Scott Nicholson - The Gorge

“Attacoa,” Raintree said.

“High ground,” Farrengalli said.

Castle coughed, a gurgling in his throat as he spoke. His words were slurring, and Farrengalli figured the redskin’s happy pills must be doing the job. “Our plan-me and my partner’s-was to climb the peak and see if we could pick up a tower. Though this area’s remote, you might get a line-of-sight connection even if the transmitter’s fifty miles away.”

“It would take a half day to reach the top,” Dove said. “I’ve seen the trail maps. There are stretches where you’d have to climb instead of hike. Hard climbing, with fingertips and toeholds. No can do in weather like this, when the rocks are slick, even if darkness wasn’t falling.”

Farrengalli thought about it. Babel Tower looked like something out of The Lord of the Rings, a precarious and treacherous natural turret. Except it wouldn’t be orcs and trolls that would crawl out of the shadows to attack them; it would be bloodsucking bat-beasts.

But if they made it to the top and put in a successful call, then a helicopter would swoop down, pluck them-well, those that survived the climb, anyway- off the stony, flat peak, and carry them off to a date with CBS Evening News. He didn’t know shit about cell phones, he’d always been too broke to buy one and the calling plans were confusing as hell, but Castle’s idea sounded fine to him. Especially because both Dove and Raintree were frowning.

“I like it,” Farrengalli said.

“We don’t have much climbing gear,” Dove said.

Farrengalli shook his backpack. “Ropes, pitons, and a couple them funny hammers.”

“Which of us would make the climb?”

“Well, I figure you and me,” Farrengalli said to her. “You got the experience and I got the stubborness. But Raintree’s the one in charge now, so I guess it’s up to him.”

Farrengalli gave his best shit-eating grin, hoping his gleaming, television-ready teeth were visible in the fading light.

“Grab my hand!” Raintree released the safety line and reached down from the narrow cleft of rock where he lay on his belly.

Dove dangled fifty feet above the river, which was nearly lost in the gathering mist and darkness below. She swung suspended on the primary belaying line.

“I can’t reach you,” she shouted. Her eyes were wide in the faint light, but not from fright. Or maybe that was wishful thinking. Raintree had endured too much wishful thinking about her.

Raintree cursed under his breath because he hadn’t taken the time to properly set the anchor for the safety line. Instead of driving it into the granite with the blunt end of the lightweight climber’s pick (the ProVentures ProPik, patent pending), he had jammed the anchor into a crevice, figuring the tension would be plenty good enough for backup.

Dove reached toward him, dangling like a clock’s pendulum on eight feet of rope. Raintree hooked the tip of one boot around a stub of rock, then eased out another six inches. He wrapped the primary belay around his wrist, another no-no, but this was a night for no-nos.

“Hold on,” he yelled, though she had little choice, since a carabiner linked her belt to the belay.

He waited for her to bump into the sheer rock face below, and then steadied the rope until she was still. “Okay,” he said, gathering his breath. “On the count of three, pretend you’re Spiderman and grab everything you can while I pull you up.”

The rope girding his wrist bore most of her weight. Though she was barely over a hundred pounds, his fingers were tingling, their first stop on the way to numbness. And numb fingers to a lead climber were like broken wings on a bird.

Raintree shifted from his belly to his left side, allowing room to swing his right arm. His left hand gripped the safety line, the one with the weak anchor. If that line gave way, and he slid over the ledge, he wasn’t sure the primary line would hold their combined weight.

Even if the line held, they’d have to rappel down to the last secure anchor and start from there, losing precious time in the race against full dark.

“One… ”

Their ascent had been to the left of the tower, up a series of natural steppes. They’d free-climbed that stretch, but then the handholds had given way to tiny chinks, where strong fingers were required. Their hiking boots hadn’t helped, because they were steel-toed and not designed for climbing. They were on the third pitch of the climb, Raintree taking lead and setting the anchors, when Dove lost her position and swung free on the primary line.

“Two… ”

Though Babel Tower had been climbed before, no permanent safety bolts had been drilled into the granite, and no mapped routes existed. Because the Unegama Gorge was a designated wilderness area, such damage to natural resources was a federal crime. Climbers were already considered undesirable by the U.S. Park Service because of alleged destruction of rare lichen and other plant species at popular climbing destinations.

Raintree didn’t give a damn about federal regulations at the moment. All he cared about was pulling Dove within reach of the ledge.

“ Three! ”

He tugged with all his strength, his biceps screaming and his wrist burning, feeling the give in the safety line and knowing it wouldn’t hold if he really needed it.

But then her fingers were sliding up the length of the belay where it encircled his wrist, then her hand slid up the slick, sweating length of his forearm, and finally, her face appeared over the crag.

Her eyes were still wide, not in fear, not in excitement, but in search of information. A photographer’s eyes, clicking at a high shutter speed, capturing the most important visual clues.

Like where to grab.

That tiny ridge of rock, one that only an experienced climber would appreciate. She had it, her fingers hooked like an eagle’s beak.

He could smell her breath, the faint smell of chamomile shampoo beneath the sweat, the salamander odor of the miles-long muddy river.

She wedged her torso over, the shoulders of her damp khaki blouse covered with sand and tiny rocks. Using the rope, she gained another few inches, repositioned, and launched her elbow against the rock. With a little leverage at last, she worked until her trunk was on the ledge, as Raintree murmured encouragement while blocking out the fiery agony in his wrist.

He could deal with the pain later. He had plenty of cures for pain.

Medicine bag speak with forked tongue.

Then Dove had both the primary rope and the safety rope, distributing part of her weight between them, working a knee over the ledge and onto solid rock. Wriggling forward, she fell onto Raintree, and despite his relief over her safety and the release of the constriction of his wrist, he couldn’t ignore the press of her soft breasts against his body as she moved across him to the rear of the rock shelf.

“Close one,” he said. Too damned close. Not the fall. Her.

“You saved my ass that time. I owe you.”

“Hey, good climbers use the buddy system.” Raintree sat up and carefully unraveled the rope from his forearm, then shook blood back into his fingers.

“Looks like the rain’s easing up.”

“We’ll be able to make better time.”

“You were right,” Dove said, still panting from exertion.

Raintree took his eyes from the slight heaving of her breasts. He leaned out a little and squinted against the drizzle, gauging the gray, quartz-veined cliff face. From below, he had mapped a likely route in his mind. But now, nearly midway, he was disoriented. The stuff in his system wasn’t helping.

He’d need an extra oxycodone tablet, what he had taken to calling “Limbaugh lemon drops” after the drug-abusing conservative radio personality. And he’d definitely need to sharpen the edges of that buzz with an amphetamine.