My only chance is isolation and surprise. And with the light almost gone, there’s no time to do anything but ascend one of the spires before full dark. They are quite tall, more than sixty feet high, I’d guess. They’re not identical – they’re natural rock formations – but similar. The distance between them is a little more than a hundred yards. Thick at the base, the rock towers taper irregularly toward the tops, which even now are hidden in mist.
Ordinarily, the formation wouldn’t present a challenge, even to a climber of modest ability, but I’m so tired that the climb proves very difficult. The darkness makes it more so. Above me, the moon scuds along beneath thick clouds, providing a watery and inconsistent light that’s not much help.
Half a dozen times, one foot slips and my muscles are so fatigued that recovering is not easy. About halfway up, I come very close to my physical limit and almost… almost let go. That scares me and I halt my ascent for a few minutes, despite the encroaching darkness. I proceed slowly, resting every few feet. Finally, I find what I knew must be there: a wooden platform.
I pull myself onto it and collapse.
No more than four-feet square, the platform might as well be a palace as far as I’m concerned. It is such a relief not to have to maintain a grip and support my weight. After a few minutes of rest, I dig my remaining water bottle out of the backpack and drink half of its contents.
There’s really not much light, but my eyes long ago adjusted to the darkness. I can see that two cables cross to the opposite spire. But there is no platform on the opposite side – at least I can’t see one in the dark. I practically weep with thanks that I picked the right tower to climb. I never would have made it down this one and up the other.
One cable extends from beneath my platform, the other some four feet above me. The one beneath me is attached by a kind of flywheel-and-winch contraption. The one above has several levers and gears and some kind of bulky power source bolted into the rock.
Dangling several feet down from the cable beneath my platform, hanging into the chasm between the spires, are several dark loops. Suspended from the cable above me is a contraption that seems to have a wide “mouth” consisting of triangular metal teeth, like a giant version of the constricting jaw into which you insert drill bits.
It takes me a few minutes to figure out how it all must work. The magician throws the rope (letting it fall back down the first few times, just for effect) until it catches one of the dangling loops – which must be covered with Velcro or something like it. At that point, a hidden assistant up here – or maybe the mechanism works through radio signals – brings the device on the second cable into play, guiding it into position and lowering it until it bites the loose end of the rope. The mechanism is then withdrawn vertically and winched tight until the rope is held taut.
At first I think – with horror at the risk of it – that Sean or Kevin, whichever has the job of climbing the rope, must walk on the cable to the safety of the platform. But no. A loop of rope, like a rappeling loop, waits hooked to a brass fitting on the cable above me. Anyone climbing the vertical rope can slip a leg into the loop and pull himself over to the platform.
I sit down on the platform. There’s no way to know if the mechanism requires an assistant – or simply works by remote control. I’ll just have to wait.
I’m still wet and the effect of evaporation makes me even colder. I concentrate on conserving warmth. It seems impossible that I might fall asleep, but just in case, I set the alarm on my watch for five A.M. I hunch my knees to my chest, tighten my hood, lock my arms across my chest, jam my hands under my arms, and settle down to wait.
CHAPTER 47
A family outing. Harper’s Ferry. The Potomac River. Liz and I and the boys float along on rented black inner tubes, drifting in the current toward the pickup point. The sky above the leafy branches, ballpoint blue. The water is warm and just deep enough that we don’t scrape on the rocks. The boys paddle to try to make themselves go faster, but strapped into their life jackets, in the huge inner tubes, they can hardly reach the water.
“What if there are fish?” Sean asks.
“Yeah, what if one bites my butt?” Kevin concurs.
“I don’t think there are any carnivorous fish in the Potomac River,” Liz says.
“What’s ‘carnivous’?”
“Carnivorous. It means meat-eating.”
“I’m not meat,” Sean protests. “Ewww. That’s gross.”
“I’m not so sure about the fish here,” I tell Liz. “I heard they lost a man down by the pickup point.”
“Daaaaaad!”
We’re not alone. A couple floats just ahead of us. A pod of teenagers cruises behind. They keep pushing each other out of the tubes, screaming and hooting. This doesn’t bother me – they’re just having fun – but when I hear the peremptory beep of someone’s cell phone, I’m irritated.
“Can you believe that?” I ask Liz. “There’s no sanctuary from the things.”
“They’ll be making them waterproof next,” Liz says, adjusting her sunglasses.
The sound keeps up and I’m about to shout to the teenagers that at least they could answer the damn thing, when-
It’s my watch.
I wake up, all at once and with a gasp. It’s still dark, and so foggy I can’t see any farther than a few feet. I drink the last of my water, fumbling at the cap with frozen fingers. I feel as if I’m a hundred years old; every part of my body hurts. I wait for my eyes to adjust. I try to stretch out.
Half an hour later, the sky begins to brighten. Behind the platform, on the opposite side of the rock, is a small ledge, almost a niche. It’s eighteen inches deep, I’d guess, but the rock face hangs over it. The only way I could fit into the space would be to crouch. I reject it.
I climb the spire, looking for a place to hide. I find one without too much trouble, fifteen feet above the platform, a spot I can wedge into, where I don’t have to balance or support my own weight. I can see the platform and the cables, the center of the chasm. But no one can see me.
I look at my watch every few minutes. After an hour passes, I’m worried. The cold is getting to me. I bite down on the fleece to keep my teeth from chattering.
And then, at last, I hear them, although thanks to the continuous thud of surf, not until they’re almost in the theater. I hear the scrape and click of shoes on rock. I hear the voices of two men – no, three – one speaking in an odd cadence that suggests a foreign language. And then – tears crash into my eyes – interspersed between the low voices of the men, I hear the high, sweet voices of children.
Sean laughs – his characteristic high-pitched chuckle, a laugh totally unlike Kevin’s raucous guffaw. My heart lifts, floating in my chest. I can hardly breathe.
I hear their voices, but I can’t understand what they’re saying. There is the sound of padlocked chests being opened, the moving and dragging of heavy objects. Obviously, they are making preparations for the performance, setting the props and furniture in place. Someone begins to whistle.
I work to keep within myself. Ordinarily, I’m good at waiting. It’s something that comes with spending a lot of time in airports.
But now, the immobility is almost too much. I consider making my way down the rock, taking them on. But no. My chances on the ground – three of them and one of me – are terrible. I’m only going to get one shot and it’s got to be up here.