Spooked

The zip line, when it was new, was incredible. Thirteen towers rose out of the woods alongside hiking trails and became a single entity when a series of cables became a link between the standing stations of timber. Atop the towers and the platforms that rose over the canopy of trees were the traverse lines, the tension pulleys, and the miles of rope that made up the impressive thrill ride.

Over the years, the zip line was a “must-do” for any adventure seekers who might have been on holiday near the other attractions and restaurants that made up the river-rafting, hiking, and rock climbing tourist community.

The rock climbing and hiking business was busy all year. The foothills of the mountainous region were almost self-sufficient because the trails and the rock faces that rose up along the river were indestructible.

The river raft business was not as failsafe, but it was busy before the snowmelt from the mountains became more of a meandering creek than a sweeping watercourse with rapids. When the river was rushing, however, a flotilla of yellow inflatables was always moving down the river between the jagged rocks under the zip line. Maintaining the rafts was easy. When one popped from hitting too many of the razor-sharp boulders, the rafting company bought a new one.

The personnel and the equipment supporting the zip line were different. The towers along the river had stood in the weather for years, and the cables, the ropes, and the harnesses stretching between the towers and the standing platforms were aging poorly. The skeleton crew that ran the zip line, however, were not like the guides on the river who bought new boats. The zip line crew never bought anything new because the owner was a penny-pinching miser, and the manager was a psychopath.

The cables along the course were old and frayed and the harnesses, which the zip line riders wore to keep them safe above the moving water and the sea of sharp boulders, were all shot. All the canvas straps were decades old, but for anyone who knew, some of the harnesses were in terrible condition.

Pierre hated his job as the zip line manager, but he hated the tourists that came to ride the course even more. The only pleasure for Pierre was handing out the dangerous harnesses to anyone stupid enough to zip over the river rocks and scream bloody murder.

For Pierre, handing out the worn-out harnesses in the little shack beside the first tower was like playing a game of zip line roulette. One of the harnesses was bound to break eventually, and when it did, and one of the tourists fell to the rocks and the river, the only blame would fall on the greedy owner of the company. Pierre felt certain he would be free from blame—because all the harnesses were bad—but what the owner did not know was that one of the harnesses was special. It was ready to break at any second.

Part of Pierre’s game of zip line roulette was watching for the very bad harness when it came up again and again in the rotation of all the other harnesses. If a pretty girl was up next for her turn on the course, Pierre would give her a better-than-average harness if she was nice. If she was not, the special harness was always waiting for someone who really deserved it.

One day in October, when the leaves were changing and the course was crazy with tourists, and Pierre was ready to explode with hate for everything, an older man walked into the harness shack. The man would not shut up. He was bubbling over with cheerfulness and talking nonstop about his home on a beautiful island in southwest Florida. The more the man talked, the more Pierre wanted him to have the special harness.

When the Florida man fell, he was Spooked, but only for a second. Afterward, everything became perfectly clear. He could suddenly see over the entire river valley, the towers of the zip line, and the rocks where he landed badly. He could also see all the worn places in all the harnesses, all at once. He was also suddenly aware that the harness failure was not an accident. It was murder. The Florida man was also well aware of everything about the killer with the terrible complexion who did not like to bathe. Instantly, he knew the man’s name was Pierre—that he was not from France—and that the killer was about to learn a lesson that was mandatory for anyone who chose to dabble in sabotage and bloody murder.

Pierre was beyond crazy and nervous when he heard the sirens from the police cars and the ambulance. He knew what he had done, but after the interviews with the cops, which were just like TV, Pierre began to relax until he drove home. When he walked into the house, his mother looked at him weird—even weirder than normal—before she walked out of her house without a word.

After the first night without his mother, Pierre could not sleep, but he had repeating visions of the Florida man. In the dreams that were not dreams, because he was awake, the Florida man could fly over the zip line valley and watch everything all at once. He also knew everything about Pierre’s past, and he would not go away until the towers and the zip line beside the river were smoking rubble.

When the local newspaper reported the failed arson with the gasoline accident and the death of the long-time zip-line manager, no one was more Spooked than Pierre when he could suddenly see everything . . . and knew the Florida man was waiting.