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Chapter 12
Mike had walked this trail so many times, his feet didn’t need to be told where to go. He was almost to the top of pass, looking forward to the easier way down, when he heard the mockingbird. He thought he knew that particular bird, but wasn’t sure. He thought the mockingbird was misnamed. There was nothing mocking in its songs. A better name for the bird would be the Tribute Band Bird. This one owned an amazing number of bird songs and other sounds. He opened the voice memo app on his iPhone and pressed record. He knew if he was still and lucky it could be long minutes before the bird finished its run and started over.
In series of three or four calls in a row, the bird ran through a symphony of raven, magpie, quail, red shouldered hawk, something that sounded an awful lot like a door hinge needing oil, a bullfrog, a hummingbird’s thrumming sound, a scrub jay and three songbirds. Something spooked the bird and it flew off to perch another hundred meters away, its songs interrupted. Mike sniffed the clean mountain air, put the phone back in his pocket, crested the only really exposed part of the trail, and started down.
Something hit him on the side of the head, knocking him to the ground. He wasn’t out completely, just stunned. A man picked him up as if he were a child and tossed him over the edge. He managed to catch his hook on a rock outcropping.
Mike looked up at the man standing over him and knew he was going to die. His face was a little too regular, his teeth too even and his chin too strong. Mike had seen enough good plastic surgery to know it when he saw it. The man wore green contacts. Looking into his eyes was like looking into an agate. There wasn’t anything human behind those eyes.
Another man stepped forward. He had the same feeling of menace. “Come on, get this done and we can get back to civilization.”
The first man looked down at him and said, “You fucking wet back. You had to stick your nose in, didn’t you? You should have known better. You pissed off the man. Now you are going to die.” With that the man smashed Mike’s hook, driving it deeper into the ground. Mike knew what was coming. He knew he didn’t have much time. He pulled the phone out of his pocket, made sure the memo recorder was still on and then put it back in his pocket, hoping the men couldn’t see him.
The first man said, “Shit,” after he realized he had simply made Mike’s hook-hold better. He moved to the side and pulled his leg back to kick Mike’s hook free. Mike grabbed the man’s trousers in his strong left hand and held on. The man shook his leg free. Mike grabbed the rock. The man smashed his foot down on his hand again and again and again until Mike couldn’t hold on any longer, then the man kicked his hook free. He slid off the edge of the cliff.
His crushed hand reached out and tried to stop his fall on a rock. He failed. As he fell the long seconds to the bottom over four hundred feet away, he reached into his pocket with his crushed hand and grabbed the phone. He ignored the pain in his hand and held on as long as he could. Right before he hit, he threw the phone so it would land in thick brush. He hit the ground at nearly one hundred miles an hour and died in a very small part of a second.