OTHERBORN: THE CREVASSE

EPISODE ONE, PART TWO

It was the telephone call that I next remember, I think roughly three months later. That began my whole search.

And I phase into that...one thought to another.

That horrible day of "Fiasco 38: Box and Laser," as Angie will say, seems a warm, fuzzy keepsake, as my panic grows wilder each moment I pace.

"My family is missing!" I know I hear myself scream at my boss, phone in hand. "My life is on hold."

I hear a loud click. And my job is effortlessly gone now as well.

I am thus forced to give this a moment's consideration. I know it's not good. Angie will kill me.

But Angie is gone...And I need her back!

Plus, my real training's already on hold. I likely cannot return to spying for Ops, till the smoke has done clearing. Right! My last leave has cancelled that option for now.

But...Right! "I am a detective, and I can find her!" And again I feel guilty for thinking of Ange, more than her kids. And in my defense, to restate that: they aren't truly my kids.

But yah, I should care. Little shits, though. They've got no respect.

No time for self-pity. I've got to find them!

There is no choice.

I guess this is the third time I haven't shown up at work—from chasing odd leads.

Only thing left to do is to find my girlfriend and boys. Then...truly beg Henry's forgiveness, to let me come back...and before any rent that Angie has paid is gone and I've...well, "she's"...got no place to live and come back to when I find her!

I'll "detect" where she is. I have no job! Maybe it's good.

The house feels so empty. They've been gone seven days. Cops can't find any sign of anything untoward, say nothing is wrong, so they don't have a clue.

I am grabbing a shoulder bag. I slowly pull out the crumpled certificate, found in a drawer by the bedside. "Says, I am a detective, so I guess I'll take that. It's my permission...clients or no. What does a license matter right now?"

Can I be my own client? Angie thinks, no.

"Cops ain't gonna do it! I will hire me to find them! I will."

I wave the dead paper. Sad that I didn't use this already. Admittedly, I had a hard time recovering enough from F-38 (shortened to code now) to only just pass.

Yes, Angie counts these!

Okay, and so where...? "What's my first move?"

Trail's gotta head towards Brownsville, and maybe the border? Go to Hidalgo in person and dig there first, before crossing maybe?

I talk to myself. "Those towns are on the other side of more desert. You don't got no car!"

You just gotta do it.

I should've stopped there and thought about it a bit before I headed out to the desert. But anxiety is brutal...it don't cut no slack!

* * *

More blurry visions now become clear. I feel more real in them this time. Maybe it's "now"?

Eyes swivel. Heart pounds. Movements, careful...straining my view...over..."Hey!" Ow. Oh, my head really throbs.

This tilting truck, groans again, sympathetic, of course. My neck stabs anew.

Sputtering, I inch myself over the window ledge of —who's truck is this? Flop—onto a space in the boulders where I can wedge myself—clinging. Now I am out on a cliff where I can see—all cut and bruised.

Fast, move! Back away.

The truck is wavering, swinging.

Teeters again, then slowly back, and it settles, more or less stable. It's decided it won't tumble down the cliff any further for now —as long as nothing else annoys it. And I surely won't!

I can see bleeding. All over my hands. Checking...I'm bashed, disheveled...My description...Hmm. Torn sleeve. Ripped arm. Not terribly good. Oh crap! How did this happen?

"How!" Maybe I am torn? Can't look. Too stiff right now.

Swivel. I try to take stock...three hundred feet...five? Roots to get down jut from the cliff, but Dead Guy! What should I do?

I cannot crawl nearer...be careful, until...I can't see him since I am now lower. He hangs out from his driver's far window. I try to stand on the shale, make sure that he's dead.

Can't reach. Can't touch near the truck.

I find items I had pushed out through the window before climbing out.

Poor guy. I'll leave him in there.

I see my pager, now smashed to bits...no longer reads the last clue. What was it? My last connection to Ange and the kids! My hope–to–stay family is utterly lost.

I gauge the rim distance above me, and the spot the trucks come to rest—barely clinging to the side of a crevasse we've tipped into. Another hundred feet up to the top, and looks like a plateau—but above sections of cliff are far steeper.

I open a palm-sized notebook that waves its papers into the breeze to grab my attention. There's cool air scooting along the walled channel...four-hundred-ish feet narrow, right where I am.

The pencil and string attached to the notebook are all tangled in the shoulder strap of what looks like my personal canvas carryall bag—wedged. I try to pull that towards me. Slowly...

And there is no time as the truck starts to tilt. The strap's underneath it.

~~~/

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