Sleeping Beauty (35 page)

This isn’t Davin’s gear, but I know this campsite was set up for him, most likely by Gray. His reaction during our little radio exchange a few minutes ago removed any doubts I’d had left on that front.

But Rev is the man with the plan.
I think back to Rev’s cryptic comment that the morning we surfed Shadow Point: “I’ve got a few secrets I’m keeping myself.” The campsite was one secret. I have no doubt that Davin’s “Best of Claire’s Episodes” was a second secret. Yes, the whole thing smacks of Rev Carlin, Event Planner.

What I can’t figure out is why Davin felt the need to tell anyone about it, or why he ran away in the first place. I mean, Davin had had the disk since July. It wasn’t like anyone had seen the footage, and he could’ve destroyed it at any time.

Equally strange: Why would Rev–who was supposed to be my attorney–take this kind of chance? If he was found to be involved in this, he would lose everything he’d worked for: his law practice, his license. He’d still have the respect of his crew for looking out for Davin, but that and ten dollars would buy him a cup of coffee after this came to light. I mean, they wouldn’t have been able to hide Davin forever.

Davin’s sudden departure, Rev’s complicity–it smacked of a catalyst, some sort of game-changing revelation. But what?

Does it matter?
I think.
Davin never came to Lost Gorge. Why?

Easy answer: Davin didn’t show up, because he was killed at Ghost Point before he could get here.

“Too easy,” I say. I grab a handhold of vines and start ascending the gorge. At the top, I look down the hilly slope onto Lost Point where’s I’ve anchored Andy’s boat just out of sight behind a rock outcropping.

In my head, I repeat the words Davin
actually
said the last time I’d seen him:
“If the Ghost is too gnarly I’ll just go to Lost
.
”

Not “go
get
lost,” but “go
to
Lost,” as in “go to Lost Gorge.”

I’d anchored at Lost Point out of desperation, knowing that landing at Pyramid Cove would have required hiking across the island without permission to get to the gorge, which would have given the Navy lots of chances to discover me, not to mention being incredibly dangerous. Davin’s choices would have been limited though, knowing as he did that the range near Pyramid was hot and active on November third. He would’ve anchored at Lost Point out of
necessity
.

I pull out a water bottle that I’d stolen from Davin’s apartment out of the backpack I’d purloined from the same, tipping it into my mouth and swallowing once, twice.
Brendan would kill me for my stupidity if he knew what I’d done
, I think.

And it
was
stupid, approaching Lost Point radio silent, maneuvering the boat through kelp beds littered with unexploded ordnance, not to mention piloting into a cove known for its unpredictable and sudden rogue waves that often flipped small craft and smashed them against the rocks. It took nerves of steel, a lot of piloting experience, and a really, really strong anchor that would–

I’m downing the third mouthful of water when it hits me like a rock thrown from the top of the gorge.

“
Gray’s Navy team found a fresh anchor scar on the seabed late yesterday,”
West had said.
“They followed it about two hundred yards offshore until they found the anchor. Boat probably got tossed in the storm and dragged until the anchor snapped off.”

“He didn’t have an anchor,” I whisper. “No way Davin landed at Lost Point with no anchor.”

“
What’s your backup plan?”
Davin had asked me.

“No. Oh, no. Oh, my god, please no.”

I cap the water bottle, chuck it in the pack, and start running, past the drop to the gorge, past Goat Rock, across the plateau. I slow down once the grass disappears and the soil starts to look burned, forcing myself to move forward at a walking pace until I get to the range itself. I can tell the range has been in heavy use since I was here with Brendan; the neon trail markers sprayed on the rocks are harder to see, covered by the gray, ashy fallout of exploding bombs.

Thirty minutes later, I’m looking across the flat stretch of the trail, the Dinosaur Footprints on my left. This is the last bit before the descent to Pyramid Cove. I shade my eyes with my hand and sigh. I don’t see anything but dirt, and more dirt.

I trudge forward anyway, determined to walk every step, knowing what it means if I make it to Pyramid Cove and find nothing: Davin is dead. I’m astounded by how miserable the thought makes me, even after everything I’ve seen. I never wanted Davin found “dead or alive.” There was never any question of what I was hoping for–
praying for
: one hundred percent alive.

I steel myself for disappointment, preparing myself to accept, to cope. I’m so busy pushing myself through the seven stages of the grief cycle that I almost miss it–a flash of white out of the corner of my eye. I spin around and peer over the lip of one of the Footprints.

Looking like nothing more than a bundle of bloodied, discarded rags, Davin is curled up on his side, his face white as sea foam, eyes closed, one arm hanging limply over his eyes, the other lying palm-up in the dirt. His lips are blue.

I scream something, maybe his name. Before I know it I’m over the side, sliding down the loose dirt, scrambling across the bottom to get to him. Despite all the noise I’m making, he remains absolutely still.

I drop down next to him, my hands covering my mouth, and start to cry. “Oh, Davin,” I whisper. Terrified, I reach out to touch his face, expecting it to be cold and hard. Instead, it’s clammy, the skin still soft to the touch.

Clammy and soft. Not cold. Not cold like death.

I shake his shoulder. “Davin? Davin, it’s Claire! Wake up!” I struggle out of my backpack, my hands trembling so badly that I can hardly get my fingers on the zipper. I drop the radio twice before I’m able to flip it to channel sixteen. My words are so rushed I’m not even sure I’m speaking English.

“Mayday, mayday, mayday! San Clemente Control Bravo, I am requesting emergency medical assistance, south side impact area three hundred yards north of Pyramid Cove. Over!” The last word comes out as a high-pitched shriek.

The response is a long time in coming. When it does come, the voice is drawling, reluctant. “This is an emergency channel to be used for emergency traffic only. Lieutenant Commander Grayson has asked me to remind you of the penalties and fines for broadcasting a false–”

I key my radio. “Gray, I found Davin! He’s–” I’m shaking with sobs, and I can’t think of what to say next. “He looks so bad!”

Instead of silence I hear a lot of banging and unintelligible shouting, like someone has stepped away from the open microphone to brawl.

“Claire? Claire, is that you?”

At the sound of his voice I cry even harder. “Gray, help us! He’s bloody all over, his leg–” I drop the radio just in time to stop it from being hit by a spray of my vomit.

“Seelonce Distress,
San Clemente Control Bravo,” says Gray in a controlled tone.

I bow my head, weeping with gratitude at the two words “Seelonce Distress”–there’s no way Gray would call for an immediate halt to all other traffic on the channel if he didn’t believe me.

“Claire-Bo, I’m putting a medic on,” he says. “He’s going to walk you through some first aid, okay?”

I wipe my mouth off with the back of my hand and key the radio. “Gray, help me, please! I don’t know what to do! I think he’s–”

“I’m on my way, okay? I’m on–”

There’s a lot of clattering and then another voice comes on. “Claire, this is HM2 Motsenbacher at San Clemente Control. Can you tell me if he’s breathing? Can you feel air coming out of his mouth? Is his chest moving up and down? Over.”

I hover my hand over Davin’s lips. Nothing. I bend down, putting my cheek near his mouth.

“I don’t know! I think he’s breathing a little. I can’t tell!”

“Claire, just stay calm. Lieutenant Commander Grayson has an emergency ground crew and a helicopter headed your way. They’ll be there in less than ten minutes.”

“He’s bleeding everywhere! I think he got hit by a bomb!”

“Can you tell where the blood is coming from? You might have to remove his clothing.”

“It’s not coming out–it’s not–” I stutter. “It’s old blood!” I finally manage to say. “It’s dried! I think he’s been here...” I start blubbering incoherently, unable to add the words “for two days.”

“Okay, okay. If you see any fresh blood, try to put direct pressure on it. Over.”

“I–his shirt,” I say, all I can get out before I start dry heaving. I see spots in front of my eyes.
Pull it together, Claire-Bo
, I think.
Before you faint
. “His shirt is stuck to his skin! It’s all dried blood!” I take a deep breath and look down below the hem of Davin’s bloody shorts. “I can see his leg bone. He–I think he tried to wrap it.”

“Claire, do you know how to take a pulse? Over.”

“No!”

I follow his directions, putting my index and middle fingers on his neck next to his Adam’s apple. I press down and hold my breath. It’s not much, but I’m certain I feel a fluttering rhythm. “I think so. It’s not –I can barely feel it. God, please hurry!”

“They’re on their way. Just a few minutes now, Claire. Just sit tight. Over.”

I hear a murmur and look down. Davin’s eyes are open, and one of them is looking at me. The other one appears to be on the lookout for the medical team at the top of the crater. The whites of his eyes aren’t, well, white, but shot through with bloody splotches.

“Davin?”

“Clll…”

I think he’s trying to say my name, but he gives up. His lips are cracked and bleeding, his tongue swollen.
How long has it been since he’s had–
I look around the crater, but there’s no sign of a backpack, a radio, or any of the other basic equipment that Davin would normally take on a Clemente excursion.

“Davin, it’s going to be okay! Gray’s going to be here any second!” I spin around to my pack, shaking out the contents, looking for my water bottle. It hits the ground with a
thump
. I pull off the cap and accidentally drop it. It rolls a few feet away. I scuttle across the dirt for it, knowing there’s nothing else I can use to get water into his mouth.

I try to hold my hand steady, but most of the water slops onto the ground. I’m trying to put a few drops into his mouth using the cap when I hear the roar of an engine. I drop everything and drag myself up the side of the crater using the weeds growing from the sides. Then I get to my feet and wave my hands over my head.

The driver of the beefed-up ambulance-slash-all-terrain vehicle sees me, altering his course, and nailing the accelerator, churning a cloud of dirt into the air behind him. I spot an orange and white Coast Guard helicopter rising above the slopes to the north, heading our way.

I scramble back into the crater, sliding down the side and crawling on my hands and knees back to Davin. His eyes are closed again. I grab his hand. “Davin, Gray’s here, okay? You’re going to be fine!”

Above me, I hear Gray shouting to someone. “Set up the LZ there, two hundred yards, tell them to prepare for immediate transport! Radio control, confirm all operations halted and the range is cold.” He leaps over the edge of the crater, landing, rolling, and jumping back to his feet, just in time to catch two camouflage canvas packs with large red crosses on them being hoisted over the side.

I’ve never seen Gray in anything but swim trunks, t-shirts and shorts. I hardly recognize the guy in his khaki-colored military uniform, bars and ribbons of every color in the rainbow covering the left side of his shirt, just under the collar. He drags the bags to where I’m squatting, still holding Davin’s hand.

“Move, Claire!” he shouts at me. He sees the whole picture then, sees Davin the way I’ve seen him for ten minutes, and freezes. “Oh. Oh, shit.”

The pack-thrower slides down the incline on his rump, hitting the bottom of the crater running. I see he already has latex gloves on his hands. “Commander!” he shouts at Gray. “Need the c-collar, sir!” He points at me. “You! Get over here, hold his head like this.” I kneel down and do what he shows me, holding Davin’s head on either side. “Don’t let him turn his head!”

More people flood into the crater, one of them holding a long, wooden board with straps attached. “Bird’s on the ground, sir!” he shouts at Gray. “Ready to transport!”

I don’t know how these people do it, but all sorts of stuff–gauze, IV fluid bags, plastic tubing, syringes–fly through the air, everything caught at precisely the right moment by someone else. Everyone shouts medical verbiage seemingly at random. Somehow, five people, their ten hands moving in a blur, simultaneously start an IV, wrap his broken leg in some kind of inflatable device, and roll him to the side to position a backboard under him. It’s like the synchronized swimming of emergency medical care.

“Let’s go!” Gray yells.

Two guys line up on either side and hoist the board up. Davin is still unconscious, his arms crossed over his chest and tied down. He’s secured so tightly to the board that he doesn’t even slide when they tilt it to haul him up the side of the crater. Once they’re at the top, they head for the helicopter at a dead-run, leaving me and Gray hunched over, panting for air.

Gray lifts his head. “How’d you find him, Claire? Me and–” He stops. “Everyone’s been looking for him.”

“He’s going to die, isn’t he?” I start to cry again.

He stands up and wipes sweat from his forehead. “God, I hope not, or this is all going to be a little hard to explain.”

“He was in that hole for
two days
! He didn’t even have
water
!
You and Rev left him there to die!”

He blinks in surprise. “C’mon Claire-Bo. You know that’s not true. Why the hell would we do that?”

“He’s going to die, isn’t he?” I know I’m rambling and incoherent, but I don’t care. I don’t care about much anymore.

Gray sinks down to the ground and looks at his watch. I drop down beside him. He puts his left arm around me and keys the handheld with his right hand. “Mayday all stations, all stations, all stations, this is San Clemente Control Bravo, fourteen-sixteen hours, San Clemente medical emergency distress traffic ended. Seelonce Feenee.” His eyes dart in my direction as he adds, “Repeat, Seelonce Feenee, out.” He tosses the radio a few feet away and pulls me closer to him, rubbing my arm.