Tag Against Time (19 page)

Tag stared at the rifle barrel. His heart beat so hard it hurt.

“Where is Robert?” Slash yelled.

“He got stuck somewhere.”

“You're lying!” Slash started down toward Tag. “You're going to show me where he . . .” His foot stubbed a rock, and he stumbled downward. Tag swung the radio full-force into his face. The rifle went off an inch from Tag's head. A flash of white heat seared his ear.

The blast's echo rang through Tag's head as he ran into the thick pines. He couldn't even hear his own feet pounding the ground, as his mind swirled in confusion and pain. He couldn't think straight with the roar of the gun thundering in his head.
Got to get help. No, got to get away from Slash
.

Red and blue lights exploded in his eyes.

Got to keep running!
He shook his head trying to clear the ringing out of his ears and the flashing lights out of his eyes.
His head throbbed with pain. Lights flashed everywhere. In confusion, Tag kept running.

Suddenly, high whining blares screamed through the sound of the gun's thunder. Looking through the trees toward the parking lot, Tag saw two, three, no four cop cars careening into the parking lot. Car doors flew open and officers barreled out, hands on their guns.

“Are you sure you know where you are going?” Snyder, a deputy sheriff, asked as Tag started off the Island Trail. The sheriff's late-forties-belly hung over his thick gun belt. Long, gray sideburns sprouted out from under his brown western hat with a Coconino County Sheriff patch on the front. Snyder had taken an instant dislike to Tag.

“Just follow him, Snyder,” said a young Flagstaff policeman, named Wells. In his early twenties, he looked like a runner, lean and rugged. On his broad shoulders, he hauled a huge first aid bag. He flashed his high-intensity flashlight into Snyder's face. “You've already wasted too much time asking questions. O'Farrell is down there bleeding to death. Why can't you believe anyone younger than forty?”

“The same reason you don't trust anyone over thirty,” snapped Snyder.

Tag had talked hard and fast to explain things. Only Officer Wells believed him. An ambulance was called after what seemed like an eternity. Now, the two Arizona Highway Patrolmen searched for Slash, while he led the other two officers down into the canyon.

“What were you doing here this time of night?” asked Snyder. In his flashlight's gleam, he carefully picked his way
down the side of the canyon. “Doing some pothunting of your own?”

Tag didn't answer, just hurried faster. Goose bumps of cold and fear pricked his bare back and chest. Gary had to be still alive. He just had to be.
Please Taawa, let him be alive
.

“How do you know about my great-grandfather, Sean O'Farrell?” Gary asked, looking up at Tag. In the moonlight, his eyes looked like black holes in his pale face.

“Get out of the way so Wells can start working on him.” Snyder grabbed Tag by the back of his neck and led him a few feet away. “I'm going back up to bring the paramedics down.” His handcuffs jingled as he pulled them out.

“Don't waste time cuffing him. He's not under arrest,” Wells ordered. “Get up there and get the paramedics!”

Snyder pointed at Tag. “You sit down right here on this rock, and don't you move an inch. You still have a lot of questions to answer, punk”

Tag watched Snyder climb out of sight. He hurried over to Wells, kneeling over Gary. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Pray Snyder can find his way back here.” Wells' flashlight, stuck in a crook of a tree, illuminated Gary. He was unconscious.

“Is he going to be okay?” Tag knelt beside Wells.

“I'm doing everything I can, but he's lost a lot of blood, maybe too much.” Wells turned his attention back to Gary.

Tag knew there was nothing more he could do for Sean's great-grandson. He picked up his backpack, walked back toward his appointed rock, and just kept going into the shadows of the night.

Only a few stars blinked. The air smelled of rain. How long had the storm been building up? Tag had been too busy
dealing with Robert, Slash, and the others to notice. “Great time for a storm,” he growled, looking up the face of the cliff. A cloud slipped over the moon. Tag couldn't see a foot above him.

Tears stung Tag's eyes. Weariness pressed down on his shoulders. His stomach growled in hunger. As the reality of the last hour began taking its toll, Tag shook uncontrollably and tears streamed down his face.

Thunder rolled off the San Francisco Peaks.

“I want to go home, Taawa!” Tag cried. “Please just let me go home!”

Lightning flashed through the clouds, illuminating the canyon. Thunder followed close behind.

Tag fumbled as he opened his backpack and dug around the paho and sandals for the pencil-sized flashlight.
Please let it work
. He flipped the switch. A thin, bright beam pierced the darkness.
Thank you, Taawa
. Tag slipped the pack on his back.

Lightning filled the canyon, and thunder echoed through it.

Tag aimed the beam of light up the cliff till he saw the first finger-hold just above his head. He positioned the small flashlight in his mouth and reached up to the notch, trying to aim the light so he could see.

I can't believe I am doing this!

He saw the next hold in the illumination of lightning. His neck cramped as he tried to shine the flashlight up to see the next notch.

A clap of thunder shook the air.

Goose bumps sprang up on his bare back and worked their way down his arms. He pulled himself up, feeling for the
toeholds. With a high-pitched screech, something furry brushed against his cheek.

Tag screamed. The flashlight fell. His forehead banged against the limestone, as he plummeted downward.

He heard voices. They sounded blurred, as if they were under water. He tried to open his eyes, but they were too heavy. Every bone in his body ached, and pain seared through his head. Too tired, he slipped back into the security and warmth of nothingness.

Pizza—pepperoni and onion! The aroma was unmistakable even in his hazy, drifting state. His stomach doubled up in anticipation. He felt his mouth watering as his mind floated nowhere. Light glimmered through his closed lids, penetrating his mind. He tried to open his eyes. Lead. The fragrance of pizza attacked his nose. Far away, voices faded in an out.

“I thought you'd like some decent food, Gary.”

“The pizza tastes wonderful but don't let the nurse see it, Grandpa.”

“We'll make it disappear before she comes back.”

He put every once of strength and concentration into forcing his eyes open. Bright lights made him shut them again. He tried to reach up and cover them, but his hand wouldn't move. The pepperoni smell was fading.

“Grandpa, do you want the last piece? I'm stuffed.”

“I want it!” He managed to get the words out of his mouth somehow, or at least he thought he did. He fought against the light to open his eyes and keep them open. Things were fuzzy, like his mind. Everything had a drab green color.
His stomach flipped and flopped, hungry, yet nauseous, at the same time. His vision sharpened. An older man stood over him.

“You want some pizza?” The man had curly sandy-gray hair and a short reddish-gray beard. His steel-blue eyes were softened by bushy, reddish eyebrows.

He nodded. His forehead felt big. He tried to reach up and touch it but his arm wouldn't move. He looked down at it. A strap held it down. A clear plastic tube crawled out from a bandage on his forearm and traveled up to a plastic bottle hanging from a stand next to the bed. Panic set in. A strap held down his other arm, too.

“It's okay,” the man said in a calm voice. He freed Tag's right arm. “They needed to keep your arm still so you wouldn't pull out the tubes while you were unconscious.”

He looked from his arm to the man. “Where are we?”

“Flagstaff Hospital. How are you feeling?”

Before he could answer, someone said, “Grandpa, we'd better ring for a nurse. They said to let them know the minute he came around.”

The man turned away to answer. “We will in just a minute, Gary. I just want to talk to him first.”

He saw the other bed now. A young man with brilliant copper hair looked back at him and smiled. His face was speckled with freckles, making him look younger than he was. “Please excuse my grandfather. He's a lawyer and always needs to cross-exam everyone he meets.”

“Well, this young man is going to need a good lawyer!” The man turned back to him. “I am Michael T. O'Farrell. We have met before, if I'm not mistaken. Of course, you know my grandson, Gary. Thank you for saving his hide.”

He stared at the chunky man dressed in blue jeans and blue button-down shirt. The man looked at least sixty or older. His face appeared wrinkled not only by age, but by the sun. Michael T. O'Farrell seemed like the typical grandpa-type, warm and friendly, but with a definite
lawyer
air about him.

He didn't recognize Mr. O'Farrell. He shook his head. Pain rammed his brain. He touched his forehead and felt a huge bandage on it. A sick feeling replaced his hunger. He stared at Gary, lying on the other bed. It was easy to see the two men were related. Both looked at the world with the same intense blue eyes. A small, dome tent device covered Gary's leg. He wondered what happened to his leg. He looked back at Mr. O'Farrell. “I'm sorry, but I don't remember either of you.”

“That's okay, son. Can you remember how you got here? No?”

“You don't remember going to get help after I was shot at Walnut Canyon?” Gary asked, leaning forward in his bed. “Or falling?”

“Walnut Canyon?” He tried to remember. Nothing came, nothing.

Mr. O'Farrell touched his arm. “Son, can you tell us your name?”

Fear curled through his mind. He tried harder to concentrate, to break through the pain zapping around in his head. Nothing came. No name. No address. No telephone number. Absolutely nothing.

Tears clouded his vision. “Who am I?”