Sinking Suspicions

Chapter 12

68 Chapter 12 A sharp pain rocked Buck into consciousness, where he found himself in a precarious position. His backside felt like a bullet had ripped through it, and his head hurt. He took inventory of his body parts by starting at his head and moving down. He could taste blood, he had a bump on his head, and his lip throbbed. His arms were both all right, but when he tried to move his legs a burning sensation shot through his bad knee. “Damn,” he said, and gingerly poked at his kneecap with his thumbs. It wasn’t broken, he thought, just worn out. It’d come around in a little while. It always did. He brushed dirt from his face and looked up, sizing up the extent of his predicament. He had fallen into a sinkhole—a deep one—and landed on a narrow shelf. Even if he could stand up, there didn’t appear to be any easy way to climb out. How did he fall into a sinkhole? He couldn’t remember. “Think, old man. Think,” he said to himself. Eventually, bits and pieces began to form in his memory. The IRS. Someone screwed up his income tax return. He could lose his ranch. He tried to remember the rest, but it wouldn’t come. They could call it old age if they wanted to, but he knew the truth. He couldn’t remember half of what he did because his brain had been shook up in the war. Shook up the way his mother used to shake up a pint jar of cream, turning it into butter. He knew it and the government knew it, he thought angrily. 69 But the government was unwilling to admit the truth. If they claimed responsibility , they might have to pay him some money. Buck didn’t want their money. He just wanted to be left alone. He shifted his weight and focused on his current problem. How in the world had he ended up here? He’d seen plenty of the cylinder-shaped holes in and around the county, but he never dreamed he could ever be so unaware as to fall into one. He could hear rushing water and realized he’d landed above a stream. It must have taken decades to create the cavity that might end up being his grave if he couldn’t get out. He supposed the ancient limestone that was so prevalent in the area had simply given way when he stepped on it. For now, the hole seemed to be stable, for which he was grateful. He leaned his head against a rock and assessed his situation. He estimated the distance to the top of the sinkhole to be about fifteen feet. The void beneath him was too dark to determine how far it was to the bottom, so for now, he would concentrate on the top. He called out for help. Nothing. Where was he, anyway? Was he on his own property or somewhere else? He couldn’t remember seeing any sinkholes on his land. He knew his voice would never carry far enough to get someone’s attention unless they happened to be fairly close to the hole. It would take more than a miracle for someone to find him. Without food and water, he guessed he might last a week. He tried to relax and overcome the sharp pain in his knee. He wiped his face on his shoulder and tried to adjust his sitting position. Somewhere down below he heard a bullfrog bellow. “How in the hell did you get down there?” His voice echoed in the empty space between his ledge and the bottom of what he surmised might be his final resting place. The bullfrog bellowed again. Buck realized there must not only be a large air cavity, but also a pool in the underground stream for a frog to sit around and call out to other frogs. He thought about it for a minute and then dismissed the idea. If he was ever to get out of this sinkhole, it was going to have to be from the top. He hadn’t quite figured out how that was going to happen yet, but if he could climb out of as many foxholes on as many islands as he had in the Pacific, then 70 this shouldn’t be that big a deal...