Clarence had been right about one thing, the state highway patrol was now thick in the area. Because of the various reports filed, and because there were minors involved, Clarence had been upgraded from a suspect of stolen possessions to a man in flight with much bigger problems.
Detective Sanderson had been on the phone with Utah, and he had supplied more details about the two boys. He had half a mind to head out there himself.
And then he got a phone call from Tim Bell that there was a picture of the second boy, the younger one. That would help. It was from a hair salon, and the shot was only a few months old.
When the picture arrived, Sanderson posted the photo, along with the other one of Sam, on the hot site for missing children. It circulated to every law-enforcement agency in the country.
And then, while he probably should have returned to investigating a tip on a local businessman who was rumoured to be running a big marijuana business on some leased logging land, Sanderson decided to dig around for more info on the boys.
He knew their ages. And now he had both of their photos. They had to have come from somewhere. The Bell family had told him that the kids had been on the road for years. So he’d start looking back when they were toddlers.
It was the opposite of most of these kinds of cases.
Instead of photos of little children who had disappeared – photos that computers and artists tried to reimagine as missing teenagers – he had two images from today that he’d like to connect to baby pictures.
Ten years ago, who had lost two little boys?
Emily sat staring out the bus window at the blur of small businesses that lined the street.
Two blocks up, the bus stopped, and a girl, carrying a Baine College backpack, got on with a guy right behind her. They took a seat in the row in front of Emily and before she knew it, they were kissing.
It was suddenly very, very uncomfortable on the bus. Emily leaned her head against the glass and shut her eyes.
What was choosing someone all about, anyway? Did it come down to understanding how the way the person felt about you made you feel about yourself?
That seemed messed up, but maybe it was true. Were people really just mirrors for each other?
Did everyone want, really, just to be told that they were great? And did validation have more meaning if others saw the person who was telling you how great you were as good-looking or smart or somehow unique?
Did everyone simply just struggle to feel special and to be acknowledged for that?
Or was there something else?
Was there some ingredient to the connection that was unseen and not able to be measured? Was there something other than mutual validation that made a bond?
Emily remembered that her grandmother Risha had told her that it was important to remember, always, what made you first love someone.
Long before Emily knew that Sam could play the guitar like some kind of protégé, and before she knew how devoted he was to his brother, she knew he had empathy. He had come to see if she was okay after she had sung one of the worst solos ever heard at the First Unitarian Church.
So he had compassion. And she responded to that. But what Emily really knew for certain was that there was something in him that challenged her. He was so different. Sam might have been so intriguing to her because there were so many doors to unlock.
And maybe unlocking them made her feel good about herself.
But when it came down to it, hadn’t she failed?
Hadn’t she been kept out of the biggest part of his life?
24
Riddle hit rocks and trees and tumbled down, down, down. When he stopped, when his right arm finally caught hold of a branch that was connected to a dead tree, he was close to the bottom of a deep ravine.
He slowly got to his feet and squinted up into the hard light. He’d fallen a long way. But he was, miraculously, in one piece. His left foot hurt, and he had a cut over his right eye.
Blood, like warm gravy, was oozing out of the gash, but otherwise, as his mind cleared, he realised that he’d thrown himself off a cliff and he’d survived.
It was only now, staring up and looking at where he’d come from, that he suddenly got afraid. He felt a kind of panic sweep over him.
That was very, very, very far. And that was very, very, very dangerous.
I’m not doing that again.
Ever.
Ever.
Ever.
He called out, shouting now. ‘Sam!’
But he heard nothing back.
Clarence could hear Riddle’s distant voice echo up from far below.
How had Riddle ended up down there? And how had he ended up here on this rocky ledge?
He’d fallen.
That was the only part he remembered. And he had to have broken his right leg when he hit the rock. It hurt like hell. He looked down and saw that part of the bone had splintered and was sticking out of the skin. He could see blood but also bone and cartilage that was yellow and not what he thought it would look like.
His collarbone on the same side as the busted leg must have snapped, because if he put his hand there, he felt a lump. And when he moved, a shooting pain, like being shocked, jolted straight through his system.
He shut his eyes and tried to concentrate.
The road was up above him. And the bottom of the basin, the river, was way down below. He was stuck between the two.
Well, he’d be damned if he was going to freeze or starve to death on a rocky ledge partway down the side of a mountain.
He hadn’t gotten this far in life by sitting back and taking the easy way out. He could hear Riddle’s voice, hoarse now, still hollering for Sam. He’d never heard him shout so loud. Clarence had to get away from them.
He suddenly threw up. The world started spinning. Now he had two things to get away from. The boys and this stinking mess.
He looked up again. He wasn’t even halfway down the incline. That’s when he made his decision. He’d pull himself up the jagged side of this damn mountain back to the road. There was vodka in the truck. And saltine crackers in the back. He’d give anything for one of those crackers.
It hurt to move his throbbing, bloody leg, but if that’s what it took, then that’s what it took.
Slowly, slowly, reach and pull. And like a bug, move up until you are there. Like a bug, travel on all fours and keep moving.
Because there are saltine crackers up on top.
Riddle continued, for what seemed like hours, shouting out Sam, Sam, Sam. And he heard nothing, nothing, nothing.
So he began working his way across the rocks and through the trees.
He knew that if he looked everywhere, very carefully, he would find him. So he made a map in his head of the bottom of the gorge. Like he was making a drawing. The three biggest rocks. The tallest trees. The river down below. And then he started to search each part of the map that was in his head.
And when the light was low in the sky and night was almost upon him, he finally saw a shape. A lump. A body.
Sam was on his side.
Was he dead?
No, his chest was moving. He was asleep. And he wouldn’t wake up. But he made small noises. Little sputtering sounds. But his eyes stayed shut and he wouldn’t answer, even when Riddle got frustrated and yelled at him to wake up now!
Then Riddle went down close to the water, which was a wild river, and he cleared away all the rocks in an area where the earth was soft and there were brown pine needles all over on the ground.
But there were also still small patches of snow. Maybe that was okay. Maybe the snow would feel good, because Sam’s face was red and hot.
Riddle snapped off branches with new green needles, because they weren’t crunchy but were bendy, and he made a pillow. And then he went and got Sam, which was maybe wrong.
Sam was so heavy, and Riddle wasn’t strong enough to lift him. He had to drag him by grabbing the top parts of his shirt and pulling.
At
first he could tell he was hurting him because Sam’s face tightened, but he still didn’t wake up.
But Riddle pulled him anyway. He could sleep down by the wild river, and there was water there. It took some time, but he got him to the spot he made.
And then he laid him down to rest.
Sam opened his eyes, and it was dark.
He was dead. Obviously.
So this was what happened when you died. You just saw black. And you felt fuzzy. And sick to your stomach.
But then his eyes slowly adjusted, and he could see something inside the black. It took a while for him to realise he was looking at stars. An entire sky full of them.
And then he heard something. A hooting. A bird. An owl?
Maybe he wasn’t dead.
He closed his eyes and tried to sort out the many, many sensations in his body. The first was cold. He was freezing cold.
The next realisation was that his shoulder was throbbing. And so was his chest. The side of his chest. His ribs on the left side of his chest.
And then he heard another sound. Very close. Movement.
An animal. A large animal.
So he hadn’t been dead before, but now, he was about to die. Okay. Bring it on. Because maybe when you die, it’s not so cold, and the pain in your left side doesn’t hurt so much.
He shut his eyes and moaned. He couldn’t help that. It just came out. So go on, animal. Do it. And then the movement, the animal that was so near, said, ‘Sam?’
The animal spoke.
Sam opened his eyes and they adjusted again to the dark and then he saw the sky field and then he saw the silhouette of his brother. ‘Riddle?’
And then Riddle put his arms around him and started to cry. Deep, full sobs. And it really hurt. The squeezing on his shoulder was a new torture to add to his other sensations.
But he just let Riddle hold him for what seemed like forever and ever, though he knew it wasn’t forever and ever, and then finally Riddle pulled back and managed to say, through his tears, ‘Are you okay . . . Are you okay, Sam? Are you? Sam? Are you okay? Sam?’
He now realised that his mouth was very dry. Like cotton. Like dirt. Like sand. Like sand with ground glass mixed in with it. Like bloody sand. It was hard to even move his tongue. But he managed to say, ‘Is there water . . . ?’
Riddle got up. Sam could see that. Riddle could walk.
Well, that was good. But he walked funny. Sort of limping. Was he dragging his foot? It was too dark. He couldn’t see. Riddle came back, and he was now holding out a shoe. A shoe filled with water.
Riddle held it to Sam’s mouth and he lifted up, a small bit, and it was a mistake. A huge mistake, because now the pain was shooting down his shoulder and into his ribs and across his hips. His head now was going to explode.
But Riddle understood and he moved the shoe and the water touched his lips and it was icy cold and sweet and it ran down the sides of his mouth, but he was able, despite the pain, to swallow.
He now knew he was alive.
He drank the whole shoe full of water and if he moved, even slightly, it felt as if his shoulder were on fire.
Someone had a blowtorch aimed at his shoulder and was burning a hole straight through the top of his arm and into his neck.
He cried out in pain, and Riddle began to touch him again as he frantically said, ‘Are you okay, Sam? Are you?’
And Sam shut his eyes and now realised that his head was resting on branches of pine needles that had been piled up. Like a pillow. Riddle must have done that. Sam said, ‘I’m cold . . .’
And then everything was dark again.
Sam was shaking from the freezing night air, so Riddle picked every fern that he could find on the riverbank. He had armfuls and armfuls of them.
Then Riddle took off the old, oversize sweater that Sam had given him from the back of the truck and he wrapped it around Sam’s legs. He then carefully covered Sam with layer after layer of ferns, all positioned in the same direction, like the insides of a circuit board, until only Sam’s head was now visible.
And then Riddle lifted up the ferns and got right up against his brother and he fell asleep, hoping his body heat would help keep them both warm.
Riddle woke up at first light. Sam’s chest was moving up and down. He was breathing. So he was still alive. Riddle was hungry. Really hungry. But it was warm next to Sam under the ferns, and he waited until the sun was higher up in the sky, sending spots of bright yellow light onto the riverbank and onto Sam. And then he finally got to his feet.
Riddle filled his shoe with icy water from the churning river and he drank, hoping that the liquid would stop his stomach cramps. But it didn’t. He took a seat on a rotten log that lay on the mat of forest debris.
Sam always got them out of trouble. But now Sam was under the ferns and he was still having trouble waking up.
Riddle stared at his left hand. He felt something small. Shiny black beetles were burrowing into a hole close to his left thumb, which rested on the decomposing reddish bark.
They look like candy.
Candy with legs.
Riddle reached over and plucked a beetle off the log. It struggled in his fingers. He then pulled off the insect’s six angled legs. Now it wasn’t struggling.
And now it really looks like candy.
Riddle popped it into his mouth and chewed.
It doesn’t taste like candy.
It tastes like a spicy nut.
A nut that’s been stuck in the back seat of the truck and that I find after a long time and I eat anyway but don’t tell Sam.
Riddle reached over and picked up four more beetles and ripped off their legs and ate them. With each beetle, he got more comfortable with the taste, until he was digging into the log, pulling out beetles by the handful.
And the crunch is a good thing.
Using a sharp stick to dig deeper into the rotten log, Riddle found hundreds of beetles.
He ate until his tongue started to feel thick. The beetles were tart and like licking a lemon wedge that was covered in ground pepper. Knowing that Sam would need something to eat, he then collected many more beetle bodies, removing the insects’ legs and putting them in the empty shoe.
But Riddle worried that the nutty snack beetles wouldn’t be enough, so he continued searching along the river’s edge and was rewarded around the next bend with an inlet.
Here the water was stagnant and sat in shallow, cold pools. Around the edges of the brackish water, it was like a marsh. As Riddle got closer, he saw that the area was filled with cattails.
Riddle stared. They looked like corn dogs. He liked corn dogs.
Sometimes Sam bought them corn dogs at the Seven-Eleven. Riddle knew that these weren’t corn dogs, but that didn’t stop him from reaching into the rushes and breaking off a stalk.
Riddle held the fuzzy, brown spike in his hands. He shut his eyes and let the soft brown cylinder rest against his cheek. It was comforting. And it smelled good. When he opened his eyes, Riddle was looking down and could see the fresh green new shoots of future cattail spikes poking up out of the water.
They looked like the vegetable that Debbie Bell made. What was it called? Ash. Pear. Gas. But it had nothing to do with ashes or pears or gas.
Riddle reached down and broke off a new shoot, peeling back the outside green layers to reveal a soft white interior. Didn’t Debbie Bell say that sometimes they could be white? He dug his dirty thumbnail into the fleshy, creamy pulp, and it gave way.
He then instinctively took a bite. It was like raw zucchini and fresh cucumbers.
He took another bite.
It tasted good. Really good.
Especially after eating a lot of black beetles.
Moving was intense.
If Sam could just stay in one place and keep his shoulder steady, everything would be fine. But of course he had to breathe, and that hurt his side. His ribs. They must be broken. And his shoulder was massively messed up. But he was alive.
And then there was Riddle.
How exactly had Riddle gotten down the mountainside? And how had he stayed in one piece? The last thing Sam remembered, he was up on the road. They were all up on the road.
So where was Clarence?
Hadn’t he tried to kill them? Or did he imagine that? He remembered his father aiming the shotgun. But then it all went blank. Did he kill his father? Maybe that’s what this was about. The end of Clarence. Is that what happened?
He felt like it might be the end of something. For him anyway.
But, except for the fact that Riddle had a cut on his forehead, his brother looked fine. He looked better than that. He looked good. Even his breathing seemed okay – maybe it was the mountain air. Sam had spent his whole life taking care of his little brother, and somehow Riddle was now the strong one.
And to think he always worried about the kid just crossing the street.
25
He got back to find Sam awake, staring up into the swaying pine branches.
Riddle was carrying a stack of the cattail shoots with a shoe full of beetles balanced on top.
‘Sam!’
Sam managed a small, ‘Hey . . . Could you get me some water?’
Riddle carefully put down the cattails and then quickly scooped up some of the cold river into his other sneaker and brought it back. Riddle felt a huge sense of relief, which he kept to himself. But inside he was saying, in a swirl of repetitive circles, Sam is still Sam. Sam is still Sam. Sam is still Sam.
After Sam had swallowed the water, Riddle presented the other shoe, removing a handful of what looked like black currants. He placed them in Sam’s hand. Sam didn’t even ask what they were. He put them in his mouth and chewed. Riddle could not stop smiling.
‘Nuts . . .’
Sam ate most of what was in the shoe and then, after more water, he started in, slowly, on the crunchy cattail shoots.
After Sam ate, he painfully, incredibly painfully, rolled to his side and took a leak, which had to mean his kidneys were still working. But the reality was that he had broken bones, and maybe something inside was bleeding. And he needed a doctor.
Small black flies, exploding into the air in spring, now appeared in a swarm, like a filter of fine netting, waving above his head. Sam watched the chaotic frenzy. What were the insects doing? And why? The frantic motion suddenly was translated in his head into sound.