Middleton had only been inside The Bitter Edge maybe half a dozen times – just enough to maintain what his conduct guidelines deemed ‘appropriate community visibility’ – but the instant he walked in, he sensed something was out of the ordinary. The place was packed, as usual – it was the only bar on the island – but silent. All eyes inside were glued to the TV suspended in an upper corner of the room, where a familiar image filled the flatscreen: a looming mass of weathered, furrowed stone framed against a brilliant blue sky. An announcer spoke in voiceover.
“The Greeting Man is one of the oldest man-made monuments in the hemisphere. As such, it’s the object of considerable archaeological interest. It’s also an economic lifeline for this isolated island community, which has developed a thriving tourism industry based around it. But some of the island’s aboriginal residents, whose ancestors created the Greeting Man thousands of years ago, feel the artifact is being unfairly exploited. So they’ve taken him into ‘protective custody’ and have occupied the public park where the statue is located.”
A ragged chorus of disbelief and disapproval rippled through the crowd, chased by an insistent ssshhh-ing as the reporter continued.
“What this will mean for the hundreds of tourists who are expected to begin arriving tomorrow is unclear, although a statement from the protestors says that visitors will still have full access to the park and its famous inhabitant.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“When did they go in? Who-”
“There’s the constable, ask him.”
In an instant, all eyes in the room were on him. Middleton, caught off-guard by the news – he’d been blindsided, but good – struggled to regain his composure. “I’m on my way up there now,” he said, “Heard there was gonna be something on the news, wanted to see it first.” A babble of questions rose from all corners of the room. Middleton stayed them with an upraised palm. “I’ll answer questions later.” He exited sharply, ignoring the glass of ginger ale that the bartender had set out for him.
Outside the pub, Middleton strode down the boardwalk through the tiny faux-frontier village that was the island’s commercial centre, suppressing the anxiety in his gut. He barely felt the rough hand on his sleeve as Bob Bannerman hustled abreast of him. Bannerman owned the island’s hardware store and headed up the local chamber of commerce.
“A word, Constable.”
“I’m in a bit of a hurry, Bob.”
“I’ll be quick,” Bannerman said, scurrying alongside him. “I want you to know that whatever help you need, you’ll have it.”
“Help?”
“We don’t have time to wait for the mainland on this. We need action now. And you’ll need help.”
Middleton glanced sideways at him. “Help with what?”
Bannerman looked at the policeman in disbelief. “You are gonna arrest them, right? Open the park?”
Middleton stopped in his tracks and frowned at Bannerman. “Arrests? Bob, it’s a couple of kids pulling a publicity stunt,” he said irritably. “I’m pretty sure I can handle it, thanks.”
Bannerman sucked a deep, quick breath, like he was swallowing something bad. “You’re still new here, so let me explain something,” he said, his voice simmering, “That frigging rock is all we have here. It’s what we survive on. I mean, look around.” Middleton did, glancing in the storefronts. He saw sweatshirts and tank tops, driftwood sculptures and oil paintings, postcards and sun visors, paperweights, bumper stickers, coffee mugs, eyeglass cases, key fobs, stained glass and etchings, silk-screened scarves, stuffed toys, everything from exquisite hand-crafted art to mass-produced crap, all adorned with some variation of the same, familiar image: the ancient, stratified tower of rock they called The Greeting Man.
“Tomorrow’s the start of the season,” Bannerman continued, “If that park’s not open, the whole summer’ll be toast, just like that. And that will put a lot of people – me included – in a very bad way.”
“I understand completely, Bob, and rest assured – the park will be open tomorrow. Guaranteed. Okay?” Middleton said, “Now please, go back, tell everyone everything is under control.”
“Every year it’s something with those guys but this takes the friggin’ cake.” Bannerman expelled a beery snort, raising his voice as Middleton swung the door closed. “You gotta understand, they’re hijacking our livelihood. Our livelihood.”
Middleton smiled sympathetically, and hit the ignition.
Middleton pulled up to the park entrance and switched off the engine. From the parking lot, a natural corridor through the woods offered him a clear view up to the clifftop where the famous stone figure perched high above the pounding ocean surf, its towering bulk dramatically backlit against a vivid spring sunset.
With a start, Middleton realised that this was the first time he had actually laid eyes on the island’s claim to fame. The past few months had been so busy, there’d been no time. Now, suddenly, there it was.
Greeting Man.
He sat for a full minute, transfixed by the sight, moved by some emotion he couldn’t quite name. Some sense of mortality perhaps, brought on by this proximity to the eternal.
With a small shiver, Middleton stepped out of the vehicle and walked across to the trailhead, the main entry to the park. It was barred by a standard issue black and yellow striped swing-arm gate, newly festooned with bunting and beadwork and a hand-lettered sign that read “Private Property – No Trespassing”. Behind it stood a pair of nervous native youths.
“Park’s closed,” said one, in an uncertain voice, as Middleton approached.
Middleton smiled, showed open hands. “I heard. And I respect your right to be here. But I have to talk to whoever’s in charge.”
“Paul?” one ventured.
Middleton nodded – he knew Paul. “Yes, tell Paul I need to see him.”
The two youths looked to each other for guidance. “Now, please,” Middleton said, softly. “I’ll go,” one volunteered, and loped off into the woods.
“Five years ago we applied for a court ruling, making him our intellectual property, you know?” Paul said. “Five years. And still we’re waiting.”
“I know it’s frustrating,” Middleton said.
“Frustrating? It’s killing us,” Paul said, in an urgent tone. “Every year, they make all the money, and we make nothing. He’s our property, but they make all the money. We can’t go another season getting nothing, we just can’t. We had to take action.”
“And your actions are perfectly understandable, Paul. But until the courts rule otherwise, what they’re doing is perfectly legal. What you are doing is not.” Middleton paused, and looked around. He and Paul were sitting at one of the chunky wood picnic tables in the park’s eating area. On its fringe was a tiny colony of tents and camper trailers. Everywhere, young people were hustling and hurrying about, carrying tools, lumber, paint. “What exactly are you doing here, anyway?”
Paul’s mouth twitched with a self-satisfied smirk, but he said nothing.
Middleton exhaled with impatience. “Paul, work with me here. This’ll be my first May weekend here but I’ve heard the tourists arrive by the hundreds. And they all make a beeline up here. What do you think they’re going to say when they can’t get into the park?”
Paul’s smile widened. “They’ll get into the park, no problem.”
“Paul, check this out,” said a voice behind Middleton. He turned and saw a pair of young men propping up a large wooden sign, engraved with the words ‘Greeting Man Historical Park’ and framed with a carved frieze of tribal motifs. Below that was a list of admission prices.
“Take it down to the main entrance. I’ll be there in a minute,” Paul said. He looked back to Middleton. “See? The park will be open tomorrow. Open to everyone. At very reasonable prices.”
Middleton shook his head gently, and chuckled. “Very good, very clever.”
Paul beamed. “Let them have the reproductions. We have the real thing.”
“It’s an excellent idea, Paul. But unfortunately it’s against the law.”
There was a short, cool silence.
“Always the law, right? No talk of what’s right, just what’s the law.”
Middleton let a moment pass. “The law is my job, Paul. For what it’s worth, I sympathise with your cause. Maybe I can help you. But not here, not like this.”
Paul’s expression hardened. “What are you saying?”
“You can’t stay here, Paul. You have to leave the park. All of you.”
“And if we don’t?”
“You’ll be putting yourself and your people here in a very … awkward situation.” Middleton said coolly. The threat in his tone was crystal clear.
He could see Paul tumbling options in his mind.
“Someone needs to take a stand,” Paul said, solemnly.
Middleton leaned forward, his voice dropping. “And you have, Paul. Man, you led the six o’clock news! You made your point. Now take that and bank it. If you stay in here things are just going to turn ugly, and neither of us want that.”
Paul eyed him suspiciously. Middleton stared resolutely right back, then broke off the eye contact.
“Here’s what I can do,” he said quietly. “I’ll go back to my office. You move everyone out by park closing tonight – that’s eight o’clock – and it will look like that’s the way you planned it all along – a temporary demonstration, little civil disobedience – no lasting damage done. What do you say?”
“That’s not what we said. Not what we planned.”
“It’s the best I can offer you, Paul. Have everyone out by eight tonight, and there’ll be no consequences.”
Paul averted his gaze, set his mouth, and didn’t speak.
Middleton sighed, and rose from the bench. “Do the smart thing, Paul, please. Eight o’clock.” He turned and strode away. At ten paces, Paul’s voice reached out to him.
“This is an old fight, Officer. You’re a new man. You should keep out of it.”
He kept walking.
Middleton gingerly lifted the squat, steaming tub of stew from the office microwave and carried it to his desk. He ate distractedly, skimming and sorting the torrent of faxes, voice messages and emails that had accumulated in the hour since the news broke. They ranged from offers of backup, official and otherwise, to media queries and calls from various politicos looking for ass-cover. He didn’t reply to any of them.
At 7:50, he swung the Bronco into the same slot he’d occupied earlier. Through the cut, Greeting Man was a sharp black shape against the ripening evening sky but this time Middleton barely registered it as he swung out of the vehicle and strode to the gate. It was still closed, but unattended. Up the trail, ragged points of light danced in the darkness, and sounds of singing and drumming pulsed in the night air. He listened carefully.
“It’s a gratitude song.” said a voice in the dark.
Middleton’s heart practically leapt out of his chest. He turned to see a short, dishevelled figure shrinking back in alarm, hands help up in defense.
“Officer, sorry, sorry – just me.”
“Jesus, Anderson, what are you doing here?” he panted.
The man lifted a metal ring with a large plastic tag and a single key attached. “Gotta lock up.” Anderson belonged to that small tribe of locals who managed, despite a lack of any obvious skills, to scrabble together a precarious living in the island’s thin economy. In Anderson’s case, one source of income was the modest stipend paid by the Parks Department for overseeing the minimal needs of the park.
Middleton smiled. “It’s already locked. Haven’t you heard?”
Anderson huffed and folded his arms. “I heard, yeah. Also heard you were gonna haul them out.”
“Well, you heard sort of right. They’ll be leaving very soon.”
“Then I’ll wait.” Anderson sidled up beside Middleton. The drumming and chanting thrummed through the darkness.
“What did you call it? A gratitude song?”
“Yes, a song of thanks. For the gift of Greeting Man.”
“Gift? They made him.”
“So they would have us believe, eh?” Anderson’s dark eyes twinkled.
Middleton looked at him curiously. “What do you mean?”
“He was here long, long time before their people came. Historical fact.”
“Really?”
Anderson studied Middleton keenly for a moment. “Earliest traces of humanity on this continent are twenty-five thousand years old, maybe thirty. Greeting Man there, he’s over a hundred. Over a hundred.” Anderson lifted his eyebrows in query. paused for effect. “It’s true. A couple of years ago, a team came from the Smithsonian and did dating tests.”
“And they confirmed that?”
“They told us nothing. But we knew. They also did a complete mineralogical analysis, but the results have never been released. What do you think they’re hiding, hmmm?”
He leaned closer to Middleton, his voice slipping to an urgent whisper. “Did you see the chemtrails today? The lines in the sky?” He nodded towards the woods, the persistent chanting. “They’re right to be worried,” he said.
Middleton opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, there was a massive mechanical growl from the roadway behind them. Middleton turned and saw the hulking mass of an excavator lumbering towards them, tracks clattering on the ashphalt. It stopped several yards shy of the two men, stretched its bucket arm to full extension and set it gently onto the road surface. The engine shifted into a low grumbling idle and a stocky figure stepped out from the cab onto the track, hopped down onto the road, and approached Middleton with a slightly bowlegged swagger. “Officer, Anderson,” he said, with a short nod to each.
“Riley, what are you doing here?” Middleton asked, more testily than he’d intended. Riley was another Parks Department contractor.
“Heard park access has been obstructed. Thought you might need some help getting things cleared. It’s in my contract, right?”
“That’s true, it is,” added Anderson helpfully.
Middleton looked at the enormous machine. “Well, I appreciate your offer but I think the obstruction will be cleared away very shortly.”
“Do you really?” asked Riley, with a hint of contempt.
“Yes, I do.”
“I think you’re wrong, officer, and I think you’re making a big mistake taking their side in this.”
“I’m not taking any sides, I’m just-” Middleton stopped mid-sentence, his eye caught by a movement in the darkness in the distance. Down the road past the idling excavator, a large crowd was moving slowly through the darkness towards them. Middleton felt a hand on his arm, and Anderson murmured to him. “You’re being called.”
Middleton turned, and saw another shadowy crowd clustering a few yards away, behind the park gate. He suddenly realised that the singing had ceased. Middleton allowed himself a short sigh of relief. “Right on time.” He loped over.
Paul emerged at the front of the crowd, his dark eyes fixed suspiciously on the enormous machine. “You said you’d let us leave in our own way,” he said tersely.
“Paul, it’s not what you think –”
“We stay!” Paul yelled, driving his fist into the air. The crowd around him erupted in yelling and chanting, and Paul disappeared into it.
“Paul, wait, Paul!” Middleton’s voice was lost in the wall of noise coming from the protestors, which was itself suddenly buried under a new avalanche of noise coming from behind him. He turned and saw the excavator bucket rising into the night air like the head of an enraged beast, its toothed maw opening hungrily. Two high-powered headlights blinked on and the machine lurched forward with a deafening din, cheered on by the crowd in the roadway behind it.
***Half-blinded, Middleton turned away. Behind the gate, the protestors stood unmoving, their eyes glittering with defiance in the harsh illumination. A drum started, and they began to sing again, loudly and angrily now, their voices rising against the clattering racket of the advancing machine. The two walls of noise closed in on Middleton like a deafening vise. He tried to think, but the chaos of noise and light and rising fury made it impossible. He closed his eyes, for just a moment, and struggled to focus. Everything was so loud.
He would have to be louder.
With a single fluid movement his right hand slid up his thigh, slipped his revolver from its holster and raised it straight up into the air. He fired five shots in quick, perfectly measured succession. The echoes abated, leaving only a dim rumble of noise in their wake. The machine had stopped dead, its engine cut to an idle. The mob behind it was still. The protestors were silent too. Everyone was watching him. Amidst the tension, Middleton was feeling some strange new sensation. It felt thrilling, but illicit.
It dawned on him what it was: power.
Slowly, he lowered the gun and holstered it.
“Everyone stay where you are.” He turned to the stilled excavator. The extended bucket hovered fifteen feet in the air over his head. “Riley, get out here.”
A squat figure emerged from the cab and stepped out onto the tread. It wasn’t Riley; it was Bob Bannerman. “Looked like you could use some help there, officer,” he said, with a nervous smile.
Middleton suppressed a surge of fury. “Turn the engine off. Leave the lights on.” Bob pressed a button on the dash and the machine gave a shudder as the engine died. He climbed down onto the street and joined the small gang, which gathered him in, murmuring sympathetically.
Middleton intended to let a beat of silence pass before he spoke again, but it was broken by a low moan of pain. He looked around to locate the source, and at the very moment he realised the sound was coming from the sky, the storm fell on them like an avalanche.
The blast of wind took Middleton off his feet as if he’d been struck with a roundhouse uppercut. The rain was so sudden and so heavy that his clothing was saturated by the time he hit the pavement, which was already half an inch deep with water. A simultaneous detonation of thunder and lightning shook the very earth.
Stunned, winded, and physically pinned to the pavement by the force of the storm, Middleton watched in dazed shock as his world slipped out of balance into chaos.
The excavator, already unstable with its bucket at full extension, was heeling over in the gale, tipping towards him. With a desperate surge of energy, he rolled clear and watched in horror as the machine slowly toppled forward, its bucket a thousand pound wrecking ball falling directly towards the park gateway. Through the sheeting rain he could see the protestors scrambling away up the path, screaming in panic. Seconds later the bucket crumpled the gateway and embedded itself into the soft ground with a metallic grunt.
On the other side of the lot, the village mob was fleeing too, running crookedly down the road as the wind buffetted them about, followed closely by Anderson unsteadily pushing his rickety bicycle.
Within seconds, Middleton found himself alone at the scene. The storm’s violence had abated but the wind and rain were still ferocious. Drenched and shivering, he staggered across to the Bronco and crawled in.
Inside, the vehicle interior rocked as gusts swept through the parking lot but the roar of wind and water was muted. Middleton flicked on a roof-mounted spotlight and scanned up the pathway. There was no-one to be seen, and the path itself was a torrent of runoff. He hoped they had enough space in their campers for everyone. They wouldn’t be going anywhere till the storm passed. And he doubted Bannerman’s mob would return. He should go back to the office, reply to some of those messages, call the mainland, start working on a Weapon Discharged incident report. It would be his first. And it wouldn’t be very flattering.
On second thought, maybe he’d stay put for an hour and monitor the situation. Meantime, he might as well get as comfortable as he could.
Middleton kept a by-the-book emergency bag in the Bronco, and was glad of it. He wrestled out of his soaking uniform and into a dry sweatshirt and pants, and peeled the wrapper off an energy bar. He sat and watched the storm rage around him, his mind replaying the evening’s events.
Some peace officer. First sign of trouble, out comes the gun. He was supposed to heal the community, bring it together, solve problems. Instead he’s done just the opposite, gotten both sides angrier at each other. And over what?
The one thing that they all valued. That rock.
He swivelled one of spotlights up towards the cut, hoping to glimpse the Greeting Man on his rocky clifftop, maybe recapture that sensation of timelessness he’d felt earlier. But all he could see were cascading sheets of rain. He killed the light and sat alone in the dark, listening to the relentless, hypnotic thrum of rain on the roof of the cab.
He had so much work to do, so much …
Middleton woke to the blinding glare of sunlight reflecting off slick surfaces. Blinking, he stepped out of the Bronco.
The entire landscape looked freshly pressure-washed: clean, dripping, brilliantly shiny. It looked, thought Middleton, like a land newly-born. The wedge of sky visible through the cut was a dazzling blue. Tree branches glittered with beads of bright water. Even the toppled excavator looked harmless, like an abandoned, oversized toy.
Then it hit him.
He snapped his gaze back, up through the cut to the cliff’s edge.
It was gone.
He began at a walk, vaulted the gateway and carried on at a jog, which quickly turned into a full-out run through the wooded path that led up to the cliff. He slowed as he reached the clearing, staring in disbelief.
The Greeting Man was gone. In fact, the entire portion of the cliff where he stood was gone. A ragged seam of soil and moss showed where the mass of stone had separated and fallen to the rocks below. Stunned, Middleton walked to the edge, and looked over.
It was a sheer drop of fifty feet to a shore of flat, layered sandstone. The fallen chunk of cliff was clearly visible below, half submerged but still largely intact. But there was no sign of the massive statue. Middleton strained to see some trace of it under the pile of rubble, even though logic told him it would be on top of or beside the slide, not underneath it. Perhaps it was already underwater – the incoming tide was high this morning, crashing against the base of the cliff, and it was difficult to see clearly. Yes, Middleton decided, it had to be down there in the shallows, camouflaged among the restless elements of water, stone and flickering sunshine. It had to be.