

  I’m sorry…

  Wiping the tears from her cheeks, Sheryl was just about to get up when the water at the edge of the lake started to churn, bubbling and splashing as if something were rising to the surface.

  Frowning, she leaned over, careful to keep her balance so she didn’t topple in.

  After a few seconds, the churning ceased and the water went calm…

  Calmer than before…

  …too calm.

  Overcome by a strange feeling that her friend was trying to reach out to her, to tell her not to worry, she smiled. “Leslie?” she whispered.

  She wasn’t a particularly spiritual person, but—

  A hand shot out of the water!

  Sheryl didn’t have time to scream before it grasped her by the throat and pulled her under.

  Chapter Twelve

  AFTER BIOLOGY LAB Monday afternoon, Connie approached Emilio while he was packing up his books.

  “Howdy stranger. I tried to catch you after class this morning but you sprinted out of there like you had the devil himself on your heels.”

  “Yeah, lecture ran long and I didn’t want to be late for work study. If there’s one thing Ms. Cosgrove can’t stand it’s tardiness.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you long, I just wanted to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “For being a stone-cold, grade-A bitch lately.”

  Her words surprised a laugh out of Emilio. “I wouldn’t put it exactly that way.”

  “That’s because you’re too nice to call a spade a spade, or a bitch a bitch.”

  “You’ve been on edge, it’s understandable. We’ve all had a lot to deal with.”

  “Agreed, but I shouldn’t take it out on you. So just let me apologize—it’ll make me feel better.”

  “Fine, apology accepted.”

  “And to truly make it up to you, I want to take you out for some ice cream at Yummies when you get off work from the library tonight.”

  “Oh, tonight’s not good. I might have to take a rain check.”

  “What, you have big plans or something? Don’t tell me you have a hot date.”

  Emilio blushed and looked away. “Nothing like that. I’ve just got some research I want to get done tonight.”

  “Come on, Em, can’t it wait?”

  “I guess maybe it could, but I’d really like to get it done sooner rather than later. Maybe tomorrow?”

  “Definitely, and no backing out. Just one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I don’t want to talk about Dale. As far as I’m concerned that chapter is closed. We can talk about anything but him. Deal?”

  Emilio hesitated for a couple of seconds then said, “Deal. Now I have to run. If I’m late twice in one day, Ms. Cosgrove is likely to have my head on a spike.”

  “Okay, see ya.”

  Connie watched Emilio dash out of the lab, feeling like she was really starting to get herself back together again. No more moping; no more brooding. With a smile on her face, she left Hamrick from the back entrance, which was closest to her dorm.

  She walked down the stone steps when her gaze drifted to the left…toward the Quarry.

  She came to such a sudden halt that she nearly toppled over, and her textbook fell to the ground.

  Down by the Quarry, walking idly away from the quad with his hand trailing the guardrail, was Dale.

  Or someone who looks like Dale.

  He was far away, and she was seeing him from behind, but it looked like his build and the sweatshirt she gave him for Christmas.

  But he couldn’t have survived a gunshot and a fall into the Quarry…could he? And even if he had, would he be stupid enough to stroll casually across campus?

  “Connie, glad I caught you.”

  Connie turned to see Dr. Hemphill, holding out her purse. “You left this in class.”

  “Oh, thanks,” she said absently. She took the purse and slipped it over her shoulder.

  “Everything all right?” Hemphill asked.

  She nodded slowly.

  “Well, all right then.”

  Dr. Hemphill started away with a listless wave, and Connie turned back to the Quarry.

  No one was there.

  * * *

  The dream came to Norman again…

  He was out by the Quarry in the dark, Sierra was dragging the Brighton woman toward the water, and Norman had his gun held out in front of him. Only in the dream he could not pull the trigger. His finger seemed frozen and would not squeeze.

  Sierra laughed, the sound like rocks scraping the bottom of a muddy lakebed, pulling the unconscious professor closer to the Quarry.r />
  Norman tried to fire, the veins in his neck bulging with exertion, but still his finger remained motionless on the trigger, not even a twitch. As if his body no longer obeyed his mind’s commands.

  Walking backward, dragging the woman by the feet, Sierra began splashing into the lake himself, bringing Brighton with him. In no time, Sierra had disappeared beneath the surface, but the professor continued to float there, face down in the water, bobbing gently up and down.

  Unfreezing, now that it was almost too late, Norman dropped the gun and raced to the water’s edge.

  Brighton drifted away from him, but he stretched out his arms and caught one of her wrists. He tried to haul her back to the shore but she would not budge, as if she were a boat that had put down an anchor. Leaning back, Norman pulled with all his strength, but she would not be moved.

  Just then Sierra resurfaced with a nasty grin.

  He still had a hold of the woman’s feet and was pulling her back.

  A grotesque game of tug-of-war.

  Norman began to think he was making progress when he felt the ground slipping beneath his feet. A large chunk of land seemed to break away and sink into the water.

  He let go of Brighton and tried to backpedal. But he was too slow and splashed into the Quarry.

  Like liquid darkness, the lake enveloped him.

  He could not see, could not hear, and he held his breath until his lungs burned from lack of oxygen. He kicked and thrashed wildly, trying to break the surface, unable to tell how far under he was. But he doubled his efforts to reach open air.

  And then Sierra was there again, grabbing his legs and holding him in place.

  Norman beat at the boy’s hands and head, but to no avail. Sierra’s grip did not loosen, and Norman could feel himself getting weak, growing lethargic. Finally, forgetting what he was fighting against, Norman opened his mouth wide and breathed in a mouthful of rancid water…

  That was when he woke up, gasping and retching.

  His body was so saturated with sweat that he could almost believe he had been underwater. Throwing his legs out of the bed, feeling the floor reassuringly against the soles of his feet, he put his head in his hands and moaned. It was rare that the nightmare didn’t invade Norman’s sleep, leaving him frequently tired, as if he hadn’t slept at all, and uncharacteristically short-tempered.

  He checked the clock. It was 3:15 Monday afternoon. The alarm was set for 4; no point trying to go back to bed.

  He stood up, wearing only his boxers and a dingy T-shirt, and stretched until his back popped.

  The room was dim, the lone window covered over with tinfoil; since he had to sleep during the day, it was the best way to block out the sunlight. Stepping into the cramped bathroom, he relieved his aching bladder and took a quick shower, then dressed in jeans and a slightly less dingy T-shirt.

  A trip down the narrow stairs brought him into the kitchen/living room area. The room was long and not very wide, almost like a hallway. The apartment, part of a house that had been divided up into five different units, was tiny, but Norman didn’t mind. He had little in the way of furniture, so he could fill up the small space without it looking too empty. Besides, the rent was cheap and included utilities. He wouldn’t be here forever, or at least he hoped not, but it suited his needs for now.

  After making a quick sandwich, Norman popped a DVD in the player and sat down on his thrift store sofa to eat and watch an episode or two of Freaks and Geeks, his favorite prematurely cancelled TV show. He didn’t have cable or satellite and he’d never bothered to buy one of those digital converter boxes, so his television was basically only good for playing DVDs and VHS tapes, of which he still had an embarrassingly large collection.

  By the time the first episode was done and his sandwich had been eaten and enjoyed, Norman was starting to feel like a human being again. The dream was dissipating and he felt ready to face the day.

  Normally he had class on Monday evenings, but Dr. Slidell had cancelled tonight’s class because of a wedding in his family. That left Norman with time to run a few errands—mostly bills to pay, but he also needed to get a haircut—and then he would run over to the Cherokee County Public Library to do some research on an essay due for class. He’d gone by the school library Saturday, but their selection left much to be desired. He figured he’d have better luck at the public library.

  Glancing out the bay window—the apartment’s one extravagant touch—he saw that it was raining heavily, a gray downpour that fell in an almost solid sheet, and he was struck by an absurd thought.

  April showers bring May flowers.

  * * *

  Emilio had been in the genealogy room of the public library for at least two hours. He’d gone through several books of local history before turning to the microfilm machine. Using dates from the books, he looked up old issues of The Gaffney Ledger to find articles related to the Quarry. There wasn’t much, but he had to start somewhere. He figured whatever information Dale had found would have been collected by the police when they searched his room and then eventually handed over to his folks if it was determined not to be evidence. So Emilio would just have to do his own research.

  Why am I doing this?

  He couldn’t exactly answer this question, but felt that retracing some of Dale’s steps might give him a better understanding of what had happened to his friend. It was just a hunch—driven by desperation more than logic—and, of course, he would have to keep his little scavenger hunt a secret from Connie; that much was clear.

  Walking through the glass door into the main part of the library, carrying the pages he’d copied from the microfilm machine, Emilio spotted the security guard from campus almost immediately. It was hard to miss that blaze of bright red hair.

  Norman was sitting at a table with several books open before him, scanning their pages and scribbling notes on a legal pad.

  Emilio planned to pass him without speaking but, approaching the table, changed his mind.

  Emilio cleared his throat.

  Norman looked up, his eyes registered recognition, and an unexpected smile curled his lips.

  “Hey you,” Norman said. “You’re not stalking me, are you?”

  “What? No, of course not,” Emilio sputtered.

  “I’m only teasing. Just surprised to run into you here.”

  “I needed to look at some old newspapers, and the archives at school didn’t go back far enough.”

  “I hear you. The Limestone library is a bit…lacking, which is why I research most of my papers here.”

  “Are you a student?”

  “I take Block classes.”

  Emilio stared at him blankly.

  “It’s a program Limestone offers for working adults who want to get a degree. Classes meet in the evenings three nights a week, and you take one class per month. It’s not a bad setup actually.”

  “So you work fulltime on the night shift and go to school too?”

  “Doesn’t exactly leave me much time for a life, I know, but it’ll be worth it when I get my Bachelor’s.”

  “What are you majoring in?”

  “Psychology.”

  “Cool.”

  They both fell silent, Emilio standing and Norman sitting, just staring at one another.

  Emilio had second thoughts about saying what he’d intended to say and started edging away from the table. “I guess I should get back.”

  “You drove?”

  “No, I walked over.”

  “In the rain?”

  Emilio shrugged. He’d dried off in the time he’d been in the library, although his shoes still felt a bit soggy, and wasn’t really looking forward to getting drenched all over again. He tried to smile. “A little water never hurt anyone.”

  “Except the Wicked Witch of the West,” Norman said, his smile widening, dimpling both cheeks.

  “Well, yeah, except for her, but I don’t think we’re related.”

  “Tell you what, Emilio, I’m almost done he
re; why don’t you let me drive you back to campus?”

  All Emilio could think was, He remembers my name. Then he realized that he’d been standing there like a deer in the headlights for a full minute without answering.

  Shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, Emilio said, “Oh, um, you don’t have to.”

  “It’s no trouble, really. Just give me a minute to check these books out and we’ll be on our way.”

  Emilio nodded then trailed behind as Norman gathered his books and headed for the counter near the front of the building.

  * * *

  Norman let Emilio share his umbrella as they left the library and started across the parking lot to Norman’s car. He was a bit embarrassed by the shabbiness of his ride. A 1992 white Oldsmobile four-door with a boxy body; he sometimes referred to it as his Granny car.

  He let Emilio in the passenger’s side first then went around the front to the driver’s side.

  Tossing the dripping umbrella and the bag with his books in the backseat, he smiled at Emilio and said, “It’s not much, but it gets me around.”

  “At least you have wheels; that’s more than I have.”

  Norman nodded, grateful that Emilio was trying to allow him to save face.

  The windshield was fogged over, and Norman reached under his seat and pulled out an old dishtowel he kept tucked there. Feeling himself flush, he started wiping the windshield clean. “Defroster is busted,” he explained.

  Emilio answered with a shrug that seemed to say, No big deal.

  When he could see out of the glass, Norman started the car, turned on his lights and wipers, then pulled out of the lot.

  Limestone was only a five minute drive from the library, but they spent the first three minutes of it in silence.

  “So,” Norman finally said, pointing toward the folded papers in Emilio’s hands, “what class you doing research for?”

  “Oh, it’s not for class. I guess you could call it a personal project.”

  “Neat,” Norman said then thought, What kind of monumental dork says neat?

  “You live around here?”

  “Yeah, I have an apartment on Vernon Street, not too far from campus.”