The Falls (28 page)

If it worked, I'd be stupid rich, and Timmy would be doing okay as well. We'd both have enough money to do whatever we wanted . . . whatever that was. But really, I wasn't sure how much of this had anything to do with the money. It had more to do with proving something. Or maybe disproving some other things. I didn't really know
which parts of me were from my father, or my grandfather, or even my great-grandfather. I didn't know if I was trying to show how brave I was, or that I was a river-man, or maybe simply that I wasn't a loser. Yeah, I'd show everybody that I was no loser.

I took another sip from the bottle of beer. Timmy had scrounged a six-pack. He said he'd “liberated” it from his father, who was passed out in front of the TV. A few beers were okay, but I wouldn't have drunk more, even if we'd had them. I needed to face up to what I was about to do stone-cold sober. But a couple of beers might just help me get to sleep. Sleep . . . that seemed as impossible as anything I'd ever imagined.

 

 

 

 

“A
RE YOU ASLEEP
?” Timmy asked, his voice whispering out of the darkness.

“No.”

“I don't think I slept at all.”

“Me neither,” I replied.

“Maybe we should just get up. What time is it?”

“Quarter to four. We might as well. The truck will be here soon.”

We'd only told the guys part of the truth. Instead of offering them some beer we'd told them that we were doing something illegal. They probably thought they were going to rip something off—something big, since we needed a truck. It was amazing how easy it was to recruit people to commit a crime. That really said something about the type of people we hung around with.

I pulled myself up and sat on the edge of the bed. I saw the darkened image of Timmy sit up too. He'd slept on the floor because he said it was more important that I sleep well than him. Obviously it hadn't helped either of us.

Timmy worked his way across the room and flicked on a little light that sat on a table in the corner. I shielded my eyes.

“What do you want for breakfast?” he asked.

“I don't know if I should have anything. It's probably better if my stomach is empty.”

“You have to have something. At least a coffee and some cereal. You're not going over till after six.”

I followed Timmy out of his bedroom. As we cut across the living room I caught sight of his father, still asleep in his chair, the TV still glowing. The coffee table was crowded with empty beer bottles and an overflowing ashtray, and the air was heavy with a pungent combination of alcohol and smoke. I tiptoed past him.

Timmy was already in the kitchen, opening and closing drawers.

“Shouldn't you be more quiet?” I asked.

“Don't worry,” Timmy said. “Once he's passed out nothing can wake him. If the alcohol doesn't kill him then he's going to pass out with a cigarette in his hand and set himself on fire. Just so you know, we have cereal,” he said, holding up a box of Cheerios, “but we don't have any milk . . . well, at least any milk that isn't slightly green . . . green is not a good colour for milk.”

“I'll just have the cereal,” I said, taking the box from him.

Timmy put on the coffee while I reached in and grabbed a fistful of cereal. It was slightly stale, but it didn't really matter. And it was also probably a good thing that there wasn't any milk. Dry cereal would sit in my stomach better. There was no telling how bad the ride was going to be, and the last thing I wanted to do was throw up inside the barrel.

I turned when I heard the sound of an engine.

“That's probably the truck,” Timmy said.

I hurried to the back door, opened it up, and peered outside. I couldn't see the source of the sound. Then I saw a little light come on inside a car parked on the road. It was Boomer's car! Boomer got out and started up the driveway.

“Good morning,” he called out as he got closer.

“What are you doing here?” He wasn't supposed to be part of this. He was going to be down below on the river to pull me out, but he'd already said he couldn't help put me into the river.

“Wouldn't ‘good morning' be a more friendly reply?” he asked.

“Yeah . . . sure. Good morning. Why are you here?” I was afraid he was going to try to talk me out of it.

“I'm here to make sure everything goes the way it's supposed to. Make sure the last-minute details go right.”

“But what about pulling me out?”

“I'll be there, too. I'll leave before they put you in the water. Don't worry, I'll give myself enough time to get down below.”

“Okay . . . good.”

“Where's the truck?”

“It should be here any minute.”

Almost on cue, two bright lights turned in and the big panel truck bumped up the driveway. I should have been relieved—I had been worried that they wouldn't show up. Instead I felt my stomach tighten into a fist. We were one step closer.

“I'll talk to the guys,” Timmy said. “You go and get the barrel ready for loading.”

“Do you think they're going to be okay with this?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? What kid who grew up in the Falls wouldn't want to be part of this?”

 

T
HE TRUCK BUMPED
and rolled and I struggled to stay on my feet. I was standing in the back, holding on to the side of the barrel with one hand and the side of the truck with the other as we were jostled around. Boomer sat on the bench, staring into space. He hadn't spoken since before the barrel had been loaded into the truck. I needed him to say something.

“Do you think we can get past the Parks staff to put it into the river?” I asked.

“You mean put
you
in the river.”

“Well, yeah. Me in the barrel.”

“It's time for you to get into the barrel,” Boomer said as he stood up. He kept one hand on the side of the truck to steady himself as he shuffled along.

“Now?” I looked at my watch. “It's still thirty-five minutes before we put the barrel—me—into the river.”

“I want to make sure everything works right before I leave. It'll take me at least fifteen minutes to get to the same spot it'll take you fifteen seconds to reach.”

“Do you really think it could only take fifteen seconds?”

“Fifteen seconds. Fifteen minutes. Fifteen hours. Once you get into the river it's up to God.”

“I didn't think you believed in God,” I said.

“I don't, but I don't have to. It's not me going over the Falls. Now get in.”

I didn't move. My legs suddenly felt dead.

Boomer opened up the hatch. “Come on, hurry up.”

I bumped into the side of the truck. I grabbed the top of the hatch then, and swung my legs up, smacking my left knee in the process, and slipped into the barrel.

I suddenly felt very hot. How could the air in the barrel be so much hotter than it was in the back of the truck? But it wasn't . . . it was me. My whole body felt flushed. I was radiating heat. My heart was pumping so hard I could almost hear it beating.

“Hurry up and get into your harness,” Boomer said.

I fumbled around for the straps, my hands shaking and sweating. What had been so easy before was now a struggle. I managed to do up the buckles holding my legs in place, and moved up to the next set that would hold my midsection.

“Get 'em tight,” Boomer ordered. “Too loose and they won't do you any good.”

I pulled the strap tight, feeling it pressing, almost digging into my abdomen.

“Can you reach your oxygen tank?”

I spun partway around and put a hand on the nozzle. “I can reach.”

“You sure the tank is fully charged . . . that it's full of oxygen?” Boomer asked.

“Why wouldn't it be?” I asked in reply. “Timmy just got it from the scuba store and—”

“Have
you
checked it?” Boomer asked, cutting me off.

“No,” I admitted. I didn't even know how to check.

“So you're trusting that some joker in the scuba store—some joker you've never even met—isn't
shortchanging you. How do you know the tank is completely full? Maybe you don't have thirty minutes. Maybe there's only twenty minutes of air. Maybe it's only half full and there's fifteen minutes. Maybe it's empty.”

My heart started pounding even harder. I didn't know what to say.

“Do you know?” he snapped. “Well, do you?”

I shook my head.

“Well,
I
know. I checked the pressure. It's fully charged.”

“Why didn't you just tell me?” I asked angrily.

“Why didn't you just ask me?” he snapped back. “You want my help or what?”

“Yeah . . . of course . . . it's just that you got me all worried.”

“If you weren't really worried before this then you just don't understand nothing that's going on, son. Now, you gotta remember that thirty minutes' worth of air is just my guess. If you breathe really relaxed it could last over forty minutes. Panic and it will be gone in less than twenty.”

“I'm not going to panic.”

Boomer scowled. “If you need to use that tank it's because you're caught behind the Falls, being cycled around and around, trapped in the undertow. Do you have any idea what that would be like?”

I shook my head. “No . . . what would it be like?” I asked, although I almost didn't want to know.

“I don't know either. Nobody knows. The only people who ever got caught never lived to tell of it.”

A visible shudder ran through my entire body.

“Do up the last straps so I can close the hatch.”

“We don't have to close it yet, do we?”

“We don't have to keep it closed but we have to test it one more time.”

Quickly I worked to do up the last part of the harness. I was now completely suspended, hanging there in the little hammock-type arrangement. I rocked back and forth, swaying slightly, but secure, away from all sides of the barrel.

Without warning the hatch slammed shut and I jerked in my harness. It was suddenly dark—or at least darker. My eyes tried to adjust to the limited light coming in through the porthole on the hatch. I reached up and switched on the little battery-powered lamp that was attached to the ceiling of the chamber. It filled the barrel with light. That was better . . . or should I turn it off? I didn't want to waste the batteries in case I needed them if I was trapped. Then again, it didn't matter. If I was caught in the undertow my air would give out long before the batteries would.

It was eerily quiet. The sounds of the road and the truck were so muffled that I could barely hear them at all. What I heard was the echoing of my breath. And I had the strangest thought: if you were buried alive, is that what it would sound like inside your coffin?

I took a deep breath and held it. Would I be able to relax if I needed to? I didn't know. I
couldn't
know until it happened. Then I heard the sound of Boomer tightening the screws down to hold the hatch in place. Each turn meant the hatch was getting tighter, more secure, safer . . . and I was getting more deeply trapped inside. My whole
body, from my toes to my fingertips, began to sweat. I was now helpless. I was locked inside, unable to control the barrel rolling down the slope and into the river and surging toward the Falls and then over the edge and dropping and—There were no more sounds. The hatch was tightened down. Now he could open it up and I could breathe some fresh air. In a few seconds now he'd start unscrewing it. There was silence. Why wasn't he opening it? What was wrong? Boomer was going to open it up again, wasn't he? This was just a test, right? He wasn't just going to let me stay inside until I got pushed into the river, was he? I tried to replay the conversation we'd had when I climbed inside. He had said this was just a test, that it didn't have to stay sealed . . . that was what he'd said, wasn't it?

Desperately I arched my neck so I could see out through the tiny porthole. I hoped to see something—a little glimpse of Boomer—anything. All I could see was the back panel door of the truck. The truck . . . we weren't moving anymore. We'd arrived at the wall, and maybe they didn't have time to unseal me and seal me back up again. I closed my eyes and brought my hands together and started to pray. I didn't know if there really was a God. I didn't know if He even listened to people's prayers. I didn't know if I even deserved to have Him listen to mine.

Dear God . . . it's me . . . Jay . . . Jayson Hunter. Could I . . . could I . . . could I have one more breath of air . . . please could they open the hatch and let me—?

I heard the screws again and saw Boomer through the hatch. He was opening it up!

Thank you . . . thank you . . . and . . . and . . . amen.

I tried to slow down my breathing, regain my composure. I turned off the light and closed my eyes to try to block out the dark—to try to block out everything. In only a few seconds the hatch would open . . . only to be closed up again in a few minutes . . . a dozen minutes . . . maybe half an hour. The timing would depend upon the patrols by the park rangers and the police. But I'd been over the timing. There was plenty of time between the patrols so there wasn't going to be any problem.

Then I had the strangest thought. Maybe it would be better if we
did
get caught and— The hatch popped open. Cool air and sounds from the truck's engine flooded into the barrel.

“So?” Boomer asked.

“I'm okay,” I said. My voice sounded different . . . strained . . . like it wasn't even mine.

“Do you feel it yet?” Boomer asked.

“Feel what?”

“That buzz in the back of your head you get from doing something risky.”