River's Edge Read online

  River’s Edge

  by LRHBalzer

  *

  James Ellison stood in the thigh-deep water and let the icy sensation of the river rushing by his hipwaders almost overload his senses. He was alive, sight and touch engaged, volume turned up as high as he dared. The water swirled around his legs, unruly, defiant, unstoppable. The river roared, the intensity and vibration almost painful to his ultra-sensitive ears, even tuned just at the edge of his comfort level, crashing and hissing, untamed as it swept past him. The glacier waters, unleashed high in the mountains of North Cascades National Park, now hurtled west, pushing forcefully through the spring-green valley along the ancient path, winding ever seaward until, a hundred and fifty miles away, it surged through the city of Cascade itself and spilled its lifeblood into Puget Sound.

  Ellison breathed in the crisp air, letting the different smells settle over him like a multicolored quilt. Pungent cedar—easy to pick out. Fir and hemlock teasing him, until he finally identified their fragrance mixed in with a thousand varieties of wild flowers. And, upriver, salmon cooking on an open campfire, bathed in lemon and some herb he couldn’t quite identify. A new smell to add to his growing list.

  He opened his eyes. Golden sunlight sparkled on the water, foaming to white toward the center of the river where the current flowed quicker. He looked one direction, his searching eyes touching on Simon Banks at their campsite a short way upstream, happily whistling to himself as he cooked the first catch of the trip, a salmon. Ellison zeroed in on the spice bottle in his hand. Ground coriander. He smiled, glad to see the tension easing from Simon’s face as the police chief let go of the heavy burden of responsibility usually resting on those shoulders.

  They had left the city at dawn, Simon and his son in their car, and Ellison in his truck with his partner, Blair Sandburg. Blair had talked the entire four-hour drive, but rather than being annoying, it was a sound Jim had grown to depend on, tuning in and out of the exuberant chatter as the mood dictated. When Blair wanted his attention, there would always be a light touch on his forearm, pulling the detective back from wherever his thoughts had segued. And, oddly enough, even when his focus drifted, he usually remembered what Blair had been talking about.

  Arriving at the rangers’ station just after twelve noon, they had parked their vehicles and hiked another two hours, heading to the river spot Simon had chosen. Blair and Daryl had soon gone ahead of them, making use of their pent-up energy from the drive, while Jim and Simon hiked in companionable silence at a more even pace. Occasionally, both police officers would smile as a whoop or holler could be heard ahead of them on the trail.

  It felt good to be away from the city. They weren’t exactly in the middle of nowhere, but it was great to pretend they were days away from it all, when a long weekend had to suffice. Tents went up, fishing gear came out, and by late-afternoon, Jim Ellison was where he wanted to be—in a quiet spot of the river, casting his line, and drifting with the moment, letting the last few months blow off him, soiled memory by soiled memory.

  Beside him now, down river, Blair Sandburg stood motionless, spear in hand, long curling hair blowing around a face set in determination, eyes wide and unfocused as he stared beneath the surface of the water, caught up in the experience of aboriginal spear fishing. Mouth slightly open, teeth resting lightly on his bottom lip, Blair balanced the fishing spear in one steady hand, putting as much energy into standing immobile as he did in moving around.

  After a moment, the young man blinked, suddenly aware he was being watched. He pulled his gaze away from his quarry, meeting Ellison’s easy smile with one of his own. Blair’s wildly expressive eyes rolled slightly, silently laughing, acknowledging the play-acting of his back-to-nature fantasy of man against the wilds; then, with equal abandon and comfort, he returned his concentration to the water around him.

  The detective let his sight travel upward, picking out the faint plume of smoke that issued sporadically from Mount Baker’s volcanic crater, far in the distance. The sun would be setting soon, early dusk bringing the flies to hover above the water, and the fish to capture the flies, and, with any luck, Jim Ellison to catch the fish.

  He let his hearing drift now, sounds flickering in and out of range. Animals. Birds. The wind in the evergreen trees. Upstream, beyond their own campsite, maybe half a mile or more, several men, their voices gruff with age, talked among themselves of retirement and their beer cooling in the icy water. The sounds seemed to echo down the river-carved valley as he experienced them one-by-one. A fly buzzed by his ear, and he winced at the closeness.

  The early evening breeze was soothing, lulling, playing over his senses like fingers on cool ivory keys. Sight, smell, hearing, even taste, was carried on its wings. It caressed his skin with its light, sensuous touch, kissing his bare neck, refreshing and intoxicating. He almost felt dizzy by it, and shook his head. You need to get out more, Ellison, he thought, letting the smile happen.

  He looked over to his left again when Blair made a sudden, sharp movement, groaned, then once more became a living statue. Neither Blair nor Daryl wore hipwaders, considering the practical equipment too predictably middle-class, or more likely, too ‘un-cool’. As if to prove their resiliency, the two had gone for a swim immediately upon their arrival at the river, cavorting around in the cold water as if the temperature of their swimming area was not a problem, despite the chattering teeth Jim could so clearly hear. The older men had let them be, waiting until they had made a pot of coffee and assembled their rods before insisting that Blair and Daryl get out of the water and let them get some fishing in. There were priorities to be considered and it was a fishing trip.

  Jim had set himself up to catch some steelhead trout, while Simon had baited for salmon. Too hyper yet to settle down and fish, Blair and Daryl had disappeared off into the bush for a while, the anthropologist leading the way, but still limping slightly from the bullet wound in his leg a few weeks earlier. While he fished, Jim could track his partner easily with his hearing. Sandburg pointed out plants and insects, in amongst the inevitable stories, while Daryl listened to him with all the captivation of a young teenager for his private mentor. After Jim had passed the information on to Simon, the police chief had muttered that if anyone else had tried to teach Daryl any of it, it was unlikely he would have paid any attention to them, but Blair was up on a pedestal somewhere, not quite the disdainful ‘older generation’ that Jim and Simon were.

  A short time ago, Blair had returned with his prized aboriginal fishing spear and had carefully waded out to a good spot, grimacing as the ice cold water soaked his jeans, but laughing it off when Ellison glanced his way. It was good to see Blair happy, carefree in this healing environment. Just as Jim had memories that needed to be worked out, so do the young anthropologist. The last year had been filled with new experiences, few of them pleasant. Imprisoned, threatened with death, trapped in an elevator, drugged, shot at, beaten. Two bullets stopped by a flak jacket, but still a serious enough injury with bruised ribs. One bullet through his leg. Three concussions—at least—one of them in woods not unlike the area they were now in, when Simon had been kidnaped a few weeks earlier.

  That one had scared Jim the most. Within the space of six hours, Blair had a minor head injury from their jump from a cliff, he was attacked by two local rednecks and knocked unconscious, shot by an escaped convict, dragged from a smoke-filled mine, then caught in a dynamite explosion. They’d had to airlift Blair out and it was hours before Jim had been able to make it to the hospital to check on him.

  Blair insisted he was fine now, but there was a hesitant distance in his Guide’s eyes that troubled Jim. On the surface, maybe everything was fine, but inside … Well, Jim didn’t know exactly what the problem was, or if time was the
only cure.

  Simon Banks carried his own scars from that encounter. Aside from some bad bruising and some minor cuts and scrapes, he wasn’t physically injured, but the psychological terror was draining. Simon was the reason they were out here now. He needed to get away, doing something he enjoyed, and this time, Daryl had asked to come along, as if he realized how close his father had once again come to dying. Shortly after they had returned from the infamous Peru vacation, Simon had been accused of murder and injured while at his high school reunion. Daryl had found out about it all when a reporter stuck a mike in his face and asked how he felt about his father being shot and then burning down his hometown’s largest hotel.

  Jim touched on them each briefly—one beside him now, one at the campsite, and Daryl walking in between, stealthfully making his way along the banks of the river, probably getting ready to attack Blair in retaliation for an earlier sneak attack of Sandburg’s. Simon, Daryl, and Blair—all in need of healing.

  And me? He smiled grimly, then closed his eyes and let the gentle heat from the setting sun caress his eyelids. This is what I need. To feel again.

  *

  Blair looked over at the Sentinel, wondering idly how much Jim could see under the water and if there was some way that Ellison could tell him where the salmon actually were, or when one was coming his way.

  Now that wouldn’t really be fair, would it? Taking unfair advantage of the fish. But that wouldn’t count, not really, since Jim’s senses were natural— a genetic throwback, maybe, but natural. It would just be a case of survival of the fittest. And he really wanted to catch at least one fish, to prove to them all that he could. Simon had brought in a good-sized salmon already, but Jim hadn’t caught anything. Maybe there was time yet.

  Blair watched Jim tilt his head back and let the sun warm his face. He loved seeing the big guy like this. So real. So … so there. In tune with everything. What would it have been like two or three hundred years ago, the two of them living off the land, Sentinel and Guide? Yeah, me with my lap top in my backpack, and Jim with his trusty truck. Okay, so maybe the living off the land part was a bit of a stretch, but not the rest of it. This was a fitting environment for a Sentinel, not the crime-ridden streets of Cascade. It was hard to imagine the waters of the clean, mountain-fresh, glacier-fed streams and river having to pass through the city, becoming polluted and contaminated before dumping its garbage into Puget Sound.

  Whoa … not a cool thought. A major downer.

  Cascade had a lot of beauty in it, he countered, attempting to get the bad taste out of his mouth. There were the coastal mountains, a powerful backdrop to the city. The bay. The parks and trees and flowers. The people, too. A lot of beautiful people … And a lot of real sickos, as well. It seemed some days that every weird psycho in the Pacific Northwest decided to vacation in Cascade. And I’ve met every one of them. He shivered, trying to put the memories behind him, yet again. How does Jim do this year after year and not let it eat away at him?

  He gripped the wooden spear tighter. Sometimes he felt just on the edge of a very loud scream. A primal scream, of course. Just clearing the lungs and the nerves. Nothing unmanly about that. In fact, in many cultures, the louder the scream, the more macho the man was considered.

  If he knew he could stop with just one scream, he would have gone ahead and done it. That was the problem. He had a nagging suspicion that if he ever let go, he’d dissolve into a million pieces, floating about the wind like the dandelion seeds he and Daryl had blown from their stems that afternoon.

  He wasn’t sure what his biggest fear was. There were actually so many to choose from. Most of them revolved around him screwing up somehow and letting Jim get killed or badly injured. Or even just letting Jim down by blowing it. Most of the time, things weren’t his fault, but that rarely counted with most people. If you were involved, you were responsible. Jim didn’t seem to hold to that philosophy, but Blair wasn’t about to take a chance. Now, Simon … Yes, no doubt about it, Simon would hold him responsible for the next earthquake if the police chief could find a way. He really liked Simon, but the guy could be a major stiff about things sometimes.

  He squinted at something just below the surface, trying to see below the glare of the setting sun’s reflection on the water. Was that a—? He crouched lower, hardly noticing the cold water on his stomach. The salmon coming his way suddenly darted to the side and out of his path, and Blair sighed. Half an hour and he was out of patience already. He would have starved to death if he had lived two hundred years ago—who was he kidding?

  He glared over at his partner. Jim was just throwing his line back in after checking the hook and lure. He hadn’t caught anything, but the way Jim fished, actually catching fish wasn’t important. It was standing around looking like you were catching fish while you were really just daydreaming that was his prime motivation.

  A sudden sound behind Blair spooked him and he spun, an old memory of an alligator coming directly to the front of his mind as he saw something slither under the water toward him. Too big for a salmon. Way too big. He raised his spear and stepped backwards, getting ready to aim, but lost his balance when the riverbed dropped beneath his feet, sending him under the water. He coughed, sputtering to the surface as he regained his footing, then opened his eyes and looked directly into the setting sun, the sight blinding him.

  A noise beside him. Jim came hurtling out of the water, screaming, covered in oil, just like on the rig. The water was on fire behind Jim; he could see a thousand flames flickering on the surface and Jim was covered in oil. He was going to burn alive. With a roar, Blair surged through the water and tackled the other man, sending him back below the black surface. He started beating out the flames when Jim’s head surfaced— No, it was Daryl now. Daryl was covered in oil and was on fire.

  “Help! Over here! Help!”

  Daryl was trying to run through the water to the shore and Blair ran behind him, heedless of the flames covering his own body. Daryl was just a kid. He would help. I have to get those flames out! Quickly! They’re spreading! He knocked the teenager to the rocky shore, slapping at him with his hands, screaming for someone to help him. He was sobbing, alternating between anger and terror with what was happening. Why hadn’t he noticed the water had become so black around him? The sun must have touched down on it, sending the golden flames across the surface of the water. What had happened to Jim? He had been there, hadn’t he?

  Oh, God. Jim had been burned alive.

  Blair felt hands lifting him bodily up and away from where Daryl cowered on the ground, arms protecting his head and crying. Blair struggled to get back to him. “He’s on fire! Help him! Would somebody please help him?” he screamed.

  “He’s okay, Chief. He’s okay.” Someone—Jim?—was trying to turn his face away from where Daryl lay, but he fought him.

  “No, he’s not okay!” Couldn’t he see that? Simon was by his son now but Blair could still see the flames flickering over Daryl and he struggled to break free of the strong grasp. “He’s on fire. Don’t let him burn. They’re trying to kill him,” he gasped out.

  “Not anymore. You got the fire out, buddy.” The calm voice was beside his ear, but he couldn’t listen to it.

  “You’re wrong, Jim. He’s still on fire.”

  “You put it out. It’s over. Can you see that he’s not on fire anymore? Look carefully now.”

  Jim was trying to sound so reasonable, but he obviously wasn’t looking at the same thing Blair was. This time, with a well-placed kick, Blair was able to get free, and he raced across to where his jacket lay on a log. “The flames are all over his back now!” He tried to get back to the boy on the ground, but someone kept blocking his way. “Move, damn you! Can’t you see? They’re everywhere. The fire people … No. No fire people. It’s … What’s happening? Jim!” he wailed. “Daryl’s going to die!” He whirled his jacket over his head, satisfied when it connected with something and it went down before him.

  He stumbled ove
r the rocks trying to get through the flames to where Daryl was, but he couldn’t find him anymore. He kept running until his foot caught in a root and sent him sprawling across the ground, his head connecting with the hard surface, and darkness extinguishing the flames.

  *

  Simon helped his son to his feet, turning him around to make sure he was okay, then glancing over to where Ellison was checking out his partner. The detective also seemed satisfied that there were no serious injuries, and carefully turned Sandburg onto his back. “Jim?”

  “He’s okay. He’ll have a bump on his head, but I think he’s okay. His heart rate is still too high, but it’s slowing.”

  “Good.” Behind him, Simon could hear Daryl starting to curse and he turned his attention back to his son. “Are you okay, Daryl?”

  The teenager wiped his eyes on the back of one river-wet sleeve, anger rising. “What the hell was that all about? Saying I was on fire? He’s nuts. I thought he was joking but he wasn’t, was he? He’s fucking crazy. What got into him, anyway?”

  I didn’t want to ever have this conversation. “We’ll talk later, Daryl. It’s not what you think.” Simon met Ellison’s eyes, seeing the empathic concern across the detective’s face. “Do you want to leave him here or move him back to camp?”

  “Let’s just wait until he comes to, and then he can walk back on his own.” Ellison pulled off his hipwaders, looking about for Blair’s jacket. When his partner had been swinging it around, the zipper had caught Jim on the side of his head, and the cut was still bleeding a bit. Ellison took the jacket now and wrapped it around Blair, trying to keep the breeze from cooling the young man down anymore than he already was.

  “Come on, Daryl. Let’s go back to camp and get a blanket.” Simon looked back at his son, noticing that the teenager had regained his composure and was now staring at Blair, his brows furled in confusion.

  “What happened, Dad? What’s wrong with him? Why did he do that? I thought he said he was my friend.”