Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 811 & 812, March/April 2009

“Why would you think I’d sleep here?” I asked, forcing out something like a laugh. I looked around, hoping it would seem mere puzzlement, afraid he’d know I was looking for places to hide. There was no brush, just those empty slopes and small, dead-end mines, little more than crumbling holes reeking of chlorine gas.

“You must be tired,” he answered.

I didn’t ask how he knew I wasn’t sleeping. I said, “It’s not that long a walk.” Though it seemed as far away as home, to get back to the road.

“That’s good,” he said. He was still smiling. God, I thought, my brain flailing around for something to think that wasn’t a nightmare come to waking, walking life, his face must be getting sore, smiling that much. And quick as that, it changed, his expression going sad and sympathetic. “It would be a shame to get lost,” he said, “going from one place to another.” He flicked his hand through the hot, quiet air. “Like some of these folks did, far as we can tell. Earth could have just swallowed them up.”

“No,” I said, “they would have had family, people waiting for them.”

“Maybe.” But he shook his head. “No way to know, not for sure.”

I hadn’t moved, except to take my hands out of my pockets, let them hang, empty. The Mace was in my pack there by his feet, if he hadn’t taken it out already. He’d had time to go through everything I’d carried up with me — water, protein bars, sunscreen, guidebook, keys, my wallet.

“Nowadays, of course,” he said, pulling his own pack onto his lap, opening one of the small flaps on the side, “anyone goes missing, especially someone with a family that loves them, there’s a search.” He took out a man’s wallet, flipped it open. “Did I tell you at dinner that I’m a volunteer with the Search and Rescue team back home? Here’s my ID for it.” He held out a worn card with some kind of insignia on it. When I didn’t come closer to look at it, he shrugged, slipped it back in. “I’m usually the liaison with the family. I help keep them informed, and offer support. I keep an eye on them. It’s what we’d want for our families, isn’t it, if anything happened to us?” His smile was back.

“You have a family?” I asked. Maybe he’d keep talking, nothing bad could happen while he was talking. Maybe someone would come up the trail, though it didn’t look like anyone had been here for months. Maybe I could decide what to do, maybe I could get my feet to move. How could they feel like ice when sweat was burning on my neck, sliding down my back?

“Of course,” he said. “Don’t we all? Though we’re maybe not as lucky as you. Do you think the twins will take after Jenny or her husband?”

And then I could move, because he took something else from his wallet, held it out to me, and, like he must have expected, I reached for it. It was the small picture of them I’d had in my wallet, Jenny leaning against Dan, his arms around her, keeping her safe. But with my next steps, I stumbled off to the side, dodging from the hand I was sure was reaching for me. I lunged not for the photograph, but for part of the machine that had fallen, a heavy bar lying loose. I grabbed it, swung it around without time to look, heard the sound of bones breaking...

I guess I was lucky. I don’t know if what I did killed him, or if it happened when he fell back against the machine. Either way, it was done. Just like that.

I scrambled over to the side of the house and huddled, shaking with cold that felt real despite all outer evidence to the contrary. The sun was high overhead and the shadows had sunk to almost nothing. I never considered going for help, or telling the authorities. I couldn’t justify what I’d done to myself, much less to anyone else. Finally I stood and picked up the bar again. It felt light now — impossible that it could have done much damage — and I scrubbed it with dirt, then shoved it far as I could into the sand-filled space under the house set furthest away. I held on to Frank by his wrists, dragged his body over to the mouth of the mine, and slid him in as if he’d been peering into the darkness, and fallen.

I looked through his wallet, which he’d dropped to the dirt when I hit him. The main ID wasn’t for Frank Ross, nor were either of the two additional IDs that I found slid behind a back flap. There were three necklaces, delicate gold chains, one with a cross no bigger than the nail on my little finger, the other two chains dangling heart-shaped lockets. I pried them open with the edge of one of his driver’s licenses. Curls of soft, pale hair in each, and tiny photos. A fat-cheeked baby. A young boy. The entwined initials on the front of each locket matched none of the IDs.

Looking at the remnants of lives. Wondering what was left of my life. How much was left after I’d saved it — if I had.