Scattered Graves

‘‘How do you know? I do this every weekend,’’ he sneered.

‘‘No, you don’t,’’ Diane said under her breath. ‘‘I know all the climbers and cavers.’’

She wondered whether he had a backup gun. No, he would have used that instead of throwing rocks.

‘‘If you can do this, I can,’’ he shouted.

So that was it, she thought. He wasn’t going to let a girl best him. Well, he was wrong. Diane was in her element. She felt calmer than she had since he’d dragged her out of her vehicle.

She moved horizontally on the rock face, heading toward an easier path. A few feet from her was a slab of rock that looked vaguely like a sheep’s head plastered sideways against the cliff. Climbers called it Ram Rock. It had several creases and protrusions that were like features—eyes, a nose, an ear, and a horn. All made easy hand- and footholds. She had it in her mind now to climb back up to the top and run for her car, since Harve was down here.

‘‘I played football,’’ he yelled. ‘‘I could’ve gone pro.’’

He sounded closer. She looked over at him. He was perhaps twenty feet to her left and above her position. He was working his way down the crevice and having a difficult time, going too fast.

‘‘Did you play ball on a vertical field?’’ said Diane.

He didn’t respond. She watched as his foot slipped and slid down the crack. He grabbed at the rock. He stopped with a jerk when the crack widened to a tiny ledge. He looked startled, then scared. After a few moments he apparently thought he was safe, because he grinned at Diane. He pulled a knife out of his belt and pointed it at Diane, making small circles with the blade.

‘‘You don’t have time for that,’’ said Diane, calmly. ‘‘You need both your hands.’’

‘‘I’ll teach you to fuck with me,’’ he said.

Then he looked down. He shouldn’t have. Below them at the bottom of the gorge was an old car some one had long ago pushed off the edge of the cliff into the canyon. At this height it looked like a child’s toy. The tops of tall pine trees swayed in the wind four hundred feet below them.

Diane saw his face change. He grew pale, his eyes widened, and she knew his pupils were dilating. It hap pened so fast. He was panicking.

Harve hugged the rock, not moving. Diane thought she heard him moan.

‘‘Stay calm,’’ she shouted. ‘‘Don’t let go of the rock. Hold on with both hands.’’ Why am I helping him? she thought. Let the bastard fall.

He whimpered.

‘‘Breathe slowly and evenly,’’ said Diane. ‘‘Help me,’’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘‘Help me.’’ Diane had seen people panic on the rocks, but they

were tied to ropes. If his panic got out of control, he would free-fall to the bottom.

‘‘Harve, listen to me. You’re standing on a small ledge. You can stand there for a long time until I get help. Try to stay calm.’’

‘‘I can’t,’’ he whimpered.

What a change, she thought.

‘‘Concentrate on holding on. Don’t look down,’’ said

Diane. ‘‘Look up. Look how close you are to the top.’’ Harve brought his gaze around and looked up. They

were no more than fifty feet down. He whimpered

again. It must look impossible to him. She was sure

the tension in his muscles that panic brought was mak

ing them ache.

‘‘Listen to me, Harve. Breathe more slowly. Relax

just a little bit. You’re in a good place. You have a

place to stand. Just stand there and I’ll get help.’’ ‘‘I can’t,’’ he whimpered.

‘‘Yes, you can. Concentrate on something else. Why

did you come after me?’’

Harve was silent for a long moment, and Diane re

peated the question.

Silence again. He wasn’t talking.

‘‘Harve, can you talk?’’ she asked.

Harve squeezed his eyes shut. ‘‘Oh, God, oh, God,

oh, God,’’ he whispered.

‘‘Breathe,’’ she said. ‘‘In and out. You are in a good

place. You could stay there all day if you had to.’’ He was paying attention. His breathing didn’t sound

so ragged.

‘‘You sound good. Just keep calm. Panic is your

enemy, not me. When you panic, you’re in trouble,’’