Grants Pass, Oregon

Most healthy seventeen-year-old males fill their weekends with girls, parties and sports. Kyle Evers spent his hiking in Oregon's lush forests. His first semester at the University of Oregon would begin in September, so this might be his last opportunity to hike for some time.

He sat on a soft bed of pine needles near a newly fallen tree and sipped tepid water from his canteen. A gentle breeze sang through the treetops, and he leaned his head against the trunk, listening to nature's opus.

There had never been a time when he didn't know what he wanted to do with his life. His plan to major in Forest Management was more than a career choice, it was his passion. He had lived near the Siskiyou National Forest all his life. His father was a logger, as his father before him had been. But now, in the late 1970s, shortsighted management practices threatened the continued existence of the forests themselves.

Slanted rays of afternoon sunlight spiked through the towering canopy, striking the forest floor with an iridescent shimmer that bounced suffused light through the underbrush.

Studying the sun's angle, Kyle decided he still had enough daylight to make Lucky Creek before dark. He closed the canteen, secured it to his belt and moved back to the trail.

A few hundred yards along, an object tangled in the brush caught his attention. He picked it up and stared at it. It was a child's shoe and it looked almost new. He read the label inside; Buster Brown, size two. It was a sturdy shoe, but not one intended for hiking, especially over this rough terrain.

"Strange." He tucked the shoe under a strap on his backpack. He shrugged his shoulders, repositioning his load. "Maybe I'll come across the people who dropped it, and if I don't, I'll turn it in at the Ranger station."

He couldn't stop thinking about the shoe, and ten minutes later, he gave in to the nervous prickling in his scalp and backtracked to the place were he'd found it. Pivoting in all directions, he surveyed the immediate surroundings. About five yards from the trail, he found the other shoe. A brownish smear blotted out the label inside.

"Dried blood?" His apprehension turned to sheer dread. "Something's wrong." He turned around and around, straining his eyes in all directions, looking for something to explain the presence of the shoes.

"Hello! Anybody out here? Hello!" The forest whispered an echo of his words.

He widened his search, his alarm increasing when he found broken branches and more dried brown smears. Finally, looking down from the crest of a ridge, he saw something blue caught in the underbrush below. He dropped his gear and picked his way down the precipitous rocky face. At the bottom, he carefully parted the fern fronds, dreading what he might see.

His heart lurched. The bloody, battered body of a child lay in an awkward position between two serpentine boulders. "Ah, God Almighty. What's happened? Little girl, can you hear me?" He felt for and found a weak carotid pulse. "Look at this." Bloody, swollen flesh hugged the jagged bone protruding from her left arm.

"What are you doing out here? Where are your folks?"

She didn't stir. Her skin was cold and clammy, and scratches covered most of the exposed skin.

He yelled again, his voice edged with panic. "Hello! Is anybody there?" The forest remained unnaturally quiet.

Even with his limited medical knowledge, he knew her condition was life threatening. She was dehydrated and in shock. Angry purple bruises dotted her chin and cheeks. A depressed area on her temple oozed blood from a puncture wound.

He clambered up the ridge to get his backpack and first aid kit, knowing the kit contained only the barest of supplies. As he worked his way down to the girl again, he berated himself for not being better prepared.

He opened his canteen, poured water on a wad of gauze and tried to squeeze some into her mouth. She made no effort to swallow. The liquid trickled out between her cracked lips, painting red and gray streaks through the dirt and the crusted blood on her face and neck. Using tent stakes and strips of gauze, he immobilized her arm, then covered her with his sleeping bag.

"I hope you can hear me. I have to get back to my CB radio to call for help. I'll be back, I promise. You hang on. Okay?" He removed the cap from his spare canteen and left it near the child's face so she would see it if she regained consciousness.

Kyle crammed everything else into his pack and slung it over his shoulder for the climb back to the trail. In the center of a nearby clearing, he spread his orange pup tent, shoved his backpack and other gear underneath, and then used stones to secure it. Taking only the half-full canteen, he raced down the steep trail.

He was soaked with perspiration, and his knees trembled by the time he spotted the old mining road and his Jeep. He dug his keys from his pocket, swung himself over the door into the front seat and started the engine. Snatching the microphone of his Citizen's Band radio, he spun the dial to the emergency channel. "Mayday, Mayday, Mayday." Static. He surveyed his location and sighed. "It's the mountains. I'm not getting out."

Maybe he could raise a trucker. He turned the dial to channel nineteen. "Breaker, one-nine." More static. "Mayday, Mayday, Mayday." His voice quavered. "Does anyone copy?" The radio crackled. He waited. Silence. He squeezed the mike button again. "Mayday, Mayday. Does anybody copy this transmission?" Kyle gnawed his lip. "God, don't let me be out of range."

The crackling static changed pitch, and a far-away voice like an echo said, "Copy your Mayday. This is Tree Feller. Go ahead breaker."

Kyle's heart swelled in his throat and he nearly choked on his words. "Tree Feller, I need a link to Forest Search and Rescue or a Siskiyou Ranger Station. Come back."

"Your signal is breaking up. Say again."

Kyle raised his voice and slowly repeated his last transmission.

"Copy that, good buddy. What's your ten-twenty? Come back."

Kyle let out a breath. "I'm in the Siskiyou National Forest below Pearsoll Peak. I found an injured child about halfway between Pearsoll Peak and Granite Butte." He took a deep breath and continued. "The child is thirty yards from a clearing where I spread out an orange tent that should be visible from the air. Do you copy?"

The man repeated Kyle's words for confirmation.

Kyle gave him a brief description of the child's injuries and told the trucker he was headed back to the place where he'd left her.

"Ten-four, good buddy. Help is on the way. Over and out."

It was nearly dark before Kyle stumbled into the clearing where paramedics, already on the ground, had strapped the child to a backboard. A rescue helicopter hovered above.

She was taken first to Sacred Heart Medical Center in Eugene and then to the Children's Hospital in Portland, where she underwent five hours of surgery.

The only clue to her identity was a gold antique locket and chain the emergency room personnel found tangled in her hair. The name "Claire" engraved inside was the only readable part of the badly worn inscription. A ruined miniature photograph on the facing side was removed and examined, but revealed nothing. A series of numbers had been more recently engraved inside behind the miniature, but these too, led nowhere.

Extensive efforts to locate the child's next of kin proved fruitless. No one matching her description had been reported missing in the U.S. or Canada. Her fingerprints were run through the FBI's NCIC databases without success.

Nurses called her Claire, and believing comatose patients can hear at some level, they talked to her every day.

Kyle Evers couldn't stop thinking about her and visited every time he could break away from classes long enough to make the trip.

On a rainy Saturday morning, he sat beside her bed reading a chapter from ALICE IN WONDERLAND. When he'd finished, he closed the book and sat staring at her. Considering her prognosis, he wondered if in finding her he'd done her a favor or brought her a lifetime of misery.

"You sure are a pretty little thing. Your injuries have healed, and your beautiful auburn hair has grown back. You're going to be a heartbreaker some day, little one."

He took a photograph from his wallet. "This is my little sister. She's ten years old too, and almost as pretty as you. Maybe I'll bring her to see you sometime and you two can talk girl talk for a while. Would you like that?"

He laid the picture on the pillow beside her head. "Come on now, don't you think it's time to wake up?" He smoothed her short hair back and tucked it behind her ear.

Her eyes moved rapidly behind closed lids, and then, blinking slowly, they opened. He gasped in disbelief and leaned closer. Her emerald eyes were teary, but her gaze followed his movements.

"Hello, Claire. My name is Kyle. How nice to meet you at last.

*******************************************

Deadfall by Lynda Douglas
Publication date:
March 1, 2002
Publisher:
Oak Tree Press
ISBN: 1-892343-23-1

Copyright © 2002 Lynda Douglas

Review of Deadfall: