Over the Edge, page 1
OVER THE EDGE
A NOVEL
KATHLEEN BRYANT
To Richard, for making life more wonderful
CHAPTER
1
EARLY MORNING SUN warmed the sandstone cliffs around me, and from behind closed eyelids I sensed the orange glow. Even now, a promise of late June’s heat lit the edges of the breeze that brushed across my cheek and stirred the hair slipping from the loose twist I’d managed that morning in the dark. Hoping to ease into the meditation I’d skipped in order to get to my new job on time, I exhaled, then slowly breathed in the familiar tang of juniper and iron-rich dirt, along with a hint of the smoldering sage Teejay had used to greet the sun.
A towhee trilled and buzzed and, for a moment, I felt older than the juniper, nearly as ancient as the rocks, with a deep sense of belonging as though I knew how to shape a piece of chert or follow a mule deer on silent bare feet. Part of me recognized this feeling was key to fixing the brokenness that had brought me here to Sedona. Then I saw him again, real but not real, a slim and sinewy man scrambling over the red sandstone toward a spiral petroglyph and—quick as a flipped switch—the line between observer and participant blurred. Panicked, I pulled myself back from the vision and drew a shaky breath.
“Oh, wow. So cool. You getting this, Sarah? Yoga on the rocks—I’m gonna Instagram it.”
The voice yanked me firmly into the present. My eyes snapped open. Thirty-nine years old and auditioning for a seasonal gig as a tour guide, here I was in a nameless red rock canyon with two middle-aged suburbanites seeking adventure (so long as it didn’t require too much hiking or involve too many bugs), a Jeep painted the bright blue of a desert sky, and last, but certainly not least, Teejay, fellow guide and local poster boy for the exotic-but-approachable western male. He looked, I realized, a lot like the man from my vision.
“There’s no cell service!”
Missy’s wail floated up from below. She was the younger of the two women, or at least dressed that way, in a loose tank top and cutoffs so brief they made her tree pose iffy for social media sharing. Sarah was more modestly clad in long black leggings she would certainly come to regret as soon as the sun started angling deeper into the small box canyon.
“Del, would you take a shot of the three of us, please?” Sarah called up.
“On my way.” Regretful the respite from our chatty passengers was over so soon, I unwound from a half-lotus and brushed the red dirt from my bare legs, hearing Teejay’s rich chuckle. The ledge gave me a bird’s eye view of the women mugging for photographs.
I started back down the steep route I’d taken to my perch, thinking that if I’d been a college student on summer break, instead of a grown-up on a career break, this would be the perfect job. After all, I was getting paid to visit Sedona’s backcountry, a pastime that had become almost obsessive for me, and in the company of the local heartthrob. Friends had assured me leading Jeep tours offered the most money I could hope for in Sedona’s tourist economy. I needed the cash. Journalists didn’t get pensions, and disgraced reporters were more likely to get a swift kick out the door.
Slowing to negotiate a section of loose rock, aware the small stones would skitter like ball bearings if I wasn’t careful, I paused to gauge the remaining route down to the canyon floor. Though I couldn’t be positive from nearly thirty feet away, I was pretty sure Missy’s red-lacquered fingertips had wound themselves around Teejay’s bicep. In that moment, it hit me I would never rake in the tips he counted on to cover the rent for his RV space along Oak Creek.
This was my second week of ride-alongs, learning different routes and memorizing Teejay’s relaxed patter over the intercom as he pointed out sights or patiently explained why the rocks were red. Blue Sky Expeditions was one of a handful of off-road excursion companies that advertised adventure with racks of brochures in hotel lobbies and gift shops. What distinguished ours from the rest was its cover photo of Teejay—a brilliant bit of marketing from Blue Sky’s otherwise lackadaisical owner.
Even now, standing among the pale dried grasses and chaparral, Teejay was a match for his cover shot, wearing jeans so worn they were almost white and a plaid shirt with its sleeves torn off. He carried his two-way radio at his hip like a gunslinger, but he’d removed his concha-trimmed gambler’s hat for Sarah’s photo, his black hair pulled back neatly, then wrapped with a leather cord, emphasizing his cheekbones. Imitation—or in this case, cultural appropriation—was the sincerest form of flattery. Though he might look like a filmmaker’s idea of a modern Navajo, I happened to know Teejay was the grandson of Italian immigrants to the Midwest and that his given name was Timothy Joseph Mattea. Other than that, he was something of a mystery, and I assumed that, like many Sedona transplants, myself included, he preferred to leave the past in the past.
“You coming, Delilah?”
Only Teejay called me by my full name. I resisted the temptation to needle him back. Though we’d become friends—sort of—before I signed on with Blue Sky, he was now essentially my supervisor, and I’d learned the hard way not to let professional relationships turn personal.
“Almost there.” My right boot launched a stone over the edge.
The sharp thud reverberated across the canyon, and I glanced up to see a human form disappear around a blockish boulder. Before I had time to worry my visions were becoming full-blown hallucinations, my gaze landed on a shadowy alcove. I paused to allow my eyes to adjust and saw it wasn’t an alcove after all, though I knew the ancients had once sheltered deeper in this box canyon, leaving behind a small masonry room and a roasting pit.
The sun, stronger now, lit the higher ledge and the shadow that shouldn’t be there, its edges soft and organic against the fractured rock. Instinct—and memory—knotted my stomach. The shadow looked like …
“Hey, Delilah! Time to go.”
I scrambled the rest of the way down on shaky legs, numbly accepting the phone Sarah handed me and taking the requested photo. Teejay had replaced his hat, but even though the flat brim shaded his eyes, I could tell he registered my distress. I shook my head slightly, and he seemed to get the message.
“What’s next?” Missy whipped out our brochure from her waist pack and waved it in my direction. “We’ve done the sage smudging and sunrise ceremony. Are we going to a vortex? We need to be back at the resort for our herbal wraps by ten.”
“Um,” I offered, grateful when Teejay stepped in.
“We can make a quick stop at the Chimney Rock vortex. It’s powerful. Photogenic, too.”
He shot me a warning look, and I played along. First, no vortex waited at Chimney Rock, only a relatively short Jeep ride and a quick return to Missy and Sarah’s hotel. And second, Teejay was more likely to tell tourists the only vortexes in Sedona were the magnetic forces that pulled people’s credit cards from their wallets. I tended to agree, though I had a feeling Steve Nicholson, Blue Sky’s owner and a childhood friend of mine, wouldn’t endorse that line, no matter how hands-off his style.
Teejay let the women walk ahead, their voices fading as they neared the tall stand of cottonwoods that screened the canyon from anyone traveling by on the dirt forest road. Below the trees, two or three vehicles could squeeze in next to an earthen stock tank. The dried-up tank, a few strands of rusted barbed wire, and some grayed and splintered wood from an old cattle chute were the only signs of the site’s historic use as a corral. Though the box canyon didn’t offer a thrill ride or a scenic panorama like Soldiers Pass or Chicken Point, where larger tour companies operated, it suited our small outfit’s reputation for focusing on personal reflection and cultural history.
“What’s wrong?” Teejay asked quietly when the women were out of sight.
“There’s something—someone—up there.” I nodded toward the cliff. “Next to that lone piñon. It looks like fabric.”
He squinted at the ledge. “Campsite? Sleeping bag or backpack, maybe?”
“Too far from town, don’t you think?”
Sedona was surrounded by thousands of acres of Coconino National Forest, which allowed at-large camping for two weeks at a stretch, a limit sometimes overlooked by enforcement rangers, who had their hands full with things like wildcat tours, trash dumping, and resource damage. Thus, the local unhoused population stayed almost invisible, many choosing hidden spots near neighborhoods, where they could easily walk or hitch to find food, water, or a place to clean up.
“We better check it out.” Teejay’s wary expression reflected my own reluctance to investigate the nonshadow, but in his case, duty won. He handed over the keys. “Get the binoculars out of the Jeep. And see if you can convince Missy and Sarah to stay there.”
“Ha. I’ll try.”
As I approached, the women’s voices rose. With the imposed quiet of the sunrise ceremony behind them, they seemed impatient for the next stage in their adventure. Between the Jeep and the tank, currently a rain-parched basin of cracked clay, I spotted a plastic grocery bag impaled in a patch of catclaw bushes, a sight so common our drivers joked about crumpled plastic being Arizona’s official cactus flower. Inspired, I gave Missy and Sarah a lame excuse about needing a couple of minutes to clean up some trash I’d found deeper in the canyon and asked them to wait a little longer. They looked skeptical, so I also mentioned rattlesnakes. Their wide-eyed expressions reassured me they’d stick close by.
I walked back into the canyon with the binoculars slung across my torso, catching up to Teejay, who’d already scrambled halfway up to the ledge where I’d been sitting. We climb
The ground swayed below my feet as my legs turned rubbery. Teejay grabbed the waistband of my cargo shorts to steady me, taking the binoculars with his other hand.
My heartbeat whooshed loudly in my ears, muffling my voice. “You don’t need to look. He’s dead.”
I read the question on his lips. “Who?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s Franklin.” The flaming red hair and bushy beard were unmistakable. “Looks like he fell. His head—” My throat felt too thick to get the words out.
Teejay lifted the binoculars anyway. He focused, and the moment he recognized the old army jacket, the red hair, his fingers tightened. He handed back the binoculars, his face grim, and pulled out his radio. “Go back to the Jeep and get them out of here.”
The buzzing in my ears receded, and the sound of women’s voices floated up. I scanned the trail below. Missy and Sarah were making their way slowly back into the canyon, poking under rocks and bushes with a pair of long branches.
“What the hell are they doing?”
“Scaring snakes, I think.”
He snorted. “Don’t say anything to them. I’ll radio dispatch and wait here for the rescue crew.”
“I’ll drive them around the loop.” I referred to a network of unpaved forest roads that circled west before leading back to Sedona. “Less likely we’ll run into any emergency vehicles.”
“Good plan.” He looked toward the opposite ledge, assessing, and I remembered Teejay was an experienced climber, often called on to assist the county’s backcountry rescue team. “They’ll probably send a chopper to short-haul him out.”
He was already on the radio as I started to pick my way back down for the second time that morning. Still a bit wobbly, I placed a palm on the canyon wall to steady myself and took one last glance backward. I tried to pinpoint a route leading from the canyon trail to the ledge where Franklin’s body lay. He must have slipped trying to find a way up.
It was an accident, of course. How could it be anything else?
* * *
After dropping Missy and Sarah at their hotel, I returned the Jeep to Blue Sky’s modest headquarters. Sightseeing tours had morphed into a multimillion-dollar industry over the years, with mom-and-pop businesses consolidating or selling out to corporate owners. Blue Sky Expeditions hung on with a handful of drivers and a ragtag fleet. The larger outfitters boasted comfortable guest reception centers in Uptown’s tourist hub; Blue Sky’s call center and garage were crammed into a small concrete block building a half mile up Airport Road in West Sedona.
Our drivers typically used the time between tours to clean their vehicles, but when I reached for a hose to sluice off the red dust, Arnulfo Flores, the company mechanic, took it from me, shaking his head.
“I’ll wash it.” He was a man of few words, but his brown eyes were sympathetic. Apparently, the news had traveled.
When I opened the door that connected the garage to the call center via a wide hallway, the clamor of voices and ringing phones rolled toward me like a physical force. More shaken than I wanted to admit, I stopped to lean against the counter that served as our break area and wondered again what the hell I was doing here.
Not just here at Blue Sky, but here, in Sedona. As a child, I’d found freedom and refuge in the red rock canyons and buttes. As an adult, I understood escape wasn’t that easy. Trouble seemed to follow me, as silent-footed as a mountain lion.
I straightened and pasted on a smile for Megan Ramirez, Blue Sky’s youngest driver, who stopped to hug me briefly on her way to the garage.
“You okay, Del?” Her bouncy dark-brown ponytail brushed my cheek as she stepped back and peered at me.
I nodded.
“Gina told me what happened. I’m taking over Teejay’s Schnebly Hill tour. Only four guests today—plenty of room for you to ride along, blow out the jitters.” She jangled a set of keys as though to entice me.
“Thanks, but I think I’ll stick around here. Grab a training manual, brush up on my geology.”
She wrinkled her nose. “As Evan would say”—she pitched her voice lower and added a drawl—“a degree from MSU—making shit up—doesn’t cut it here.”
“Hey now, little sister, no bad-mouthing me behind my back.”
Caught like a pair of naughty schoolkids, we spun around as Evan Zeigler, retired Forest Service ranger turned tour guide, strolled down the hallway to refill his insulated mug from the coffee maker on the counter. Drawing on his decades of experience, Evan had helped Teejay assemble the ridiculously fat three-ring binder of training materials that covered everything from archaeology to first aid.
Like a lot of people who watched Jeep guides zipping around in rainbow-colored vehicles as they regaled tourists with true facts and tall tales, I’d assumed landing the job would be a snap. The competition turned out to be fierce, but lucky for me, I had connections. I’d known Steve Nicholson, Blue Sky’s absentee owner, since childhood. What I hadn’t known was the connection could have just as easily worked against me. Steve put a minimum of effort into the business his grandparents had started, spending most of his time kiteboarding on Maui and leaving day-to-day decisions to Teejay, the company manager in all but name.
While Teejay acted as boss, Evan, with his silver hair and military posture, was our unofficial role model. Born and raised in east Texas, he’d worked all over the West as a Forest Service botanist. He dressed the part, sticking to ranger-esque garb, favoring a western-style straw hat, his sage green cargo pants and khaki shirts always neatly pressed. During my first few days on the job, I’d shadowed him to learn the names of spring wildflowers before they faded under the June sun. I’d also learned his patient demeanor was spiked with a wicked sense of humor.
“You okay, Del?” He unconsciously echoed Megan. “I’ve seen some crazy stuff out there in the canyons, but a dead body sure does top ’em all.”
“I’m fine.” I waved at Megan as she departed, then gratefully accepted the cup of coffee Evan held out. My nerves didn’t need the caffeine, but the familiar scent was a comfort.
“Let Gina know if you want to go on a ride-along later. I’m heading out in a few minutes, but Sam will be in soon.”
I nodded, leaving him there doctoring his coffee with the hazelnut syrup he kept in a small flask tucked in his shirt pocket. At least that was what I assumed the caramel-colored liquid was. I’d seen no sign Evan was drinking on the job but plenty of evidence that anything left in the break area was fair game for moochers or practical jokers.
High in spirits but low on cash, Blue Sky’s drivers worked on rotation and depended on tips to supplement a basic hourly wage. Teejay assigned routes based on seniority, so whenever he decided I was ready to go solo, I’d be awarded the bottom rotation and the fifth Jeep, a ten-year-old Wrangler Arnulfo was doing his best to reanimate.
Phones trilled as I carried my coffee toward the front office, where Gina Lambert—lead dispatcher, bookkeeper, and all-around office mom—held court. Two other employees worked behind the reception counter: Harmony, whose ash-blond hair sported pink streaks (the third pastel shade since we’d started orientation together less than a month ago) and Chase, a student at Northern Arizona University who helped handle phone reservations during summer months.
Behind the reception counter, racks displayed our signature blue bandannas, logo T-shirts, and refillable water bottles. Our cramped waiting area with its blanket-padded bench was homey—if your idea of “home” was the men’s dorm at Northern Arizona University. Outside, a shaded patio offered additional seating at a wooden picnic table. The setup was minimally comfortable for drivers hanging around to be assigned a tour, less so for customers. This far from the Uptown tourist track, walk-ins were rare. More often, we picked up guests at their hotels or met them at The Market, a West Sedona epicenter for locals and visitors alike.
I pulled the heavy training manual from a shelf below the reception counter and settled onto the bench to reread the geology section, but Teejay’s enthusiasm for Permian seas and sand dunes couldn’t penetrate my fog of distraction. When the ringing phones and geology jargon got too much for me, I headed outside into the midday heat.
