Scene of the Climb (21 page)

I couldn't hear anything above the sound of the roaring water. Movement on the side of the trail caught my eye and made me jump. A squirrel scrambled for cover in the hollow of an old-growth tree. What was I doing? I should turn around.

Something icy and hard hit my cheek. I looked into the vine-twisted forest. Hail pellets smacked into my face, like freezing bullets. Within minutes ice blanketed the trail. Pounding off the trees. I ducked my head and crouched on my knees. This day couldn't get any worse. As quickly as it began, the hail receded, revealing glimmers of blue sky through the canopy of trees.

Rubbing my hands together, I blew steamy air in them and shivered.

This is stupid, Meg. Really stupid. You need to turn around.

Something compelled me forward. One-hundred-foot high trees spanned around me. They dripped leftover rain and melting hail from above. The fern forest below caught the water, soaking it up with heavy leaves. The sound of another scream made me gasp. What was hiding out there behind the cover of the trees? I felt like a kid playing a game of hide-and-seek gone wrong.

Keep moving,
I told myself.
Keep moving.

I kept moving, darting my eyes in all directions. Raindrops hitting the rocks sounded like footsteps behind me.

Faster, Meg, faster.

I could see light at the crest of the trail about three hundred yards straight ahead. From there the trail either switched back or curved to the right.

Make it that far, Meg. Come on.

My legs shook, the muscles in my thighs fatiguing with each step.

Breathless, I made it. Sunlight poured through thinning trees. The trail indeed curved to the right, revealing a meadow about thirty feet below. Steam rose from the meadow, spilling onto the trail like a dry ice machine on Halloween. I scrambled over the slick gravelly path to the meadow.

A small trail blocked by fallen logs appeared to curve to the right, winding its way around the meadow. The main trail veered left, and up. I had an uneasy feeling I was being watched.

“Hello!” I shouted. “Is anyone out there?”

A flock of birds scattered from a tree.

My voice echoed in the meadow and reverberated into the dense trees on the other side.

I tried again. “Hello!”

Only silence greeted me. Time to turn back. That's when something moved.

My body went rigid. A flash of color in the trees on the far side of the meadow caught my eye. It streaked through the heavy underbrush and darted deeper into the woods. Was it an animal? Human?

I had to get out of here—now.

Keeping my eyes focused on the spot I'd seen movement, I slowly shuffled backward.

Sunlight blazed through the clouds. It smelled of baking pine needles. Water gushed down the center of the old forest service tracks like a waterfall. Birds squawked. No more screams.

Downhill should have been easier, but I couldn't get traction on the slick rocks and had to constantly leap over puddles that hadn't been there thirty minutes before. Water evaporated from the trail, creating a warm, gloomy mist.

How far was it to the parking lot? A half hour? I'd been distracted by the sound of screaming and the pelting rain.

As I rounded a bend to a stretch of trail that could have rivaled the first descent off a roller coaster, I noticed something glinting on the side of the path.

I stopped and bent near delicate purple bleeding hearts stretching in the sun. Gam calls these “lady in the bathtub” because you can peel back the purple leaves to reveal a white flower inside.

One of Andrew's GoPro cameras had fallen on the trail. It was wet with rain and splattered with mud. I looked at the towering evergreen tree next to the path. Sure enough, tacked into its bark was a strip of Velcro. The camera must have come loose in the storm.

I picked up the GoPro and assessed it for damage. It looked fine to me. I jammed it in my pocket and scanned the forest again. I still couldn't shake the feeling I was being watched.

Not wanting to be in the deserted forest a minute longer, I left the Velcro tacked to the tree, said a short apology on Gam's behalf and continued my descent. I wound my way down the rough trail, sending mini landslides of rock and gravel in my wake.

After about twenty minutes, the dense tree cover thinned. I could make out power lines two hundred feet below. A dog barked in the distance, causing me to skid to a stop. Mud splattered to my knees. My hiking capris and boots were caked in mud. It looked like I'd rolled down the trail.

Another break in the trees allowed a view of the power lines. I could see the tall grasses and tips of the lines below. Another hundred feet to go.

At that moment the sound of a gunshot reverberated through the forest. It bounced off the trees. I imagined the bullet ricocheting off a tree and slamming into me. Instinctively I ducked.

Oh my God, someone's shooting at me.

Covering my head with my knees jamming into my chin, I waited for another bullet to graze past.

Where had it come from? Was hunting legal in these woods? No, it couldn't be. The trail wasn't marked, but it was maintained by the forest service. This couldn't be legal hunting ground. But no one was out in here to stop them. Unless the power company happened to be doing maintenance on the lines, no one patrolled this area.

A new thought invaded my head as I remained folded in a tight ball on the trail. What if whoever I'd seen at the meadow had a gun? What if that's why I heard a woman screaming? Had the gunman been hunting her down? What if the screamer had been shot? Or what if the bullet was meant for me?

This thought propelled me forward in a sprint. Someone was after me. I couldn't tell where the gunshot had come from. I thought from behind, but it could have come from anywhere. The forest distorted sounds. I was a bad judge of distance.

What I wasn't a bad judge of, was a gunshot. That was most definitely a gun.

I flew down the trail, not bothering to avoid puddles. I slipped and gashed my right hand on a sharp rock.

I had to keep moving. I had to get out of the forest—now.

I didn't care that I was leaving a trail of blood dripping from my hand.

Breathless, red and covered in my own blood, I reached the base. The buzzing power lines sounded welcoming.

Reaching the gravelly area where Krissy left me, I wasn't out of danger. She wasn't there. The makeshift parking lot was entirely empty. The only sign of human contact, the tire tracks leading out to the main road.

I pulled out my phone. Nearly an hour had passed. I checked the bars on the top. No service. I could either hike to my car or wait in hopes Krissy would return soon. What errands could possibly take her an hour, unless she'd gone to the city? That thought made my blood pressure spike. It was an hour's drive one way to Portland. If she had, she wouldn't return for at least another hour.

My blue and yellow striped picnic blanket was speckled with mud and damp to the touch. I fell on it anyway.

Thank God for my backpack and first-aid kit. I pulled a Band-Aid out. Not big enough. The gash in my hand was deep and wouldn't stop bleeding.

I felt light-headed. Pressure. I could hear Pops' voice in my head. I had to put pressure on my sliced hand. I dug through my pack and found an extra pair of socks. I pressed them onto my hand with force. The white socks slowly turned pink as they soaked up the blood. I peeled them off to check to see if the bleeding had stopped. It hadn't. I was going to need stitches.

Not a fan of blood, particularly my own, I threw my left hand onto the blanket to steady myself. The canyon grasses and patchy clouds spiraled together. I was going to be sick. I heard the sound of tires rumbling along the gravelly path. Yes! Krissy was back.

No, not Krissy. A red Ford made its way up the rough road.

Matt!

I tried to push to my feet to wave him down, but black spots danced in front in my vision. Better stay put.

Matt's truck bounded over the pitted, wet tracks. His bike, secured with bungee cords, rattled in the tail bed. He parked in a patch of grass and jumped out of the driver's seat.

“Thought you might want company,” he said, walking in my direction with a cloth grocery bag. As he approached the blanket, his face dropped. “What's the matter?”

The grocery bag fell to the ground as he raced to my side and knelt. I held out my shaking hand, steadying it by wrapping my left hand around my wrist.

“I fell.”

Peeling off the blood-soaked sock, Matt whistled. “Whoa, you did a job on that, didn't you?”

I nodded as Matt threw the sock on the grass and took off his T-shirt. His abs were surprisingly solid and well defined; the muscles in his arms flexed as he wrapped his warm shirt around my hand. I'd never seen him without a shirt on and had to resist the urge to touch his toned upper body. “You're kind of ripped,” I blurted out.

Matt chuckled, and cinched the shirt tighter. “About time you noticed.” He looked over his shoulder to the fork in the road. “You're alone out here? How'd you get hurt?”

Seriously, why had I never noticed how chiseled Matt's body was? His freckled skin shimmered in the cloudy sunlight. Had he recently begun working out? He rode his bike everywhere. It was one of the many things he and Pops had had in common, but biking didn't chisel chest muscles, did it?

“Megs, you okay?”

“Someone shot at me!”

“What?”

“Yeah. I heard a woman scream out on the trail and went to see who it was. It sounded like she was hurt. She screamed maybe three or four times and stopped. I got about a mile to a meadow. I swear someone was watching me, but I couldn't find whoever was screaming.”

“But, then someone tried to shoot you? Did you see anyone?”

“Nope.”

“No one?”

He shook his head.

“I got kind of spooked. Something or someone moved in the meadow. I freaked out and sprinted down the trail. I would have made it fine, but I heard a gunshot. I slipped and cut my hand.”

Matt cradled my hand in his and squeezed my fingertips one at a time. “Can you feel this?”

I nodded.

“Okay, we've got to get you to a doctor. Can you stand?”

“No, I have to wait here. I promised Greg, I'd be here for the finish. I'm supposed to cover it.”

“You can't write about anything with that hand,” Matt said, pointing to where blood spread on his shirt. “You need stitches. That's a deep cut. It's not up for debate. I'm taking you now. It's just a matter of whether or not you walk over to my truck, or I carry you.”

“Please, Matt, can we wait until the race is done? I swear you can take me to the doctor, but Greg is gonna kill me if I miss this. I have to be here for the finish.”

Matt dropped my hand. “What does this guy have over you?”

“What do you mean? It's my job. I'm supposed to film them coming over the finish line. Oh, shit! The finish line. I'm also supposed to put the finish line up.” I pointed to the rope and tape Krissy had left with me.

“Right,” Matt said under his breath. “It's about the job. Not the guy.”

“Matt, what's going on with you? It
is
about the job. You know how much I need this job. I have to get this on film. Greg wants to use it as a video teaser on the Web.”

“Gimme that.” Matt grabbed the tape and rope. “I'll put the finish line up for you. You keep pressure on your hand.”

As Matt headed off to construct a finish line, I squeezed my hand until it burned. Matt and I never fought. We rarely disagreed on anything. What was his problem?

“Now what?” Matt said, returning to the blanket. He threw the leftover tape and rope next to my soggy sock and stood staring at me.

“Listen, I'm sorry, Matt. I really can't lose this job.”

“Forget it. We're cool. You want me to film them coming down? I can probably get a good angle from that patch of grass over there.” He pointed directly under a power line.

“I don't think you should stand too close to those lines.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “You worried about my brain cells?”

“No, Pops always said . . .” I trailed off as his smile turned into a full grin. This sent us both into a fit of giggles. The tension deflated.

Matt ruffled my bristly sun-dried hair. “You hang here. Keep pressure on. I'll shoot the video for you.”

He turned in the direction of the vibrating power line. I checked my hand. The blood slowed a little, but my fingertips looked like grapes ready to pop off the vine. Matt had fashioned his T-shirt into a tourniquet. Oh well, better than gushing blood, I suppose.

I heard movement in the forest to my left. Feet were pounding down the trail.

“It's a guy,” Matt hollered.

How had they made it back so fast? They shouldn't be here for at least another hour.

To my surprise Greg appeared through the weedy grasses in perfect sprinting form. He looked like he should grace the cover of the magazine, his arms bent at 90-degree angles, lanky legs stretched, with a fine misting of sweat but no grimace of exertion on his face. My heart thumped.

He stopped quickly next to Matt, dragging his right foot into a skid. “Who are you?”

Matt pulled the camera from his eye and reached his free hand out to Greg. “Matt, Meg's friend. You must be the winner?”

Greg stretched his neck in my direction. Meeting his eyes, I gave him a wave with my left hand, keeping my right hand secured to my stomach.

“What's wrong with Meg?” Greg ignored Matt's stretched hand and question and sprinted over to me.

I shrugged my shoulder and held out my injured hand.

“Geez, Meg, what am I going to do with you? I leave you alone and you hurt yourself again. What happened?”

Grimacing, I kept my eyes focused on the ground. “I slipped on a rock.”

“Is it bad?”

“I'm not sure. Matt thinks I might need stitches. He's going to take me into town, but I wanted to make sure I got the shot of the finish line.”

Greg knelt beside me on the blanket. “Let me take a look.” He unwrapped Matt's bandage. “This is too tight. We've got to loosen the pressure a little.”

My fingers wouldn't move as he unrolled Matt's T-shirt. I tried to wiggle them, but they stood frozen, swollen and a deep shade of purple. The bleeding had subsided to a trickle.

“Yep, you need stitches,” Greg said, peering at the cut. “Let me rewrap this and I'll take you into Stevenson. It's only a ten-minute drive down the highway. We'll get you all stitched up.”

Matt stood poised under the power lines with the camera in hand. “What about the finish? I'm supposed to catch it,” I said, pointing to Matt. “Hey, wait a minute.” I paused. “How are you the first one back?”

Securing Matt's shirt around my hand, Greg glanced over at Matt. “I'm not. I turned around. I thought I heard a gunshot. I was worried about you.”

Warmth spread through my body. I could feel my cheeks betray me. “I heard it too. That's when I fell. I ducked.”

“Was it this far? I thought it sounded higher on the trail.”

“No, it was.” My cheeks were beginning to burn. “I heard a woman screaming. I went up a ways to check it out, but I never found her. I was on my way down when the gun went off. Did you see Alicia? Could she have been screaming?”

Greg shook his head. “I don't think so. I lost sight of her. She was about a half mile ahead of me on the trail. I never heard her scream. Listen, we've got to get you to a doctor.” He extended his hand and lifted me to my feet. The spinning feeling returned. My body rocked from side to side. Greg pulled me into his chest. “I've got you. Careful now. Let's get you to the doc.”

His shirt was damp with sweat. I could feel his steady heartbeat through his chest. Maybe I should get hurt more often. He kept his firm arm wrapped around my shoulder as he helped me navigate over the uneven road.

Matt. I'd forgotten about Matt. “Wait,” I said, stopping in midstride. “What about the finish? My friend Matt was going to record it for me.”

“Don't worry; I'll take you to the hospital.” Greg waved his hand in the air. “The others won't be back for hours.”