him. But what came afterward was as far from motherly as one could get. She spit venom, and Mark cringed as every foul comment lit into the boy. Lyle’s eyes showed cold fear. Mark had seen that same horror in the eyes of soldiers, soldiers he had also watched die because of that fear.
Click, snap…
Marsha backed away from her son, her face different. All the raging anger she’d been using to belittle her child was gone, replaced by an expression of fear. Her profile told of confusion and terror. Mark knew if he asked her what had happened, she’d have no idea. She looked shell-shocked, PTSD at its worst.
Click, snap…
What Mark’s Nikon would not capture were the words coming from Jaleel Warner. The man sang a song Mark recognized at once— The Dastardly Bastard of Waverly Chasm , the local lyric Willy had emailed Mark. The tone of the voice was playful, childlike, as the tour guide spun like a ballerina. Mark felt his hackles raise, gooseflesh running up and down him in waves. He was able to keep his camera up, but just by force. Mark felt the need to capture the story. The oddity possessed him. He knew he was being unforgiving in his blatant picture taking, but the group would just have to deal with it. There was a story forming, and Mark would be the one to tell it.
Click, snap…
The final picture was of Lyle. The boy pitched forward away from the wall on a course that would surely direct him over the edge and into Waverly Chasm. Lyle’s eyes were spinning, rolling in his head like a slot machine just after the arm has been pulled. The sight caused Mark to pause. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, though he saw it with his own eyes.
Even as the camera processed that last photo, saving it to memory, Mark began to move, springing forward, not thinking, only reacting. He lurched, pushing past the stunned couple in front of him, using his size more than his strength to shove the two against the rock face.
The boy’s right leg extended.
Mark, already struggling for breath after five steps, his blood hammering in his temples with every heartbeat, stretched forward, arms out in front of him.
Lyle’s leg lifted, clearing the two-foot-high guard wire easily. He was going over. Mark was sure of it.
Mark tossed his entire weight forward, wanting, needing with every part of his being to find something on the boy to grab.
Like an Olympic diver, arms out at his sides, head tossed back toward the sky, Lyle began to drop.
Mark dug his fingers into Lyle’s outstretched forearm, pivoted back, and spun on one heel. Using his stomach as a counterweight, Mark hauled the boy back up and over the steel cable, tossing him into the rock face.
Everything unfolded in slow motion as the guard wire caught Mark just behind the knees.
The boy slid down the stony wall, landing in a crumpled heap next to his mother.
Mark’s vision flashed upward to a clear blue sky where birds played. His balance fled as he fell backward into the chasm.
Twirling, Mark was aware of light, then dark—chasm, followed by sky. Black. Blue.
Black.
Blue.
Then, only black.
14
“WATCHIN’ SOMEONE DIE, JUST, IS ne’er easy. Whether it be in pain, or in peace, the livin’ are left with the mem’ries the dead can’t carry with ‘em.”
Nana Penance’s words struck Justine McCarthy with a finality as solid as the rock face at her back. She’d watched helplessly, thrown aside by that wonderful man with more courage than a hundred armies, as he drifted away in the chasm below.
Afterward, Justine wailed uncontrollably, fat tears running down her cheeks. She felt hollow inside.
She could have done something . Nana Penance’s death had been expected, prolonged, and drawn out, but the big man had perished so suddenly. She couldn’t have stopped her grandmother’s passing, but that… that senseless loss of life might have been righted if she’d only acted.
Everything felt cold, even Trevor’s skin as she collapsed into
Click, snap…
Marsha backed away from her son, her face different. All the raging anger she’d been using to belittle her child was gone, replaced by an expression of fear. Her profile told of confusion and terror. Mark knew if he asked her what had happened, she’d have no idea. She looked shell-shocked, PTSD at its worst.
Click, snap…
What Mark’s Nikon would not capture were the words coming from Jaleel Warner. The man sang a song Mark recognized at once— The Dastardly Bastard of Waverly Chasm , the local lyric Willy had emailed Mark. The tone of the voice was playful, childlike, as the tour guide spun like a ballerina. Mark felt his hackles raise, gooseflesh running up and down him in waves. He was able to keep his camera up, but just by force. Mark felt the need to capture the story. The oddity possessed him. He knew he was being unforgiving in his blatant picture taking, but the group would just have to deal with it. There was a story forming, and Mark would be the one to tell it.
Click, snap…
The final picture was of Lyle. The boy pitched forward away from the wall on a course that would surely direct him over the edge and into Waverly Chasm. Lyle’s eyes were spinning, rolling in his head like a slot machine just after the arm has been pulled. The sight caused Mark to pause. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, though he saw it with his own eyes.
Even as the camera processed that last photo, saving it to memory, Mark began to move, springing forward, not thinking, only reacting. He lurched, pushing past the stunned couple in front of him, using his size more than his strength to shove the two against the rock face.
The boy’s right leg extended.
Mark, already struggling for breath after five steps, his blood hammering in his temples with every heartbeat, stretched forward, arms out in front of him.
Lyle’s leg lifted, clearing the two-foot-high guard wire easily. He was going over. Mark was sure of it.
Mark tossed his entire weight forward, wanting, needing with every part of his being to find something on the boy to grab.
Like an Olympic diver, arms out at his sides, head tossed back toward the sky, Lyle began to drop.
Mark dug his fingers into Lyle’s outstretched forearm, pivoted back, and spun on one heel. Using his stomach as a counterweight, Mark hauled the boy back up and over the steel cable, tossing him into the rock face.
Everything unfolded in slow motion as the guard wire caught Mark just behind the knees.
The boy slid down the stony wall, landing in a crumpled heap next to his mother.
Mark’s vision flashed upward to a clear blue sky where birds played. His balance fled as he fell backward into the chasm.
Twirling, Mark was aware of light, then dark—chasm, followed by sky. Black. Blue.
Black.
Blue.
Then, only black.
14
“WATCHIN’ SOMEONE DIE, JUST, IS ne’er easy. Whether it be in pain, or in peace, the livin’ are left with the mem’ries the dead can’t carry with ‘em.”
Nana Penance’s words struck Justine McCarthy with a finality as solid as the rock face at her back. She’d watched helplessly, thrown aside by that wonderful man with more courage than a hundred armies, as he drifted away in the chasm below.
Afterward, Justine wailed uncontrollably, fat tears running down her cheeks. She felt hollow inside.
She could have done something . Nana Penance’s death had been expected, prolonged, and drawn out, but the big man had perished so suddenly. She couldn’t have stopped her grandmother’s passing, but that… that senseless loss of life might have been righted if she’d only acted.
Everything felt cold, even Trevor’s skin as she collapsed into
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