Rapid Descent. Gwen Hunter
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have to offer something back. “I’m in a hospital,” she volunteered, feeling stronger now that she was more upright. “Who have they called to coordinate?”
“Your mother is on her way.”
Nell looked at the cop in surprise. “My mother couldn’t coordinate her way out of a paper bag.”
Amusement lit his eyes, and Nell was pretty sure he had spoken to her mother personally. He hadn’t understood her question. She couldn’t care less who was coming to help her. She spotted an ugly, squat pitcher, beaded with condensation and pointed at it, asking for something, requiring the other party to the negotiation to do her a favor. PawPaw would be tickled when she told him. “Water?”
The cop—she had already forgotten his name—stood and poured her a glass of water. “Can you tell me what happened?” he asked. He handed her the cup and helped her to steady it when her grip was too weak to hold it without spilling.
She studied him over the rim of the cup and sipped through the straw. The water tasted wonderful. When she had enough and her mouth felt less like it was covered with river mold, she dropped her head back and said, “I mean, who have they called to coordinate the river search?”
The cop put the pitcher down. He looked her over, examining her as carefully as she did him, letting the silence build. “The parks people have called in a team. After all the rain, the gorge is treacherous enough to warrant only the most experienced, though, so the team’ll be small. Maybe ten on the water. I understand that a few guides and rescue people from the Pigeon will be part of it.” When she waited, he added, “A guy named Mike Kren called about three hours ago. He’s leading them up. Some others were already closer in, rafting or kayaking. Most of them got here within the last hour.”
Nell nodded, feeling her eyes water, the sensation painful on her raw eyeballs. Unfamiliar. She did not cry. She rolled her head to the dark window, moving slowly, and started to talk, well, whisper. She told him everything she remembered, as close in sequence as she could. When she mentioned the letter Joe had left her, the cop said, “This one?”
She looked at him, and he was holding the double-bagged letter. Nell extended her hand, and he placed it in her palm. She saw him looking at her hands, at the blood-crusted wounds, but she had eyes only for the single piece of paper in the baggies.
How come she felt that it was the last thing she would ever have of Joe’s? How come she felt so…empty? No. I refuse to think that way. Joe is still out there. All I have to do is find him.
She smoothed the letter over her heart. Holding tight, so the cop couldn’t get it back without getting personal, she took a breath that quivered through her. The bandages on her chest were small lumps beneath her hands, beneath the hospital gown she wore. She went on with her story. Everything she could remember.
She had reached the part about finding Joe’s boat, when the door opened. Mike Kren strode into the room. It was like a small hurricane entered. “Hey girl,” he boomed.
The tears that had been swimming in her eyes fell as she held out her arms to her best friend in the world. Her tears caught the lights and haloed him, bright glints on the silver in his hair. As if he were her own personal avenging angel.
Mike would have laughed at the thought of being compared to an angel.
He lowered the bedrail and sat beside her, his wiry body blocking her from the cop, and gathered her up in his arms. She sobbed into his chest, the familiar scent of the man surrounding her. She crumpled Joe’s letter at him, indicating he should take it surreptitiously.
He tucked it into his own shirt before speaking. When the baggies were safe, he said, “Hey. What’s this?” He turned her face up and touched her cheek, his finger coming away wet. “I never saw this before. Nell Stevens, crying? Tears? Devil must be draggin’ out his long johns, ’cause it’s cold in hell right about now.”
“I lost Joe,” she sobbed. “He’s lost on the river and he’s got to be hurt, and I couldn’t find him—”
“Hey, hey, hey.” He snugged her face against his shoulder, stroking her short hair. He lowered his voice. “I’m making you a promise. Okay? Right now. If he’s findable, I’ll find him.” He tilted her face to him again. “You know that. I’d never leave somebody on the river in trouble. Specially not Joe.”
But the words resonated inside her. If he’s findable…
Nell stopped crying. Stopped breathing. She focused on Mike’s river-brown eyes, steady and serene. If Joe wasn’t findable, it was because he was stuck beneath an undercut rock or tangled in an underwater strainer. Or washed so far downstream he might not be found until low water in the next drought. It he wasn’t findable, it was because he was dead.
The thought opened something up within her, a deep, dark chasm, empty and howling with icy wind. A chasm she had been ignoring, denying. A shot of something bitter and frozen rushed through her veins like ice crystals. She clenched Mike’s shirt, the flannel and long-john shirt beneath bunching. “You find him,” she whispered fiercely, her eyes demanding. “You find him and you bring him back.”
He read her face, her demand, her desperation. Gently, Mike peeled her hands from his shirt and held them in his, like a promise. Or a benediction. He kissed her forehead, his lips cold and dry. “I won’t lie to you. But you know I’ll do what I can.”
It wasn’t what she wanted. It wasn’t a promise to make it all right. But the chasm that had opened beneath her moved away a bit, to the side. Mike had never lied to her. He never would. No matter what. Not even to save her sanity. But if a mountain could be moved, Mike Kren was the man to do it.
He squeezed her fingers and let go, set his craggy, lined face in a confrontational expression, and turned to the cop. “Mike Kren.”
“Jedi Mike? Old-Man-of-the-River-Mike?”
Mike blocked her and Nell could see neither man’s face, but she knew they were taking each other’s measure. Mike wasn’t fond of cops. Nell rather suspected that the cop would pick up on that. And Mike was well known in the river-guide community as a pacifist anarchist. If the cop had done any research at all into river rats, he had to know that.
“Some people call me that,” Mike acknowledged. He angled back to Nell before the cop could introduce himself, his weathered face creased in the soft light. “Tell me everything.”
Nell whispered, pushing her broken voice, starting over with waking in the campsite. Mike asked questions as she talked, questions about water volume, wind and weather conditions, other boats on the river, the kind of supplies they had carried with them on the overnight trip. He asked about certain rocks, places where boaters could go missing for weeks or months. Questions about the cheat and what she remembered about the strainer. They were questions of an experienced river guide, and Mike’s thirty years on the rivers in the Southeast U.S. showed in each. He concentrated on current changes, taking in her description of the big water, the tube that should have been only a curl at the El, listening with intensity about the zigzag current at the end of the Long Pool, nodding when she described the Narrows, tilting his head, his gaze far away, as if seeing it all in his mind.
Mike had been on rivers for longer than Nell had been alive and having him here improved Joe’s chances more than anything. When she reached the end of her tale, Mike sat silent, rubbing her fingers with his thumbs, thinking.
“Okay. Gotta go, girl. Got supplies to get together. I shut the shop, put a note on the door for any drop-ins to head over to Amos’s. He can have that church group coming in on Saturday, too, if we don’t get back in. We’ll lose money but it won’t kill us like it would have before Labor Day. Later, girl.”
He patted her shoulder, a single pat, like the promise he hadn’t been willing or able to give. Mike pointed his finger at the cop, a gun gesture, and blew through the door like a strong wind, taking Joe’s letter with him. The cop didn’t know that. Yet.
Nell lay back on the inclined bed and closed her eyes, fighting for composure.