Meadowlarks by Thomas Holladay (novels to improve english TXT) 📗

head, more secure and higher up on his torso. He dug into his tool box, found his repelling harness and buckled it on. He grabbed his cotton rope and closed both doors.

He returned to the broken rail, tied one end of the rope to a steel brace and tossed the rest of the rope toward the far side of the boulder blocking Gilpin's truck. The rope played out downstream, way past Gilpin’s half submerged truck.

Gilpin might have lost control and driven off the bridge. He could still be alive.

Nason knew he should go for help, Embry's ranch just across the road, but every second might make the difference between life and death. Hyperthermia was funny that way, who it killed and who lived couldn’t be predicted.

He stepped back and looped rope into his d-ring, two loops. No need to take chances.

“Christ.” He hated repelling through open space. Running down the face of a building or cliff could be fun.

He ducked under the cable and leaned out over water. He held rope at his hip with his right hand to control his fall and held rope high with his left hand to keep his upper body from flipping down. He loosened his right hand grip and rope slid through the d-ring until his torso passed horizontal. He kicked out and let the rope slide, tightening his left hand to come back to vertical. His body swung in, his head neared the under structure of the bridge and he released more rope. He tightened his grip, stopped sliding and swung in the open space under the bridge. After three more drops, his feet reached the fast moving water and turned his body, looking downstream.

“Dammit.” His shout echoed above the roar of rushing water, bouncing off the stone walls of the canyon. In his exhausted state, he hadn’t planned well.

Gilpin’s truck lay several feet to his left and he didn’t have the strength to climb back up and reset the rope. He needed to work his way through the current. He let out more rope until his feet found rocks in knee deep water.

Good enough.

He eased out a little more rope, still on solid footing, and inched his way over algae slick rocks, keeping his grip on the rope with his left hand, struggling in the swift current. His right hand searched for something to grab. He reached the back of Gilpin’s truck and grabbed the bed rail with both hands, working his way toward the cab.

He looked back up at the bridge.

Sweet Jesus!

How would he get back up to the bridge?

Cold river water pressed into his legs. Shivers would soon follow.

The roof of Gilpin's truck stuck straight up in the air, ripped open at the top of the windshield. The passenger door remained above water. He held onto the truck bed rail and looked inside.

“Sweet Jesus.”

Gilpin’s decapitated body sat behind the steering wheel with the torso split open, same as the others. Minnows swam in the still water inside the cab, swimming in and out of Gilpin's open chest cavity. His severed head floated in the space under the dash. His iced over eyes stared back at Nason.

Nason shuddered, stepped back and slipped. His legs churned, blindly searching for a foothold. His waders filled quickly with freezing water. The cold shock stopped his breathing and rope slid through the d-ring.

He gritted his teeth against the cold and struggled against the current, desperately trying to grab rope. The waders dragged like a parachute in high wind, pulling him downstream like a heavy anchor.

“Damn all Gilpins, forever!”

Chapter Sixteen

Memorial services were held at the Rock at 11:00am on Tuesday. The school closed that day and everyone in the valley came to show their respects, everyone except Willis Donner. For the first time in their long relationship, Olen Jacobsen felt a black clump forming around his heart. He felt suddenly happy that Willis Donner never attended church. He’d always thought it odd before, that this man would never enter into a building he had built with his own hands.

I hope I never see him again.

Phil Nason stood up front, red nose and watery eyes, sporting a nasty cold, a very rare thing here. He’d nearly drowned in the river on Saturday morning. He'd needed to climb out of the river in the forest near the falls, far below Gilpin’s bridge. He'd walked all the way back to the Potter house through deep, ice crusted snow. He’d lost his waders and sprained his back pretty bad, still bending sideways a little when he walked, limping from badly bruised feet.

Thank you Phil.

Olen would never have expected him to come in such a condition.

John Crow stood in his usual place against the back wall, his slender frame much taller than the rest, showing his respect, maybe not for Helfred or Gilpin, but for Olen.

I like John for that.

Everybody had dressed in their traditional black, their Moon Sunday attire.

Fitting.

They all said these costumes were to show their submission before God but Olen thought it might be something else, maybe a fearful tribute to that thing. Whatever their reasons might be on Moon Sundays, these costumes would always be appropriate for funerals.

Strange how meadowlarks only came to church on Moon Sunday’s, all lined up along the roof ridge with everybody inside dressed in black.

Are they up there today?

He hadn't noticed. He'd look when they went outside, get his eyes up off the ground.

Vicar Twilby's wordless voice hummed in the background, mingling with his memories of Helfred, all those happy moments before Gustov got taken. Olen could actually hear Helfred's contagious laugh, playing with Gus in their rooms above the store.

During their first winter here, they'd watched Willis sketch out his early planning for the store. Was Willis who'd suggested naming it Jacobsen’s Emporium.

Willis.

Try as he had, the black clump around Olen’s heart couldn't push Willis out.

Helfred’s smile came back into focus, remembering their early optimism, their passionate love for each other, their passionate love for this place. The rush