“You’re an angry little bastard, Eisenbraun, but you’re no longer alone.”

She climbed on top of me and kissed me, her tongue harsh as it probed my mouth, her hand stroking my loins until I entered her again.

Chapter 3

3

There is love of course. And then there’s life, its enemy.

—JEAN ANOUILH

SIX MONTHS LATER …

The August sunrise lit the sheer gray vertical cliff face into a canvas of gold, causing my heart to race. “Andie, I really don’t feel good about this.”

“You’ll feel better once we get started.”

“I don’t want to get started. When you said you knew how to cure my night terrors, I thought we were going for a hike.”

“We are going for a hike—straight up to the summit.”

“Without ropes and harnesses? This is crazy.”

“It’s not crazy, it’s called ‘free soloing,’ and you can do it.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. You have the physical strength, what you’re lacking is the psychological control needed to stay on the wall. It’s all about learning to control your fears through Buddha breathing—in through your nostrils, filling the belly, then slowly exhaling through your mouth. Commit to the climb. Focus your fingertips on the rock; be light like a spider monkey. And whatever you do, Ike, keep looking up.”

*   *   *

Andria and I had been living together just over five months when I began suffering severe anxiety attacks. She had kidded me about feeling the pressures of being domesticated, and in a way she was right. Worrying about my own survival had been far different than protecting the woman I loved from the murderous gangs that roamed the countryside.

Fear entered my dreams in the form of night terrors. Ghoulish men would break into our home, the faceless demons raping and torturing Andria as they pinned me down and forced me to watch. Each night terror ended with her death, followed by my bloodcurdling scream.

Things grew so bad that we had to sleep in separate bedrooms again.

When my anxiety grew into a severe depression, Andria decided we needed a change of scenery. Claiming she knew the perfect mountain hideaway that would be free of the sociopaths, we packed supplies and rode all night on my battery-powered motorcycle, arriving just before dawn at the foot of Buzzard Rock, a 1,145-foot-high mountain located in Loudoun County, Virginia.

As she pointed out our route, I felt the blood drain from my face. “Relax, Ike, I’ve climbed this face a dozen times. I’ll go first, do what I do and you’ll be fine. And remember—”

“I know, I know … keep looking up.”