The Mabel Who Knew Too Much
Chapter 6: Vertigo!
As she ran at full tilt, Mabel had to re-dial 911 twice before getting it right. The operator asked what her emergency was. "There's a girl stuck on the water tower!" Mabel yelled.
"Which water—"
"Gravity Falls! Gravity Falls!"
"Grav—I'll dispatch someone. Who is this, please?"
"Mabel Pines, Mystery Shack! Hurry, please!" Mabel had reached the open ground around the tower. She shut off her phone and yelled, "Pacifica!"
From up on the tower came a faint yell: "Mabel? Why are you here? Just go away!"
"Pacifica, we've been worried sick! Help's coming!"
Sounding like her old petulant self, Pacifica shouted, "Go away, Mabel! You'll ruin everything!"
"Hang on!" Mabel reached the ladder—on the far side from Pacifica—and began to climb. "I'm coming up!" Halfway up, the world started to spin, and Mabel had to close her eyes as her stomach churned. Ack! I forgot I developed a fear of heights on this thing! Have to climb up to Pacifica. Have to—force myself—
Windy up here. Cooler than on the ground, despite the afternoon sun. Three more rungs up, slowly, so slowly, but she had to force herself to step, turn loose of her hold, get a grip higher up, half-step, half drag herself up—and beneath her foot, one of the rungs gave way with a sickening crack! Mabel screamed as she felt herself starting to fall—
Then she tightened her grasp and for a dizzy second she seemed to swing over a vast chasm. She couldn't open her eyes, she couldn't do it.
"Help!" It came out as a kitten-sized whimper.
Mabel found herself hanging by both hands, swinging as the wind gusted and eased—and by the seconds she was getting dizzier and dizzier—
Sirens! The wails were sharp and clear, distant but approaching—
And then—a scream!
A shouted word tore Mabel's throat raw: "Pacifica!"
Through the legs and struts of the tower, Mabel saw a flash of the falling girl, dressed in the same clothes she had worn in the surveillance videos taken at the Mall, a deep lavender skirt, boots, a paler lavender blouse—blonde hair flying—a sickening, final-sounding crunch!
"Pacifica!" Mabel wailed, and she had to close her eyes again. She couldn't stand to open them. The whole world spun out of control.
The sirens died with a few last whoops, and she heard voices down on the ground: "Stabilize the neck! Gurney, gurney! Get her into the ambulance! Quick!"
"One, two, three, lift!"
She heard a car door slamming, then one of the voices shouted up: "Girl! You on the ladder! Come down!"
"Can't," Mabel called out, her voice hoarse. "Ladder broke!"
"Ladder—I see it! Hang on! We'll send somebody. I can't stay. We have to get this girl to the hospital! Just hang on, help is coming!"
The sirens blared again and dwindled. Mabel desperately tried to pull herself up, but she lacked the strength in her arms. Her hands were sweating. Her teeth began to chatter, but not with cold. I'm gonna fall too, I'm gonna fall too—
A car screeched to a halt down below. A voice—Sheriff Blubs—"Miss Pines! Hold on! We're comin' up for you!"
"Can't—slipping!"
Then a rougher, urgent voice: "Hang on, pumpkin! I'm nearly there!"
"Grunkle Stan!" Now she felt the ladder vibrating as her great-uncle all but bounded upwards, his greater weight threatening to shake her grip loose.
But she managed not to fall, and then when he spoke again, he was quite close: "OK, Mabel, now listen to me: I'm gonna reach up and grab your right foot. I'm gonna steady you. When I've got you, you have to help me. You grab hold of the uprights of the ladder, not the rungs. I'll hold you up and set your foot on the next rung down. You understand me, sweetie?"
"Y-Y-Yes."
"Attagirl! Easy does it now." She felt a firm grip on her right foot. "OK, sweetie, I got you. I'm gonna take some of the weight off. Now move your left hand to the upright. Get a good grip. Now the right hand. OK, that's good. You ready?"
"Hu—uh-huh." Strangely, now that help was at hand, Mabel started to shiver violently.
"Don't be scared. I'm with you. I got you. Here we go, nice and easy." Upward pressure on her foot, easing the ache in her arms. With a convulsive gasp, Mabel moved her grip lower. "Good. Now let yourself down slow. I got you." She felt his big hand supporting her butt, and the weight eased even more. "You're nearly there. Just three more inches. OK, here's the rung. Stretch down, there ya go. Now get your left foot down, same rung."
It was like a nightmare in slow motion, but Mabel managed it.
"You did great. Come on down, pumpkin. You're doin' fine. I'm gonna be right behind you. You'll feel my chest against the backs of your legs. If you fall, I'm right here to catch you."
"My—my butt will—be—right in your—"
Stan actually laughed, though it sounded more like a dog's frightened yip. "Won't be the first time I've been called a buttface. Come on. That's right One rung at a time. Got a dozen to go. Eleven. Ten. Good girl!"
"You need any help?" Deputy Durland's voice.
Stanley already stood on the ground, and his voice dripped with sarcasm: "Thanks so much, but it's OK. I got her."
Then before she reached the ground, Mabel felt her Grunkle's arms close around her waist and lift her free. He set her down and she spun to hug him, shaking and crying like a three-year-old. "Grunkle Stan, I was so scared!"
He patted her back. "Cry it out, you'll feel better. I know you were scared, sweetie, I know. But you done good. Ford once told me that courage ain't not feelin' fear, but feelin' it and still doin' what you have to anyway."
Shuddering and sobbing, Mabel gasped, "Grunkle Stan, Pacifica fell off the tower!"
"Yeah," Blubs said, sounding shaken. "Some Mossy Run EMT's happened to be close by and the 911 operator got them on the horn. They're takin' her to the Mossy Run Trauma Center."
"Is she—how is she?" Grunkle Stan asked.
"Too early to tell," Blubs said, standing with his thumbs hooked into his gun belt. He turned as a green truck sped into the clearing around the base of the tower and parked in a spray of dust. Six men spilled out, wearing forest-ranger fire outfits—yellow fire-retardant coveralls, helmets, and over them, hoods. "Forestry Emergency Service," the driver said, flashing a badge. "Who's in charge?"
"I am," Blubs said, tilting his hat back. "I'm Sheriff of Gravity Falls."
"I'm his deputy," Durland said. He added, "I got a bell."
"Glad to know you," the man said without shaking hands with either of the lawmen. "I'm Team Leader Smith. As you know, Sheriff, the water tower is on Forest Service land. It's our jurisdiction. We'll have to go up and check the site of the accident."
"There's a rung missin' outa the ladder about halfway up," Stan told him.
Smith glanced up at the ladder. "Yes, I see. We can repair that. I'll have to ask you folks to back off and give us some room. We'll need to survey the area for evidence. May we count on your cooperation, Sheriff?"
"Uh—sure thing."
"Good. Then please get these civilians to a safe distance."
"Aren't—aren't you going to ask me what happened?" Mabel said in a small voice.
"Are you a witness?"
"Yes."
Smith snapped his fingers. "Mr. Jones. Take this girl aside and question her, please."
An unsmiling young man said, "Yessir." He took off his hood and said, "This way," to Mabel. He wasn't old—mid-twenties, maybe—with rusty-red hair, trimmed close, and a face so homely it was almost attractive. He opened a back door for Mabel and said, "We'll talk in here."
The next half hour was later hard for Mabel to remember. Mr. Jones had her sit beside in the truck while he started a voice recorder. He got her to tell him her name, her address, and then said, "Now, Miss Pines, just tell me in your own words what you witnessed."
"It was Pacifica," Mabel said haltingly. "Pacifica Northwest. We've all been so worried about her. She's been missing since yesterday. She was up on the circular walk around the base of the tower, just standing there when I saw her. I yelled to her that I was coming to help and I climbed about halfway up and a r-rung b-broke under my f-foot and I heard her s-scream, and—" Mabel gulped hard—"and I s-saw Pacifica f-falling!"
"Did she jump? Was she pushed?"
"I couldn't s-see how it hap-happened. S-she was on the far s-side of the tank."
"Did you see anyone up there with her?"
"No. Nobody. Just Pacifica."
"Are you sure it was her?"
Mabel gave him a resentful glance. "Uh-huh. Yes, I knew—know her really well. It was P-Pacifica. H-how is she? Is she gonna be all right?"
Without emotion, Jones replied, "I have no information about that."
Stan pounded once, hard, on the truck door. "Hey!"
Jones opened the door. "Yes, sir?"
"That's my niece you got there," Stan said. "I want to make sure you're not scarin' her."
"Sir, I have no intention of frightening Mabel. I have just a few more questions." When Stan didn't move, Jones sighed. "You can listen in if you wish." He turned back to Mabel. "Do you know any reason why Miss Northwest might have been feeling depressed or sui—"
Mabel was shaking her head. "No. No. She doesn't get sad, she gets mad. I mean, it wouldn't be like her at all! S-she's usually kinda a take-charge girl, you know?"
Jones nodded. "I see. But I have to ask this: Do you believe she might have deliberately jumped?"
"No!" Mabel yelled. "No. Not Pacifica. No way."
"You seem very sure."
"I am."
"Believe her," Grunkle Stan said. "Mabel's the most honest person I know."
"Sir—"
A car roared up, and Mabel recognized the Northwests' limo. It stopped, Wellington leaped out, but before he could open the doors, from the backseat three people emerged: Preston Northwest, ashen-faced, his wife Priscilla, looking haggard and frightened, and a tall, trim young man in khakis, a white shirt, and a light blue sweater vest—a teenager taller even than Wendy Corduroy—with a handsome shock of auburn hair and the chiseled features you see on statues of patriots in New England.
"What happened?" Preston demanded, as they hurried to the truck.
Jones stepped out. "Sir, I—"
"Where is our daughter?" Priscilla asked, grabbing him by the yellow sleeve of his coveralls.
The radio chirped, and Jones said, "One moment, please." He opened the front door and reached for the microphone. "Jones here."
"Smith here. We've examined the tower, nothing significant here. Brown has repaired the ladder. We're coming down."
"Roger that." Jones said to Mabel, "You're free to go. All right, everybody, we need to move you back. The team's coming down and they'll have evidence bags and equipment—pretty cumbersome stuff to handle on a ladder. For safety, let's step back to the far side of the limousine, please."
They all crowded back. The men, indistinguishable from each other in their gear, climbed down one after the other and then hustled their equipment back into the truck. Smith split off from the group, came over and introduced himself. "I'm Preston Northwest, Pacifica's father," Preston said. "This is my wife, Priscilla."
"Sir, Ma'am. I'm sorry this happened. Kids shouldn't venture up on these things, but—well, they're kids."
"Where is our daughter?" wailed Priscilla.
"She's been taken to a hospital, Ma'am. Your sheriff will have the full details."
"Is she all right? Is she badly hurt?" Preston asked.
"I don't' have any information, sorry," Smith told him.
"Sir!" Jones called, "the team's buttoned the truck up."
"We have to go now," Smith said. He reached inside his jumpsuit and produced a card. "Here, Mr. Northwest. You can get in touch with me any time at this number. We didn't see your daughter—we arrived after she'd been taken in for medical care. But let me know if there's anything I can do for you. In the meantime—talk to your sheriff. He'll put you in touch with the hospital."
"Yes," Preston said, sounding numb. "Uh. Thank—thank you."
The young man asked, "Are you one of Pacifica's friends?"
Mabel nodded and climbed down from the truck. "Yes. I'm Mabel Pines. I saw her on the tower."
"Well, thanks for trying to help her," the young man said with a sad kind of smile. "We appreciate that. Are you her grandfather?" he asked Stanley.
"Great-uncle. Stanley Pines," he said.
The young man nodded. "So good to meet you," he said courteously. "My name's Northby Northwest."