Angels Fall

by Nora Roberts

  "I'm fine, and that's not what you wanted to do with your day off. Really, don't worry. I won't be going far."

  "You're not back by six, I'm sending out a search party."

  "By six, I'll not only be back, I'll be soaking my tired feet. That's a promise."

  She shifted her pack, then set out to skirt the lake and take the trail through the woods toward the wall of the canyon.

  She kept her stride slow and easy, and enjoyed the dappled light through the canopy of trees. With the cool air on her face, the scent of pine and awakening earth, the dregs of the dream faded away.

  She'd do this more often, she promised herself. Choose a different trail and explore on her day off—or at least every other day off. At some point, she'd drive into the park and do the same, before the summer people flooded in and crowded it all. Good, healthy exercise would hone her appetite, and she'd get in shape again.

  And for mental health, she'd learn to identity the wildflowers the guide spoke of that would blanket forest and trailside, the sage flats and alpine meadows in the summer. It would be a good incentive to stay put, to see the blooming.

  When the trail forked, she rolled her shoulders to adjust her pack, and took the fork marked for Little Angel Canyon. The incline was slow, but it was steady through the damp air sheltered by the conifers where she saw nests high up in the trees. Huge boulders sat among the pools of melting snow and rivers of mud where her guidebook claimed an abundance of wildflowers would thrive in a few more weeks.

  But for now, Reece thought it was almost like another planet, all faded green and brown and silent.

  The trail rose, gently at first, up the moraine, tracking the slope through a stand of firs and dropping over the side to a deep, unexpected gulch. The mountains speared up, snow-breasted pinnacles shining in the strong sunlight, and as the trail angled up. more steeply now, she remembered to try to use the lock step, and briefly locked her knee with each step. Small steps, she remembered.

  No rush, no hurry.

  When she'd hiked the first mile, she stopped to rest, to drink and to absorb.

  She could still see the glint of Angel Lake to the southeast. There were no mists now as the strong sun in a clear sky had burned it away. The breakfast shift would be peaking now, she thought, with the diner full of clatter and conversation, the kitchen ripe with the smell of bacon and coffee. But here it was quiet and stunningly open with the air stinging with pine.

  And she was alone, completely, with no sound but the light wind swimming through the trees, carving through the grasses of a marsh where ducks minded their own business. And that, the distant and insistent drumming of a woodpecker having his own breakfast in the woods.

  She continued on, with the climb steep enough to have her quads complaining. Before she'd been hurt. Reece thought in disgust, she could have taken this trail at a jog.

  Not that she'd ever hiked, but how different was it from setting the elliptical at the health club to a five-mile hill climb?

  "Worlds," she muttered. "Worlds different. But I can do this."

  The trail cut through the still sleeping meadows, switchbacked over the steeps. Along the sun-drenched slope where she paused again to catch her breath, she could see a small, marshy pond where out of the cattails a heron rose with a flopping fish in its beak.

  Though she cursed herself for reaching for her camera too late, she continued to huff her way along the switchback until she heard the first rumble that was the river. When the muddy trail forked again, she looked wistfully at the little signpost for Big Angel Trail. It would wind high up the canyon, and require not only endurance but some basic climbing skills.

  She didn't have either, and had to admit her leg muscles were in shock, and her feet were annoyed. She had to stop again, drink again, and debated whether she should simply content herself with the views of marshes and meadows on this first outing. She could sit on a rock here, soak in the sun, perhaps he lucky enough to see some wildlife. But that rumble called to her. She'd set out to hike Little Angel, and hiking it was what she would do.

  Her shoulders ached. Okay, she'd probably gone seriously overboard with the supplies in her backpack. But she reminded herself she'd made it halfway, and even at her meandering pace, she could make her goal before noon.

  She cut through the meadow, then up the muddy slope. When she made it up and around the next switchback, she had her first look at the long, brilliant ribbon of the river.

  It carved through the canyon with a steady murmur or power. Here and there buddies of rock and bouiders were stacked on its verge as it the river had simply flung them out. Still it was nearly placid here, almost dreamy curling through the steep, sheer walls on its way west.

  She got out her camera, already knowing a snapshot wouldn't capture the scope. A picture couldn't give her the sounds, the feel of the air, the staggering drops and wild rises of the rock.

  Then she saw a pair of bright blue kayaks, and delighted, framed them in to use for scale. She watched the kayakers paddle, circle, heard the dim sound of voices that must have been raised to shouts.

  Someone was getting a lesson, she decided, then pulled out her binoculars to get a closer look. A man and a boy—young teens, she decided. The boy's face was a study in concentration and excitement. She saw him grin, nod, and his mouth moved as he called out something to his companion. Teacher?

  They continued to paddle, moving side by side, heading west down the river.

  On the trail above, Reece hung her binoculars around her neck and followed.

  The height was enthralling. As her body pushed itself forward she felt the burn or muscles, the giddiness of adventure, and no tingle of worry or anxiety. What she felt, she realized, was utterly human. Small and mortal and full of wonder. She had only to tip back her head, and the whole of the sky belonged to her. To her, she thought, and those mountains that shone blue in the sunlight.

  Even with the chill on her face, the sweat of effort dampened her hack. Next stop, she told herself, she was taking off her jacket and drinking a pint of water.

  She trudged up and up, panting.

  And stopped short, skidding a little, when she saw Brody perched on a wide, rocky ledge.

  He barely spared her a glance. "Should've known it was you. You make enough noise to start an avalanche." When she glanced up, warily, he shook his head. "Maybe not quite that much. Still, making noise on the trail usually wards off the predators. The four-legged ones, anyway."

  If she'd forgotten about the possibility of bear—and she had—she-sure as hell had forgotten the possibility of human. "What are you doing up here?"

  "Minding my own business." He took a slug out of his water bottle. "You? Other than tromping along singing 'Ain't No Mountain High Enough."

  "I was not." Oh, please, she was not.

  "Okay, you weren't singing it. It was more gasping it.

  "I'm hiking the trail. It's my day off."

  "Yippee." He picked up the notebook sitting on his lap.

  Since she'd stopped, she needed a minute to catch her breath before she started climbing again. She could cover the fact that she needed a minute or two to rest with conversation. "You're writing? Up here?"

  "Researching. I'm killing someone up here later. Fictionally." he added with some relish when the color the exertion had put in her cheeks drained away. "Good spot for it, especially this time of year. Nobody on the trails this early in the spring—or nearly nobody. He lures her up, shoves her over."

  Brody leaned out a little, looking down. He'd already taken off his jacket, as she longed to do. "Long, nasty drop. Terrible accident, terrible tragedy."

  Despite herself, she was intrigued. "Why does he do it?"

  He only shrugged, broad shoulders in a denim shirt. "Mostly because he can."

  "There were kayakers on the river. They might see."

  "That's why they call it fiction. Kayakers," he mumbled and scribbled something on his pad. "Maybe. Maybe better if there were. What wou
ld they see? Body dropping. Scream echoes. Splat."

  "Oh, well. I'll leave you to it."

  Since his response was nothing but an absent grunt, she continued on. It was a little irritating, really, she thought. He had a good spot to rest and to take in the view. Which would've been her spot it he hadn't been there. But she'd find another, she'd find her own. Just a little higher up.

  Still, she kept well away from the edge as she hiked, and tried to erase the image of a body flying off the end of the world, down to the rocks and water below.

  She knew she was hitting the wall of her endurance when she heard the thunder again. Stopping, she braced her hands on her thighs and caught her breath. Before she could decide if this was the spot, she heard the long, fiercesome cry of a hawk. Looking up, she saw it sweep west.

  She wanted to follow the hawk, like a sign. One more switchback, she decided, just one more, then she'd sit in splendid solitude, unpack her lunch and enjoy an hour with the river.

  She was rewarded for that last struggle of effort with a view of white water. It churned and slapped at the fists and knuckles of rock, spewed up against towers of them, then spilled down on itself in a short, foaming waterfall. The roar of it filled the canyon, and rolled over her own laugh of delight.

  She'd made it after all.

  With relief she unshouldered her pack before sinking down to sit on a pocked boulder. She unpacked her lunch, and pleased herself by eating ravenously.

  Top of the world, that's how she felt. Calm and energized at once, and absolutely happy. She bit into an apple so crisp it shocked her senses as the hawk cried out again and soared overhead.

  It was perfect, she thought. Absolutely perfect.

  She lifted her binoculars to follow the hawk's flight, then skimmed them down to track the powerful surge of the river. With hope, she began to scout the rocks, the stands of willow and cottonwood, back into the pines for wildlife. A bear might come fishing, or she might spot another moose, an elk who came to drink.

  She wanted to see beaver and watch otters play. She wanted to simply be exactly where she was, with the peaks rising up, the sun shining and the water a constant rumble below.

  If she hadn't been searching the rough shoreline, she would have missed them.

  They stood between the trees and the rocks. The man—at least she thought it was a man—had his back to her, with the woman facing the river, hands on her hips.

  Even with her binoculars, the height and the distance made it impossible to see them clearly, but she saw the spill or dark hair over a red jacket, under a red cap.

  Reece wondered what they were doing. Debating a camping spot, she mused, or a place to put into the river. But she skimmed the glasses along and didn't see a sign of a canoe or kayak. Camping, then, though she couldn't spot any gear.

  With a shrug, she went back to watching them. It seemed intrusive, but she had to admit there was a little thrill in that. They couldn't know she was there, high up on the other side of the river, studying them as she might have a couple of bear cubs or a herd of deer.

  "Having an argument," she mumbled. "That's what it looks like to me."

  There was something aggressive and angry in the woman's stance, and when she jabbed her finger at the man. Reece let out a low whistle.

  "Oh yeah, you're pissed off. Bet you wanted to stay at a nice hotel with indoor plumbing and room service, and he dragged you out to pitch a tent."

  The man made a gesture like an umpire calling a batter safe at the plate, and this time the woman slapped him. "Ouch." Reece winced, and ordered herself to lower the binoculars. It wasn't right to spy on them. But she couldn't resist the private little drama, and kept her glasses trained.

  The woman shoved both hands against the man's chest, then slapped him again. Reece started to lower the glasses now as the nasty violence made her a little sick.

  But her hand froze, and her heart jolted when she saw the man's arm rear back. She couldn't tell if it was a punch, a slap or a backhand, but the woman went sprawling.

  "No, no, don't," she murmured. "Don't. You both have to stop now. Just stop it."

  Instead, the woman leaped up charged. Before she could land whatever blow she'd intended, she was thrust back again, slipping on the muddy ground and landing hard.

  The man walked over, stood over her while Reece's heart thumped against her ribs. He seemed to reach down as if to offer her a hand up, and the woman braced herself on her elbows. Her mouth was bleeding, maybe her nose, but her lips were working fast. Screaming at him. Reece thought. Stop screaming at him, you'll only make it worse.

  It got worse, horribly worse when he straddled the woman, when he jerked her head up by the hair and slammed it to the ground. Not aware that she'd leaped to her own feet, that her lungs were burning with her own screams, Reece stared through the glasses when the man's hands closed over the woman's throat.

  Boots beat against the ground; the body bucked and arched. And when it went still, there was the roar of the river and the harsh sobs ripping out of Reece's chest.

  She turned, stumbling, slipping and going down hard on both knees. Then she shoved herself to her feet, and she ran.

  It was a blur with her boots slithering on the path as she took the downhill slope at a crazed speed. Her heart rammed into her throat, a spiny ball of terror while she stumbled and slid around the sharp switchbacks. The face of the woman in the red coat became another face, one with staring, baby-doll blue eyes.

  Ginny. It wasn't Ginny. It wasn't Boston. It wasn't a dream.

  Still it all mixed and merged in her mind until she heard the screams and the laughter, the gunshots. Until her chest began to throb, and the world began to spin.

  She slammed hard into Brody, struggled wildly against his hold.

  "Stop it. What are you, crazy? Suicidal?" Voice sharp, he shoved her back against the rock face, bracing her when her knees gave way. "Shut it down, now! Hysteria doesn't help. What was it? Bear?"

  "He killed her, he killed her. I saw. I saw it." Because he was there, she threw herself against him, buried her face against his shoulder. "I saw it. It wasn't Ginny. It wasn't a dream. He killed her, across the river.

  '"Breathe." He drew back, gripped her shoulders. He angled his head down until her eyes met his. "I said breathe. Okay, again. One more time.

  "Okay, okay. I'm okay." She sucked air in, pushed it out. "Please help me. Please. They were across the river, and I saw them, with these." She lifted her binoculars with a hand that simply wouldn't steady. "He killed her. and I saw it."

  "Show me."

  She closed her eyes. Not alone this time, she thought. Someone was here, someone could help. "Up the trail. I don't know how far I ran back, but it's up the trail."

  She didn't want to go back, didn't want to see it again, but he had her arm and was leading her.

  "I stopped to eat," she said more calmly. "To watch the water, and the little falls. There was a hawk.

  "Yeah. I saw it."

  "It was beautiful. I got my binoculars. I thought I might see a bear or a moose. I saw a moose this morning at the lake. I thought…" She knew she was babbling, tried to draw it back inside. "I was scanning the trees, the rocks, and I saw two people."

  "What did they look like?"

  "I… I couldn't see very well." She folded her arms over her chest. She'd taken off her jacket, spread it on the rock where she'd had lunch, To soak up the sun.

  Now she was so cold. Into-the-bone cold.

  "But she had long hair. Dark hair, and she had a red coat and cap. She had sunglasses on. His back was to me."

  "What was he wearing? '

  "Um. A dark jacket, and an orange cap. Like hunters wear. He… I think… Yes, I think he had sunglasses, too. I didn't see his face. There, there's my pack. I left everything and ran. Over there, it was over there." She pointed, and quickened her pace. " They were over there, in front of the trees. They're gone now, but they were there, down there. I saw them. I have to sit down."r />
  When she lowered herself to the rock, he said nothing, but took the binoculars from around her neck. He trained them below. He saw no one, no sign of anyone.

  "What exactly did you see?"

  "They were arguing. I could tell she was pissed off by the way she was standing. Hands on her hips. Aggressive." She had to swallow, focus, because her stomach was starting to roil. And shivering, she picked up her jacket and put it on. Wrapped it tight around her. "She slapped him, then she shoved him back and slapped him again. He hit her, knocked her down, but she got up and went after him. That's when he hit her again. I saw blood on her face. I think I saw blood on her face. Oh God, oh God."

  Brody did no more than flick a glance in Reece's direction. "You're not going to get hysterical again. You're going to finish