by Zoje Stage
25
She stayed hunched over, hoping some of the rocks and shrubs in the flat area around camp would hide her if Gale looked over. His back was still to her as he led Tilda to their latrine area; she could hear him whistling that grating sunshine song. Imogen needed to get farther up the creek as fast as she could, to gain the protection of Boucher’s rugged walls. Her mind was racing faster than her legs, faster than her heart. If Gale couldn’t hear her scrambling over rocks, he could probably detect her heartbeat, as subtle as a fighter plane breaking the sky, rolling out fat scars of thunder.
A whimper escaped her throat. She wanted to cry. She wanted to huddle into a ball and roll away. Too many emotions were surging through her and she didn’t know where to put them. But there wasn’t time to cry.
She ran. How much time did she have?
Even if it took less than fifteen minutes to dash down to the river, Gale would know she’d run off within five—maybe slightly more if Tilda couldn’t easily relieve herself. He wouldn’t know, at first, which direction she’d gone. Maybe he’d assume she’d booked it back to Hermit—Tilda’s plan, and the only area he was personally familiar with. Or maybe Beck would feed him misinformation, tell him she’d fled up the Boucher Trail to the rim. (No one fled up the Boucher Trail; it was even worse than Hermit.)
A part of her was tempted to turn back. It might’ve been a decent backup option if Tilda hadn’t already tried running off, but now they knew too much about Gale. Fuck. If only there’d been time to weigh the pros and cons of their various strategies. Getting Gale in a pissed-off frenzy was not a good idea. And they’d nearly reached a point of mutual trust, or so it seemed to her. This could be a disaster—unless Beck was right, and Gale was only biding his time until he was ready to dispose of them. Still, she didn’t want to put Beck and Tilda in even more peril. If she failed now, he’d never trust them again.
As her breath grew more ragged a squeal slipped through, but she wouldn’t wail, wouldn’t scream: if it echoed off the walls Gale might find her.
Her only hope was that a commercial rafting excursion would come by in good time—and good time meant within minutes of her reaching the river. She wasn’t sure if the smaller, private groups carried satellite phones, but she expected—as obviously Beck did—that the commercial outfits would. Without satellite phones they’d have no way to call for help if something happened to one of their tourists, and they couldn’t risk a week or more on the water with no way to summon assistance. She tried to remember how often they’d come by yesterday. At least twice, but she hadn’t bothered to notice if it was on any kind of schedule.
Panic and desperation drove her. She kept expecting to hear footfalls coming up behind her, slipping on gravelly rocks as he chased her down, but so far she was alone. Ahead of her, the rapids grew louder. The roar built, a dramatic crescendo, as she reached her destination. Panting, she gripped her knees and tried to catch her breath.
Throughout most of the Grand Canyon sheer cliffs came straight down into the river and the Canyon continued its process of majestic erosion, gaining incremental depth. Riverbanks existed only where a creek flowed out of an inner canyon and joined the Colorado. Imogen took a moment to get her bearings. It looked different under the current circumstances, no longer the place the trio had come for respite. Now she surveyed places to hide, to stay out of sight if—when—Gale came crashing down the creek.
There was a cluster of trees growing some distance from the river’s edge, but Imogen feared they were too far away: the rafters would slip past before she could run down and wave them over. She had a couple hundred feet of walkable land on either side of the creek-river intersection. On the far side, the strand was narrow and she didn’t see any hiding places, with the ancient wall of schist so close to the water. Maybe there was an outcropping there big enough to hide her, but she couldn’t be sure without crossing the creek.
Desperate, the clock ticking, she looked for something closer. There were stands of tamarisk. The invasive shrubs had wispy trunks and leafy, frondlike branches. They grew in clusters in the river’s wet soil and Imogen didn’t care that they threatened the native ecology, they were the best option she had. She scurried over, found a promising, dense clump, and hunkered down. Here she was, hiding in a bush for the second time in her life, hoping a gunman wouldn’t spot her.
Her pulse pounded in her temples and the river thumped in her ears. There was still no human movement behind her, just the swaying of the river-fed plants and the gushing creek.
“Come on, come on,” she prayed, her eyes glued to the curve where a fleet of rafters might appear. Her throat felt raw. She took a sip of water. And waited.
Beck was being optimistic, sending her with water in case she succeeded in evading Gale and was on her own for a while. Even while they were separated, Beck was looking out for her, though Imogen couldn’t shake the horrible, clawing feeling that Beck was being naïve, that she’d misjudged—and that she and Tilda might pay a steep price for it. Imogen would never recover if something happened to Beck as a result of her own inability to win a damn argument.
It didn’t take long before her thigh muscles started to tremble, so she abandoned her squat—better for leaping into action—and sat on the slightly damp ground. The roiling water was mesmerizing, a repetitive wash of fluid movement and white noise. It was easy to fall under its tranquilizing spell. But she couldn’t.
What else? There had to be something she, or they, hadn’t thought of yet. Some other way to signal to people, some other way to handle Gale, some other type of weapon they could make.
Suddenly inspired, she patted at the left hip pocket of her cargo shorts. It was there—her tiny memo pad and the half pencil. Frantically, she scribbled a note. That long-ago morning when their parents still hadn’t made it to Hermit, she and Beck had deliberated hiking back to the small ranger station. They’d known it was just a locked shed, but they’d considered writing a message and leaving it on the door. Now, Imogen would leave a note behind, and if Gale found her too soon, another backpacker or rafter might discover it.
We’ve been kidnapped. Gale shot Texas trooper. At Boucher maybe heading west. Rebekah and Imogen Blum, Tilda Jimenez. Help!
Checking that the coast was clear, she darted out of her hiding place to get closer to the river’s edge. She quickly assembled a cairn of four palm-sized rocks and slid her note between two of them. Cairns were typically made by rangers or seasoned hikers to help mark a trail; she hoped someone would notice the little rock tower and investigate. Her task accomplished, she dashed back to the tamarisk and resumed waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
How often did the rafts go by? It no longer seemed like such a brilliant idea to come out to a remote place in the off-season. The one time they needed people and they’d set an itinerary that almost guaranteed they wouldn’t see any.
“Come on, come on, please, please.” She stood long enough to scan Boucher Creek: still no signs of pursuit. What had Beck done to keep Gale from coming after her? The river chugged along, hurrying in an indifferent way.
She gasped. A raft was coming. And another. Oh my god, this might really work! She jumped out of the tamarisk and raced to the edge of the river. Waved her arms.
“Here! Over here!”
It wasn’t quite what she’d been hoping for—two rafts towing kayaks, a small noncommercial excursion—but it was something. The sight of people practically made her burst: with tears, with hope. She could already see herself in a near future, reuniting with Beck and Tilda, victorious.
“Hey! We need help!” She waved and jumped.
The rafters concentrated on rowing hard through the rapids to keep their inflatable boats driving down the channel they’d chosen.
One took a second to wave a greeting.
She didn’t want a greeting. She thrust her arms in the air, fingers spread wide, and screamed, “Help! Please! Help!”
Another waved. The roaring water carried them—grinning a
nd oblivious—swiftly past.
“Help…!”
And then they were tiny specks, rushing on downstream.
“Come back!” No. No no no. She pivoted upstream—maybe more were coming. “Please, please…”
This was another reason why she needed a commercial operation: raft after raft—enough of a parade that someone would figure out she wasn’t jumping up and down and waving both arms because of an exuberant desire to say “Hi!” Amateur idiots. Even without a satellite phone, eight outdoorsy men and women could have provided some solid backup for handling Gale.
She couldn’t hold it in any longer. With hiccupping sobs, she wept.
How had she failed? She might have toyed with the possibility that—Beck was right—she was a ghost, visible only to those who fervently believed in her existence. But two of the rafters had waved, they’d seen her—but they’d been incapable of imagining a grotesque scenario in the midst of this beauty. She and Beck had thought like that once too. Now they knew. Monsters roamed everywhere.
Tears streaming down her face, she retreated to her leafy hideaway, trying to recall what she’d once learned about the rules of the river. Rafters left from Lees Ferry at least one hour apart. But then what? After days on the Colorado, did everyone still follow the rules? Camp where they were supposed to? Keep their distance from other parties?
Would she have to wait at least an hour before more rafters might go by?
26
Time was the scraping gears of a malfunctioning clock. The cogs ticked and ticked and nothing changed. Imogen longed to know what was happening back at camp. As much as she didn’t want to be with him, being without Beck and Tilda made her anxious. What if no one else came by today? How long was she going to be alone? The optimistic partial canteen of water now seemed insufficient. Could it get her through the next day? It was still overcast and she had absolutely nothing in the way of gear. What if it dropped below freezing overnight? Or what if those clouds let loose a cold rain?
She was the safe one, but her mind made it an utterly miserable experience. When she ran out of ways to worry about herself, she returned to worrying about Beck and Tilda. What if Gale forced them to continue on with him? Where would he go? Slate? Or was he crazy enough to try to get unwilling hostages all the way up Hermit Trail to Beck’s Jeep? He could go faster without them—would he leave them behind? Tied up? Or…?
What if she never saw Beck again?
A noise interrupted her anguished thoughts. It took her a moment to home in on the sound and its direction—reverberating off the rock walls, it seemed to be coming from everywhere. With a mixture of dismay and fear, she finally recognized what it was.
Splashing. Scraping. Scrambling. Someone—or more than one—was coming down Boucher Creek, quick and sloppy.
Then she heard recognizable voices. Goddammit. A minute ago she’d been afraid of never seeing Beck or Tilda again, but if she couldn’t stay hidden now, this attempt at rescue would be lost.
“Stop!” Tilda screeched, her voice ringing with a distress Imogen had never heard.
“Come on!” Gale responded.
Imogen could imagine Gale yanking on Tilda, her wrists tightly bound, not caring if he was making her stumble. Of all the dangers they’d discussed—and encountered—a simple thing like a sprained ankle was potentially disastrous. Gale wasn’t going to summon a mule or helicopter rescue if one of them couldn’t hike out.
His steady banter to hurry them along was punctuated by Tilda’s outcries.
Wait. She didn’t hear Beck. Where was Beck?
Oh God, what if he’d killed Beck…
Her heart did that crazy thing again, slamming against her ribs as her pulse ricocheted in her skull hard enough to make her reel. She needed to know if Beck was with them. She fought the urge to pop her head out, see what was going on, and hunkered deeper into the leafy fronds instead. She’s the scaredy one. Their footsteps quieted as they reached the soggy riverbank. She didn’t need to see them to understand what was happening: Gale was looking for her, scrutinizing the terrain.
Scrunching down even lower, she was able to glimpse an incomplete picture through the striped gaps between the narrow trunks. Legs. Hands—tied behind their backs. They were all there—Beck, too!—standing close together. Gale had a length of cord wrapped around his fist as a leash; Tilda and Beck were tethered together, Tilda in front.
“Know yer here! Come out, come out wherever you are!”
Fear razored up Imogen’s spine. She’d made things worse. Never mind that she’d followed her sister’s instructions, it hadn’t worked and Gale’s tone was menacing. And impatient. She debated if she should give herself up. Beck wouldn’t want her to, and she was afraid she’d already ruined everything, regardless of whether she surrendered or stayed hidden.
“Come on now, I ain’t fucking around. You girls’ve pissed me off one time too many.”
And part of her knew: it was a matter of minutes, maybe less. Her hiding place was inadequate. She felt like a zebra against pink froufrou wallpaper, pretending that holding still was sufficient camouflage. Every second would piss him off more, but she couldn’t come out. Didn’t want to come out. Didn’t want to face him again, or her own defeat.
He spotted something, and resumed dragging Tilda and Beck along. Fuck. Imogen shut her eyes, condemning herself for a lifetime of mistakes. Even her good ideas were bad ideas. Gale kicked over her little tower of rocks. The note started to flutter away, but he snatched it up. Read it. Barked a laugh.
“You girls think a some crazy stuff.”
“Maybe someone picked her up,” Tilda said. “Maybe she’s already way downriver.”
If only. The hope in Tilda’s voice was heartbreaking.
“Yeah. And maybe she tied a note to one a those big black birds and it’s delivering it to Harry Potter.” He laughed again. Crumpled her cry for help and tossed it toward the river. “My boys loved those movies.”
His mood was improving. Imogen knew he could sense her, a predator with a whiff of his prey. The thought of her getting away had pissed him off, scared him, but now he was confident that she was nearby. The more they failed to escape, the more cocksure he got.
“Okay, you had yer fun. Know yer hiding here somewhere, all scared behind yer rock.”
Almost worse than her desire to stay hidden was Gale’s understanding of who she was, as if the word chicken were branded on her skin for all to see. Or it could be a sign that this was the moment to surprise him—to sprint out and clamber onto his back to tear out his hair, puncture his eyes.
He turned to face the stands of tamarisk.
“Ya know, yer not the one that’s gonna get hurt. I already had to hit yer sister. She ain’t as tough as she looks.” He didn’t call out this time and his quiet voice was grisly. His soft tone made her think he was speaking directly to her, having already detected her purple hoodie among the greenery. Her view was still limited to the lower halves of their bodies. What was wrong with Beck? Was Beck’s silence a precaution, or had he done something to her?
“Know this was her idea, you just taking orders. I’ll letcha pick.” It sounded like he was at her side and she almost felt his breath hot on her ear. “You got two choices fer a neck kill. A quick jab in the carotid artery, and bleed out like a stuck pig. It’s the better way to go. Probly hurts less too. Or you cut the windpipe and then you die all panicked and unable to breathe. Some people, if they got little control, just cut ear to ear and go fer everything.”
Imogen wanted to scream. She couldn’t fathom what was happening. How could this man say such things in such a placid tone? Was he really asking her to choose how he should kill Beck? Tilda quietly wept.
“Or, since I know you really like yer big sis, I could put a fast bullet to the brain. That’s more merciful. Yer call.”
Imogen stumbled out of her hiding place. Without even looking at Beck she collapsed to her knees, her hands in front of her on the dirt as she prostrated he
rself, sobbing the only prayer that mattered. “Please don’t kill my sister. Please don’t kill my sister.”
She finally dared to glance up. Through her tears Gale multiplied, so she wiped her arm across her eyes. While Gale had the gun pointed at Beck, he was clearly more interested in the strange slug at his feet. The crying slug with the lavender hair. It seemed as if he’d meant to step on the slug, but now the creature rather captivated him.
“Okay. What about this one?” He swung the gun over to Tilda. She clenched her eyes tight and whimpered, instinctively hunching.
There was a moment. A moment in which Imogen took in Beck’s lip, fat and bleeding, her left eye swollen and starting to bruise.
A moment in which Imogen was glad the gun was no longer aimed at her sister. No one spoke for that moment, though Gale started to grin.
“No—please!” Imogen begged, a second too late.
Gale bent his arm, redirecting the muzzle toward the sky. But he knew which one she’d choose. And apparently thought it was funny. Imogen was grateful Tilda’s eyes were closed; maybe she hadn’t noticed the hesitation. The guilt shimmied inside Imogen, made her want to slough off her skin.
“You gonna follow along peacefully, or you wanna join the chain gang?” Gale wagged the makeshift leash, and Tilda finally opened her eyes.
“I’m coming.” Imogen kept her hands raised as she got to her feet.
“You lead the way,” Gale told her, tucking the gun away.
As she passed Tilda she said, “I’m sorry.”
Tilda clenched her jaw and looked ahead.
Gale and his captives stayed close behind Imogen as she headed back up the creek. She was glad no one could see her face. She felt sodden, defeated; it was an effort to lift her legs and make them work. But she was also furious. Beck might’ve been the leader of their expedition, but if Imogen continued obeying her every command Beck was going to get them all killed.
Every second now might be a wasted opportunity, but for what? Only Imogen had her hands free. Only she could do something, right there, right now. Should she turn on him, weaponless? Shove him against a rock? Push his face under the shallow water and hope Beck and Tilda could help keep him down, even with their hands behind them?
