by Zoje Stage
“Sorry to wake y’all up like this, but I was tossing and turning all night, bothered by something I couldn’t quite point a finger at. And luck of luck, y’all didn’t get as far as I thought.”
Beck reached for her boots. Force of habit meant she still turned each one over and gave it a shake before putting them on. Imogen would have preferred to keep retreating, away from the tableau, but without that option she had no choice but to crawl the length of her mattress pad to get her boots.
“What are you doing here?” Mornings, even on the best of days, were an existential struggle, and being wrenched from sleep by a madman made it infinitely worse. Was this really happening? Imogen’s heart was in her ears, a muted storm. How had reality caught up with her imagination?
“Just get yer things together. Come on.”
“We’re heading out,” Beck protested, quickly folding up her mattress pad.
“That was a mistake.” Gale glanced around, surveying the trail both before and behind them, nervous. “Let’s just get back. Better there, no one around.”
Beck and Imogen exchanged frantic looks. Going back to Boucher with him was like getting in the car with the kidnapper: doom. No one who wanted to survive an abduction went along without a fight. Imogen was certain her sister was thinking the same thing.
“Can’t we just talk about this? We’ll make some coffee and talk here?” Imogen said. Beck’s brain would be sharper with an infusion of caffeine, and they desperately needed to be alert. His desperation had been obvious—how had they underestimated him so badly? But hindsight was the devil’s mirror, and of course it was clear now that they’d made a terrible miscalculation.
Gale, the knife still at Tilda’s throat, jerked his head around, looking this way and that. He was jumpy. Too jumpy. His knuckles were white and the silver blade almost grazed Tilda’s windpipe. He was in no condition to hold a rational conversation. But Imogen would almost rather plunge into an abyss than follow him anywhere. Nothing good would come of it. She’d created a dozen different story lines for him in her head, and in none of them was he a kidnapper. And if he was capable of even worse things than what she’d imagined…
Before complete terror took hold, she made eye contact with Beck. Gave one shake of her head. “We can’t,” she mouthed.
“There were people over there.” Gale gestured with his chin in the direction of Hermit. “Worked good fer a couple days, got some necessities. But you know I don’t wanna see nobody else. Didn’t even wanna see you, but glad I caught back up ’cause here’s what was bugging me.” He scrutinized Beck. “Maybe you already seen me on the news, or heard something. I know they’re out there putting two and two together—even if Doug didn’t say who borrowed his car—thanks to DNA and other things I couldn’t make disappear. And you girls are gonna tell someone ’bout me the first chance ya get. Being a doctor, ya gotta report a gunshot wound—”
“I wasn’t going to report anything,” Beck insisted. “And we have no idea who—”
“It’s the law, ain’t it? You know whatcha learn by breaking the law? You learn how many damn laws there are. Now hurry up, get a move on.”
“You’re wanted by the police?” Imogen, disoriented, toyed with the possibility that she was lost inside one of her own stories. She wanted to ask what he’d done, but why bother when she was a conjuror of nightmares and could simply guess and be close enough to right.
Beck remained calm, her face unreadable. She efficiently packed their loose things while Tilda looked on helplessly. “I can’t guarantee no one else is going to come out to Boucher,” Beck said in her smooth hypnotist’s voice. “People do go out there.”
“Didn’tcha say I could keep going, head west? Maybe we’ll do that. But let’s—”
“Why are you doing this?” Imogen begged as dread started to boil inside her. Maybe Beck was thinking that, for Tilda’s sake, they needed to comply, but Imogen wasn’t ready. It felt too much like giving up. “We helped you. We gave you our stuff and fed you and Beck fixed your arm.”
The hand at Tilda’s throat relaxed a little. “Yer not gonna do anything stupid?” he asked her.
“No.” Her voice was a croak.
Gale released her. Tilda scampered out of arm’s reach, releasing a sob, and quickly put on her boots. Imogen held her breath. Had she gotten through to him?
“Last night. I was so tired and I shoulda been asleep. But I kept thinking; I made so many mistakes. Gave you my name. That’s what I do ’cause I’m a friendly person, but I shouldn’ta done that. And you know what I look like. And I let slip a few things I probly shoulda kept to myself. Fuck it if I ain’t the biggest softy at heart, when I see a person as a person and I relate to them. But it gets me in trouble, sometimes keeps me from doing what needs to be done.”
Was he saying what Imogen thought he was saying? That if he wasn’t such a people person he wouldn’t have let something like three innocent, mortal women get in his way?
“We won’t get you in trouble, Gale. We really don’t know who you are,” said Imogen. His other name came to her, Red Fred. He was right in a way: if he’d been less chatty they wouldn’t have known anything about him other than the nature of his injury. And Imogen had no idea if that alone would’ve made Beck report him to the authorities. But now that he’d come after them, they knew he was wanted by the police. And if he expected to be on the news, he was either a narcissist or had done something really, really bad.
“We promise we won’t tell!” Tilda said.
“There’s nothing to tell,” Beck maintained. “You’re a random…guy. I don’t care why you’re here. I was perfectly fine and serious about going our separate ways and calling it a day.”
“You”—he pointed the knife at her for emphasis—“are a big fat liar. Big fat doctor brain. Think yer smarter than everyone. I’m not stupid—wanna know what I know? Lit a few matches as the night wore on—hate being in the dark, fucking hate it. I’da had a flashlight if I hadn’t been worried ’bout how you girls were gonna hike in the dark! See? Then this morning, soon as the sun started up, started going through the stuff, seeing what’s what and if there were more matches. And you know what I found? No fishing tackle. No line, no hooks.” His face twisted; his nostrils flared. He looked like an injured bull sick of playing games with the matador. “You don’t appreciate. How nice I was trying to be. Fucking bitches trying to get over on me. Now come on.” He flicked the knife toward the trail.
Beck’s expression gave away nothing, but Imogen wanted to kick herself: she shouldn’t have let Beck try to pass off the lie. Gale had already proven himself to be observant, and if Beck and Tilda hadn’t noticed—or understood what that meant about his character—Imogen should’ve been more assertive. And while she was at it, she could’ve made a better argument for pushing on toward Hermit. For someone who made her living with words, she sure didn’t use them well when it really counted.
Before she could come up with another line of negotiation, another stall tactic—which was itself dangerous, considering his bad mood and jitters—a helicopter swooped past. The discord was an invasion, complete with the gunfire of rotary blades. But it was a common sound within the Canyon: some people preferred to gain a dragonfly’s perspective, a quick hover before darting away. They were simply tourists out for a morning excursion, but Gale jumped back against a rock, plastering himself into a shadow.
“See?” he said, when the chopper receded.
“It’s just a sightseeing flight.” Given Gale’s new distrust of Beck, Imogen considered it her duty to take over the talking.
“They’re looking fer me.”
“Not them,” Imogen insisted. “Gale, honestly, we don’t mean you any harm. I’m sorry—we’re sorry—about lying about the fishing gear. For what it’s worth, we always talk about bringing some, but never do. We just wanted to finish our trip in peace, and let you get on with your own business.”
She was trying to be clever, emphasizing their willin
gness to be candid and discreet. But her hope that he’d reconsider lasted less than two seconds.
“We can talk about that back where we were. Come on, stop dillydallying.”
Imogen turned to Beck, pleading with her eyes, unsure what to do but certain she didn’t want to follow him back to Boucher. Gale’s knife had been sharp enough to cleanly slice the cord on their hanging food bag. And if he’d had an altercation with someone with a gun—and won with a knife—they never wanted to see that knife in full action. Beck gave the tiniest of shrugs, and then a barely perceptible nod. She shouldered her backpack and after a second’s hesitation, Imogen did too. Beck had some sort of plan, Imogen was sure of it. She handed Tilda her walking stick.
Tilda flared back to life. “You’re going with him?”
“It’ll be fine,” Beck said. If Dr. Beck ever had to tell someone they had cancer, that was surely the manner she’d use. Gentle; unflappable.
“No, wait.” The sisters had taken a step forward but stopped at Tilda’s urging. “I can’t help you with anything,” she said to Gale. “I don’t know anything about outdoor survival, I’d never even been in a sleeping bag before a few nights ago.”
Imogen looked at Beck, jolted that Tilda seemed on the verge of bargaining for her own release. Was this a clever ploy to try to get help, or something more selfish? The situations were radically different, but the last time they’d encountered trouble in the Canyon they’d foolishly not stuck together. Judging by the fury that flashed in Beck’s eyes, she was thinking the same thing.
“I had nothing to do with planning this trip,” Tilda went on, pleading to Gale. “You can have the rest of my gear, there’s nothing else I can do to help you. And I’m not a doctor, I don’t have to tell anyone about anything.”
He looked like he was considering her offer, but then he chuckled and turned to Imogen and Beck. “True colors. Always find out who yer friends really are when the shit comes down.” His amusement vanished as suddenly as it had arrived and he took a step toward Tilda. She tried to retreat, but he grabbed her arm. “Pretty sure that makes you the phoniest a the bunch. The one I need to keep my closest eye on. No more debating,” he bellowed to all of them.
Beck strode forward, ready to scramble through Travertine’s demarcating boulders and lead them back to Boucher. Everything about this felt so, so wrong.
“After you.” Gale, mimicking a gentleman, indicated with a sweeping, bladed hand that Tilda should fall in line next.
There they were, proceeding as they would have on any other hike—Beck, then Tilda, then Imogen. Only this time Gale took up the rear position, where none of them could escape his observant gaze. For an instant the air rippled as reality divided itself. Imogen had experienced this before, when time demarcated a Before and an After. They were in an After now.
From behind them, Gale started to warble a hoarse but jolly tune.
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray…”
21
Imogen really wanted a drink of water. And a pee. A sliver of her was grateful it was a fairly short walk back to Boucher, ninety minutes or so. But the rest of her rampaged with regret that they hadn’t pushed on the previous night. Gale was right: there were probably people there. He might not have risked going all the way back to Hermit to kidnap them, and even if he had, they might have had a chance to call out for help. But the extra miles hadn’t seemed crucial then: they’d parted with Gale on decent terms, and he hadn’t threatened them in any way.
In the light of day there was a whole new litany of should-haves, sharpened by the mirror of Imogen’s remorse. They hadn’t known why he was lying low or who was after him—and wouldn’t know now if he hadn’t come unglued by his own paranoia. Imogen hated to think that they had that in common.
Gale wasn’t singing anymore, but she wished he weren’t at her back. His eyes felt like hot darts burning all the way through her backpack. What was he thinking? Was it better or worse that he was winging it, making decisions on the fly? He was good at improvising, but his brash actions were dangerous—for all of them. But maybe he didn’t see it that way, or worse, maybe he didn’t care.
To distract herself from the bottomless what-ifs, she concentrated on the rhythm of their three walking sticks. Tap-tap-tap. Lift, lift, lift. Swing forward, forward, forward. Plant again, one by one. Tap-tap-tap. Maybe they could use their sticks for something, defensive or offensive. When they were little, Becky and Imogen liked to sword-fight and joust with them while backpacking in West Virginia. A bamboo walking stick had many applications: it could support your weight as you crossed a creek, or become a tent pole if you jammed it into the ground. At the very least, the sticks could help keep the man and his weapon at a distance.
Or maybe…The Scary Spot was coming up. Tilda would probably hesitate again; they might be able to use her lack of confidence in some way, a stall tactic if nothing else. And if they could keep just the right gap between them…could they—one of them—use a walking stick to push him into the gorge?
It would come with a risk. If Gale grabbed for the stick as it prodded him, its holder would have to let go—fast—lest his momentum drag them both off the edge. But it would be a quick way to end this, and a tidy way to dispose of him. If they could pull it off. And if they were ready to resort to such means to restore their freedom.
Could Beck be thinking something like that too? If only they could exchange even a few words. If he went first could one of them rush forward and stab him with the bamboo pole hard enough so he’d lose his balance? What if he went last? That might work better; he wouldn’t be able to see any of them on the other side of the Promontory. They could surprise him with a quick thrust from the blind side of the rock. She could already imagine him falling, hear his scream diminish as he hurtled toward his death.
I’m not a murderer. But that’s the perfect murder. At least it would be if she were writing a book.
They approached the spot soon enough.
“Stop,” Gale commanded, and Beck, Tilda, and Imogen all came to a halt. He strode past them and surveyed the crossing. The downhill footing from this side would always make it harder, even if they weren’t being shepherded across against their will.
Beck swung her head around and as soon as they made eye contact Imogen took up her stick like a lance and made a quick stabbing motion, hoping her sister understood. Beck nodded. They had only seconds before Gale turned back around, but it was enough to convey a general idea.
“I hate this fucking bitch of a trail,” Gale grumbled. “What kinda people call this fun? Was expecting a desert, lots a rabbits to eat and some big cactus—you can get water from some kinds a cactus, ya know, purer than rain. Not this…fucking cliffs.” He scowled. “Bet you all’d love to see me topple right off that ledge, probly think it’d serve me right.”
No one said anything. He looked at each of them. Imogen hoped her face didn’t display any eagerness, or guilt—about this, at least, Gale was right to be paranoid.
“You go first,” he said to Tilda. “Then I’ll figure out what to do with these two. I’m betting they’re better at it, more experience and not so posh. Probly got yerself a Chihuahua back home, carry it around in a little handbag—a Mexican dog fer a Mexican girl, right?”
Tilda stepped backward. “No. You’re right—what kind of people call this fun? I’m not doing this again.”
Her whole body was rigid, spring-locked, like it had been the evening before as she gripped the pot of boiling water, trying to decide. Imogen didn’t stop her this time. Tilda didn’t have a pack on—with adrenaline and good health on her side, she might be able to outrun Gale to Hermit. Gale started to turn his head away from her, perhaps to order Imogen or Beck across the divide. Tilda bolted.
One second she was there, the next she was gone, replaced by a wake of dust. She was fast.
Beck and Imogen instantly thrust their walking sticks at Gale’s torso, trying to block his pu
rsuit. He tried to defend himself, grabbing for their sticks, but after a couple of jabs in the gut he held up his hands, amused, and sidestepped away. He reached behind his back and untucked his shirt—
It happened in slow motion. It happened in the blink of an eye. But she knew what he was reaching for.
“Oh fuck!” Imogen screeched.
—and pulled a handgun from the waistband of his pants.
Beck spun toward Tilda’s diminishing back. “Tilda! Get down!”
Gale pointed the gun. Aimed. Fired. Fired again.
The sound exploded. Imogen felt it inside her, shredding the soft membranes of her sanity. She gripped her ears and howled in torment.
Tilda sprawled on the trail, a graceless collapse of limbs.
Beck shouted something. Maybe Tilda’s name. Imogen still heard a barrage of bullets, the faint memory of distant screams.
Tilda turned over, looked back at them.
Beck grabbed Imogen, hugged her hard around the neck. “She’s okay! It’s okay!”
Tilda knelt in the dirt, her eyes locked on Gale. He grinned, the black pistol now in his relaxed hand, pointed toward the ground.
“Aimed way over yer head,” he called. “This time. Now get yer dumb ass back here.” He turned to Imogen, whom Beck was still trying to console. “I didn’t shoot yer friend, you can calm down.”
“It’s okay, you’re okay.”
“She’s the scaredy one, huh?”
Tilda watched Gale the whole way back. She made a wide berth around him and huddled with Beck and Imogen.
“You okay?” Beck asked her.
“Now y’all know what’s what, okay?” Gale said. He fiddled with the handgun. “Safety back on. Safety first, second, and always. Got this little souvenir from the cop who pulled me over. He didn’t need it no more.” He tucked it back in his pants. “I never like having to hurt people, goes against my grain. But I wasn’t gonna go back to prison just fer driving across a state line. Now, shall we try this again?”
