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Four climbers, this was the way it was done. In that way, Tucker would be
absorbed into the tribe. By using his gear in their climbing, Tucker would be
climbing, too.
"Like hell," Bullseye snapped.
"All right already," the other voice backpedaled. John heard the heavy steel
carabiner plop back onto the pile.
"Maybe we ought to wait," someone suggested.
"Wait for what?"
"I mean they haven't even found him yet. It seems like not very decent to..."
John was stunned. They hadn't found Tucker. But that was impossible. There
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Jeff Long - Angels of Light have been twenty or thirty people up there for the
last three days, and Half Dome was no more than half a mile across. If they
hadn't found him, where had he gone?
"He cratered, man. He's not gonna use this stuff again. It's spoils."
Then a darker, angrier voice stopped the hubbub. "Where's Coloradas?" it
demanded. Kresinki had arrived. "Time to get us some answers."
"Hey, Johnny," someone called at the tent.
John was terrified. Trapped. But he had to face them. He reached for the door
zipper and pulled it down. The shapes quit dancing on his tent wall. The
silence felt like a deep, deep pit. He hauled himself free of the tent and,
with some difficulty because of the infected leg, pushed to his feet. Over at
the neighboring site the lantern hung from a tree branch, casting a brilliant
white glow and making everyone's face stark and morbid. The table was heaped
high with gear, among which John detected the ragged shreds of his and Tuck's
old haul bag. Some of the climbers had pieces of equipment or magazines in
their hands, examining or arranging it all on the table.
The magazines, John noted with a glance, were from Tucker's Silver Surfer
comic book collection. Everyone paused to watch John gimp from the tent to his
table where Kresinski and Bullseye were sitting with a pot of water on a
cooker, waiting for him. Bullseye had evidently already taken his choice of
Tucker's effects. He was wearing the big leather jacket that Tucker had found
in his cave high above the lake.
Now John understood why no park rangers had visited over the last few days to
question him and file a report on the incident: No one had informed the
rangers. In typical fashion, Camp Four had decided to take care of one of its
own its own way, only this time around the process had gone sour. The idea was
to retrieve and honor
Tucker, and only then make an accounting to the Park Service.
They, not the rangers, would bring him out to the world. In the past, such
voluntary body evacs had served to show that the climbers took their tragedies
seriously. It also emphasized that the walls were their turf. But the search
had failed. An ordinary tragedy had turned extraordinary, and the climbers
wanted to know what had gone so wrong that they couldn't even track down a
body. Trusting John, they'd swarmed off to find Tucker, but hadn't. Now the
park cops would get involved. The rangers would trespass on territory that
wasn't theirs, and that made the climbers angry. John sensed their hostility.
This was no wake. It was an inquisition. No one helped him stand up. No one
offered a hand when he limped over to the table. Even Bullseye looked stern
and distant.
"Should have done this to start with," Kresinski growled at him. "But Bullseye
said cut you slack. Let you sleep. So I did. You were talkin' crazy and
Bullseye said let's check it out. Fuck of a lot of good that did us. Hoppin'
round through the bush up there. Checkin' treetops. Pickin' up your gear. Now
you've slept, Johnny. Now where's Tucker at?" He paused for emphasis. "You
ditched him on the wall, didn't you?"
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John sat down with his right leg thrust out stiffly. He felt faint, but forced
himself to keep his head up. The truth was, he repulsed himself. He'd done
nothing wrong, and yet he felt like he must have. This gauntlet, the shame of
his filth, the pain of his cuts and fever he welcomed the punishments. He
welcomed Kresinski's questions because John wanted to know what had happened,
too, and maybe the blond, blue-
eyed son of a bitch could free him from his ignorance and confusion. He wanted
nothing more than to confess, for he'd lost Tucker. "I don't even know what I
told you," he said.
Kresinski looked over at Bullseye, who was studying the dirt. "Exactly what
your buddy said you'd say. Poor old John's out of his head. Cut you slack."
Bullseye broke in. "You said Tucker fell off the Visor. He finished the Visor.
And then he" Bullseye trailed off indecisively "died."
"Died?" Kresinski fumed. "Shit. You said the Kid got pushed. Got killed. You
said somebody killed Tucker."
"That's what I said?" breathed John. He prepared for the onslaught. "Well,
that's what happened."
"Somebody pushed the Kid off the Visor," Kresinski reiterated.
"Pushed. Kicked. Threw. I don't know. But Tuck didn't fall." John frowned. "He
didn't."
Kresinski looked at him hard, but John couldn't read behind the loathing.
Kresinski knew something, it seemed. But maybe that was a bluff. Or a
pretension. Ultimately, what did it matter? Everyone was in search of
something. Finally Kresinski let go of his eyes. "Ah, come on, man. The little
shit barely threw a shadow. Why would anyone go shove him off a mountain?"
"You talk too much," snapped Bullseye. "Just shut up."
"Sure. Sure thing. Tell me you believe this crap, I'll shut up."
Bullseye fell silent. There was a curious, defeated resignation on his face. A
complicity with his old enemy Kresinski. The two of them had obviously done a
lot of talking during the search for Tucker.
"It doesn't make sense to me, either," said John.
Kresinski bent in closer. "That's because you're a goddamn liar." Bullseye
seemed angry and embarrassed but didn't interrupt.
Et tu, John thought sadly. You couldn't blame him, though. Over at the other
table, climbers were chattering away, neatly lining up the gear for the final
pick-and-choose.
"Doesn't much matter what I say then," said John.
"How come we can't find your little buddy?" Kresinski pressed. "We found every
other damn thing down under the wall. The ropes you left. What was left of
your haul bag. Your last crap. We even found stuff climbers dropped twenty
years ago. But no
Tuck."
"It's the truth," Bullseye confirmed.
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Dobre pomysły nie mają przeszłości, mają tylko przyszłość. Robert Mallet
De minimis - o najmniejszych rzeczach.
Dobroć jest ważniejsza niż mądrość, a uznanie tej prawdy to pierwszy krok do mądrości. Theodore Isaac Rubin
Dobro to tylko to, co szlachetne, zło to tylko to, co haniebne.
Dla człowieka nie tylko świat otaczający jest zagadką; jest on nią sam dla siebie. I z obu tajemnic bardziej dręczącą wydaje się ta druga. Antoni Kępiński (1918-1972)
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