Getaway

by Zoje Stage

  “It’ll take longer without boots.” Beck looked at the lowering ceiling of clouds.

  “We still have one more pack,” Imogen said. If Gale expected her to carry it, it would be impractical to do barefoot.

  “Boots,” Beck said. And the way she said it left so little room for argument that Gale simply tossed them over.

  “Make you a deal,” he said to Tilda, “since the sisters overruled ya. You haul the last pack up and I won’t tie you. Deal? See how nice I can be?”

  “Deal.”

  Gale had his system down; he wasn’t taking chances. He supervised as Beck tied Imogen’s hands in front of her, and then Tilda tied Beck’s. The knife was sheathed, but he kept one hand at his back, ready for a quick draw if needed. Even when he looked comfortable, at ease, he was in their heads, looking through their eyes, trying to anticipate his own blind spot. He’d made it clear: overpowering him would never be an option.

  When they reached what remained of their camp, Tilda shouldered her own backpack. Gale swept his foot like a broom over the bloodstained earth to make it less conspicuous, while Imogen bent over and grabbed with her tied hands the miscellaneous items that hadn’t gotten repacked: a sock, a bottle of sunscreen, her sister’s sunglasses. Gale gripped all the walking sticks in one hand and told Tilda to lead the way. Imogen considered asking him to let Beck use her stick, but held off in case Beck didn’t want to seem too vulnerable, too damaged. Beck gingerly put weight on her right leg, but she limped along without complaint.

  Before heading up to the shelter, Gale stopped. “Probly should do yer business here. Can’t guarantee another chance tonight—got no clue what time it is, but I vote we eat some grub and call it a day.”

  It wasn’t until he scrounged around in Tilda’s pack for a roll of toilet paper that Imogen grasped the situation. He let them do their “business” one at a time, practically where they stood, while the others kept their backs turned. Fortunately, with their hands bound in front, squatting wasn’t much more difficult than usual, but Imogen felt her frustration and angst zinging around inside her like a bouncing ball. It was getting harder to separate hunger from distress, exhaustion from fear. Tilda let her exasperation slip out as they trudged into the gloom of the rocky overhang.

  “This is getting ridiculous,” she said. “I know we fuck—messed up, but the logistics of getting water, going to the bathroom, sleeping. You can’t keep us tied up forever.”

  Beck and Imogen fired off glares: Steady now.

  “So I should trust you all of a sudden? You screaming fer help at the first possible chance?”

  Tilda looked at the ground. Was she thinking that what had happened to the backpacker was her fault, because she’d called out? Gale was going to kill him regardless, Imogen was sure of it. Once the hiker saw the tableau and walked toward it he hadn’t stood a chance—unless Imogen had been able to get there faster, warn him not to get too close. Even then, Gale very likely would’ve drawn the gun instead of the knife.

  “I’m doing my best to keep you girls comfortable, fed and watered ’n’ such. But we’re doing this my way and I can’t risk you fucking it all up. And before ya say I shouldn’t swear, I know. But it’s better on me, I’m not some fancy, educated lady or whatever.”

  Tilda was smart enough to withhold a response beyond a stone-cold glare. Gale helped her take her pack off, but before it could be mistaken for a gentlemanly act, he uncoiled a length of cord from his pocket and proceeded to bundle her wrists together.

  “Now you three go sit over there where I can keep an eye on ya.” They moved into the deepest part of the shallow cave. “A foot apart.”

  They kicked aside some loose stones to make a smoother surface, then sat in a row as ordered. Gale made a busy bee of himself and Imogen was glad to rest for a while.

  “Sorry,” Tilda whispered. “I wasn’t trying to make—”

  “And no talking,” Gale commanded. “No plotting, no fussing, just chillax fer a bit, all right?”

  It grew steadily darker in the recesses of the overhang, and finally the clouds fulfilled their promise and let loose a torrent of rain.

  “Good timing! Got a little lucky there.” Gale hurried to the front where he’d left the stranger’s pack and moved it deeper into the shelter where it wouldn’t get wet. He jogged back to the entrance, unzipping his fly, and let loose an arc of urine. Imogen looked to Tilda and rolled her eyes; Tilda released a grin; they still shared the pet peeve that men would piss anywhere and everywhere. It felt good to find common ground with her.

  As Gale had done with their stuff, he inventoried the dead man’s belongings. He had the right gear for a solo backpacker—everything Gale needed. Clean clothes, proper socks, underwear, good hiking boots, plus a trendy stove, fuel, and extra rope. When Gale got to the food, Imogen and Beck leaned forward to better see his collection of freeze-dried dinners. Judging by the quantity of pouches, the man must have had a hearty appetite—or else he’d planned on a long trip. Imogen’s stomach gurgled just thinking about a hot meal. She craved food and sleep—ordinary comforts—as if they were the cure for this nightmare that wouldn’t end.

  Gale laid their three mattress pads at their feet (though he left the Therm-a-Rests uninflated), with their sleeping bags on top. It was the most orderly thing Imogen had seen him do. Apparently when he wasn’t in a panic, he had a tidy side. He positioned the newly acquired sleeping gear near the shelter’s entrance, blocking the path they’d been using to get in and out. If it had been windy, it might not have been a particularly dry place to sleep, but so far the rain was coming straight down. Unlike their own things, the dead backpacker’s gear was long enough for a man of Gale’s height. Next, he lined up all the packs in a neat row near where he would sleep. Finally he got out Beck’s stove and fuel.

  How strange it was to sit passively and observe him work. Imogen had the sense she was participating in a reality-TV show (that she hadn’t signed up for). Kidnapped: Wilderness Survival Edition. Hopefully this story line allowed for more than one winner.

  “All righty.” Gale plunked himself down. “Since I don’t trust y’all near a fire, you can tell me how to do this.”

  It was understood he was referring to Beck. With almost unnecessary precision, she talked him through the process of putting fuel in the stove, and fire-starter around the ignition ring. The mood was bizarre: in good cheer, their captor prepared a meal for his hostages, as the oblivious stove emitted its happy roar.

  As they waited for the water to boil, Gale chucked off his cowboy boots and changed into cargo pants, a T-shirt, and a fleece pullover. He was careful with his injured arm, pulling the fabric gently over his bandage. However much he’d bragged about the stitches not hurting, the arm was still bothering him. He sat down to lace the hiking boots, then got up and paced a few feet each way as he gazed at his feet, as if he were in a shoe store.

  In clean clothes he almost—almost—looked like a completely different person. If only he hadn’t strapped on the knife belt, and tucked the gun into a deep hip pocket.

  31

  When the food was ready, he brought them each a spoon and a bowl filled with portions from all three reconstituted bags: beef stew, macaroni and cheese, and chicken and dumplings.

  “Y’all can sit on yer beds if ya want, a bit more comfortable.”

  They came forward, away from the dark shadows. Tilda and Imogen took a minute to blow up their mattress pads. As they sat back down they let out audible sighs of relief; it felt like days since they’d rested on anything soft. All three of them sat crisscross applesauce at the foot of their beds, with their bowls on the ground in front of them to accommodate eating with bound hands. The food was utterly delicious. Gale even placed a canteen within easy reach, and by all appearances he’d divided the meal equally among the four of them.

  “Thank you,” Beck said. “This is really good.”

  “Really good,” Imogen agreed. “Thank you.”

  “Yer welcome
.”

  For several minutes they enjoyed the feast. The rain had started strong but didn’t last; it brought cooler temperatures, but beyond the overhang the cloud banks were starting to drift home, disappointed by the brevity of the party. Finally, Gale let out a contented sigh.

  “See? This is better. You girls have the wrong idea about me.”

  Was this really his idea of better? Imogen regretted ever thinking anything charitable about him if three tied-up hostages was his concept of more agreeable company.

  “What I’m thinking is…I’ll take tonight to sleep on it, make sure it still seems like a good idea in the morning. But I’m thinking we head west. More private there, ya said?”

  “Hardly anyone goes out to Slate,” Beck confirmed.

  “It far?”

  “Five miles, about a two- or three-hour hike.”

  “Good. Good, that’s what we need. I wanna take yer advice and let the arm heal up a bit better. Lay low another day or so, where nobody’s gonna be. Then maybe…” He chewed as he pondered. “Mexico might be better. Much as I wanna see Crystal, she’s probly already being harassed by cops. Get to Mexico, lay low there…Maybe later I can try heading north, when things’ve calmed down.”

  Gale did his polishing act, cleaning his fork with his tongue. Imogen stopped chewing, absorbed in analyzing his every word. The trip to Slate sounded like a we; after Mexico it was I. Was he planning to let them go at Slate? Or leave them behind (kill them) in Mexico? She wanted to ask, but didn’t. His answer wouldn’t matter anyway; they knew they needed to get out of the Canyon and away from him.

  “I want you to know…It’s important to me that you understand the difference about killing someone.” Tilda nearly choked on the water she was drinking. Their dinner suddenly wasn’t as tasty and they set their utensils down, their eyes fixed on Gale. Perhaps it was the intensity of their attention, but he wouldn’t look at them.

  “Here’s what people don’t understand: you don’t want to kill someone. Like I said, only a serial killer feels good about that—they got nothing in their souls but a devil. But most of the time it’s just a quick-flash decision to stop one bad thing from getting worse. Sometimes it ain’t even that but self-defense.”

  Imogen wasn’t completely sure that was true; Gale fed on his indignation the way a firecracker consumed a flame, thrilled to reach the point of detonation.

  “The long ’n’ short of it is, most people don’t sit up planning to hurt someone. It’s just a moment. And maybe you get angry—too angry. Or yer afraid what’s gonna happen if you don’t carry through. But it’s still just a mistake and you’d be wrong to think nobody feels it. The authorities—cops and judges and lawyers—think they got it all figured out, armed robbery and rape and first-degree murder and second-degree, depending on how it all goes down. But they’re assholes, they don’t get it. They don’t think about bad timing or the whole chain of events that led to that fucked-up moment. They just judge you by one shitty minute of yer life.

  “Now I’m not saying it’s right. I’m saying you do know right from wrong, yer not some savage animal. But it starts this chain—one small fuckup, and another, and they’re gonna lock you up, bad egg, not fit fer society. And then ya get madder, and badder, and ain’t fit fer normal life when ya get out, even if that’s whatcha really want. And even if ya do try, you try and fix the situation…Sometimes you only know ways to fix things that are just new ways a fucking up. And no one ever factors in the trying, the wanting to do it better.”

  Imogen nodded, because once again she understood him. Gale was the hero of his own journey, and every setback, every obstacle—even in human form—was a threat to his goal. Ultimately, if he succumbed to a quick-flash impulse to kill them, would he feel okay about it because he really did like them and didn’t really want to do it? If Imogen played by those same ruthless rules, what would she have to do to be the hero of her own journey?

  “I know my future now,” he said. “Got no illusions. What I done to the cop…that’s the needle in my arm. Texas’ll kill ya fer a lot less. There’s no other outcome, if they catch me. You girls get that? This is my last bit a life.”

  A heaviness settled around them, as dense as ash. Imogen was afraid to breathe, afraid to get it in her lungs. She felt the closing of a door, saw the spinning of the lock as if on a vault. Gale couldn’t have said it more plainly. She heard Nothing left to lose. She heard You won’t get in my way. Her blood turned to sludge; her meal curdled in her throat.

  “I can’t letcha rob me a that. This is all I got left.”

  This was his last bit of life—and maybe theirs, too. He wasn’t going to let them go. Even a twenty-four-hour head start wouldn’t be enough, not for a man who wanted every minute, every second, of his remaining time. If set free, Imogen, Beck, and Tilda would click the stopwatch, turn over the hourglass—initiate the beginning of his end.

  “But what about Crystal?” Beck asked, her voice foggy, her future tottering toward a void as she reached the same conclusion Imogen had drawn. He couldn’t be won over now; Imogen’s more compliant approach didn’t stand a chance if he’d given up on seeing his daughter, his granddaughter.

  He shrugged. “Maybe she don’t want me showing up. Disrupting everything—again. Disappointing her—again. Maybe she’d think I was just putting little Diamond in danger. I’ll think on it, sleep on it. But it might be better fer everyone if I disappear.”

  Did he mean for them to disappear with him? Beside her, Tilda and Beck turned to stone.

  32

  They lay like corpses as Gale prepared for sleeping. Imogen didn’t mind being squashed in the middle; it wasn’t like it had been with her Kentucky cousins, that lonely summer long ago. Now the warmth of bodies, three spoons tucked tight, meant they were still alive.

  He repositioned their hands so they were behind them, and after binding their ankles he used additional rope to attach their feet to Imogen’s walking stick. The idea she’d had to wiggle around in the night and untie each other was foiled. They wouldn’t even be able to roll over and, unless they made a well-choreographed effort to rise simultaneously, they couldn’t easily stand. If they managed it, they’d have to hop together to get anywhere; Gale wasn’t going to sleep through that—and all his precautions spoke to his expectations of an unbothered slumber.

  His movements were unhurried, but efficient. He unzipped their sleeping bags and blanketed them. At least they wouldn’t be cold (if he slits our throats in the night). No one spoke. There was too much to think about. Too many horrific images to replay or avoid.

  Soon after he’d hunkered down in his own sleeping bag at the mouth of the shelter, the sky a fading mauve in the cloudy dusk, his breathing became rhythmic. On every inhale, something made a soft grinding noise in his throat.

  In the silence, Imogen’s ear buzzed even louder. The desire to clap her hand over it to stop the noise was making her antsy. As much as she needed a good rest, she wasn’t sure it would be possible without her tincture. At her back, Tilda sobbed.

  “Everybody doing okay?” Beck whispered. “Imogen? Your head?”

  “Yeah, I’m feeling better.” And thank God she’d be lying on her right ear all night, not her left.

  “What are we going to do?” Tilda begged.

  Imogen didn’t want to say what she’d been thinking, that they were beyond reasoning with him, and they’d never overpower him. Her once-reliable imagination was failing her, and her reservoir of ideas had run dry. Sometimes she was so resigned to her fate that she felt wisps of her soul drifting away. She couldn’t tell them how empty she felt, so she lay there in the dark and said nothing.

  Beck must’ve been battling her own demons, and for a stretch she, too, didn’t speak. After a while she said, “I’m sorry.”

  The apology was so earnest, so final, that Imogen wished she’d never heard it. It sounded as hopeless as Imogen felt.

  “It’s not your fault,” Imogen whispered, because it hurt her
heart too much to think of her sister dying with the belief that vanquishing Gale had been her responsibility.

  “I brought you guys here.”

  Imogen considered all the reasons why Beck had organized this trip, full of so many good intentions. She’d wanted to help them—Imogen and Tilda. She’d tried to give them something, in the only way she knew how.

  “You didn’t bring that ginger Sasquatch here,” Tilda snarled.

  A moment ago Imogen had thought herself incapable of it, but she laughed. After a second, Beck gave a halfhearted chuckle.

  “Okay, true.”

  “I’m not sorry we came,” said Imogen. “Sorry all this shit happened. But not sorry we…You were trying to do something good, for all of us.”

  “Yeah.” Beck sounded distracted. “Ever wonder why I have that article on my wall?”

  “The play?” Imogen asked, caught off guard.

  “Yeah.”

  “I have a copy of it somewhere,” said Tilda. “But not on the wall. I looked like I was about to give the microphone a blow job.”

  “Tilda!” Imogen hissed the word, but she wasn’t angry. She appreciated Tilda’s ability to be snarky at inappropriate times now that Gale was asleep.

  “Sorry—yes Beck, I had wondered about that,” Tilda said.

  “I was trying to remember—to remind myself—that people listen to me. Sometimes take me too seriously. And I have to be more careful about what I say.”

  “What is she talking about?” Tilda whispered to Imogen.

  “When I was directing the play I learned that if I was unclear about something—stage direction, or a lighting cue—then people would get confused. But if I was very specific, I got the results I wanted. It was kind of a power rush. And it’s like that with patients sometimes too. There’s a part of me that likes it, being in control, but I don’t want to be a dictator. I want to help, I want people to have results that work. But…”