Savage Road
Page 29
Seconds later they are swept into the fast part of the current again. With a narrowing of the creek’s width, the rapids increase in size. Unseen beneath the churning mass of waves are countless obstructions—rocks, tree limbs, automobile parts, and other metal debris—that claw at their legs and threaten to pull them beneath the river’s surface. Despite her depleting strength, Hayley isn’t about to save herself and leave Jessica to drown. But the older girl has all but lost all ability to help her cause. Only Hayley can save them both.
Jessica coughs and sputters. “We’re going to die!”
Hayley sees a boulder rising slightly above the raging rapids, the peak of which is miraculously dry. Kicking hard, she steers them in its direction.
“Do you see that rock, Jess? Get ready to grab it!”
Jessica looks downriver. A feeble hope reignites in her eyes. “I see it!”
“Grab it, Jess! Now!”
Within just a few seconds, they are at the upriver side of the rock. Though the current nearly sweeps them past the boulder, both girls can wrap their arms around its rough girth. But that refuge is short-lived. Waves threaten to dislodge the exhausted girls from their precarious perch.
“I can’t do it!” says Jessica, panicking again.
Hayley already knows as much, making her decision before Jessica spoke.
“Hold on to the rock, Jess. Hold on until someone comes to get you.”
Realization of her friend’s intentions hasn’t yet quite sunk in. “What?” asks Jessica.
“Just hold on. You can do it. I know you can, Jess.”
Hayley lets go of her hold of the rock, releasing herself into the river’s folds.
* * *
SHE CANNOT REMEMBER when she last drew a breath. In the grip of the river’s maw, eight-year-old Hayley Chill cartwheels through a world of roaring and bucking water thickened with dark sediment washed down from the West Virginia hills. The consistency of alluvium that fills her mouth and nostrils reminds her more of the cold, dense cream her grandmother would pour over a bowl of fresh strawberries. The memory of that treat brings an incongruent peace of mind. Transported to her grandmother’s gracious kitchen, Hayley is seated at the big, round table with her brothers and sisters. Everyone is talking at once. “Raising Cain” her grandmother would call it. Before she can savor the moment, it’s gone. Too exhausted to fight against the river’s current, her mind is in free fall and loses focus. With the thud of a boulder lurking beneath the water’s surface, however, Hayley gains keen awareness that her predicament is probably terminal.
Last school year, a classmate mysteriously disappeared. Every morning during attendance, eyes would briefly flit to Carl Zaphee’s vacant desk. Hayley’s teacher refused to discuss the boy’s disappearance with the class, saying only that his absence was none of their business. The Zaphees lived in a converted barn off Big Ugly Road, east of the Tucker Fork, a makeshift home that lacked most basic utilities and other in-town comforts. Because of the family’s relative isolation, news of them rarely rose above the level of speculation. Carl wouldn’t have been the first child in Hayley’s class of thirty-three to get knocked around a bit by one or both parents. Was this the cause of his absence? Cases of actual physical abuse would typically be kept secret by strategic, weeklong absences from school. But the Zaphee boy was gone for almost a month. Eventually, word filtered down from parents to their children that Carl died, a casualty of inattentive medical care and leukemia.
The seemingly bottomless watery vortex sucks into its depths. Hayley can’t help but recall the unsettling weirdness of Carl’s nonappearance in the classroom and an awareness of mortality that accompanied it. A sudden and intense rage wells up within her.
Fight it. Don’t be Carl Zaphee. Fight the river. Fight death.
Her hip slams into yet another submerged boulder. The frigid cold water mostly mitigates the expected pain. Mostly.
Fuck you, rock!
Hayley sweeps past that obstacle, continuing underwater and, frankly, near death.
Fuck you fuck you fuck you!
She rages. Kicking. Punching. Ecstatically and combatively alive.
But the creek is a bottomless black hole from which there is no escape. The swirling depths of an eddy wall finally stop her progress downstream, pulling her down into its watery pit. Resistance is a cosmic joke. Hayley thinks of her school desk on Monday morning, the ghostliness of her empty chair. She hears the whispers of her classmates. Sees their darted glances in the direction where she ought to be sitting were it not been for her drowning in the Big Ugly Creek. Hayley goes around and around underwater, stuck in the washing machine of the river’s turbulence. She thinks of her four siblings, all younger and utterly dependent on her. Gets angry all over again. Angrier than ever before.
She gifted Jessica with a realistic chance of survival, leaving her on a dry boulder while letting the awful flood take herself. A cascade of sensations and regrets had followed that choice. But remorse was flushed out of her and replaced by fury. She fights now with grit and determination. Against the torrent, but to zero effect. No one is present to witness her scrappiness. Certainly, the river doesn’t care. Hayley is only one more bit of the river’s debris, mixed in with tons of scrap, branch, and loosened soil.
Hayley has fought past the point of exhaustion. At last, the struggle is over. Facedown and mostly submerged in the creek’s watery storm, she is spent. The creek narrows to less than a few dozen feet and drops in elevation by half that distance. The storm’s runoff rises up as if in outrage, undulating with manic intensity. She has been whipped by the absolute worst the Big Ugly Creek can muster. The water is at its most cruel. Sucked down into its depths, Hayley has a dim recollection of the passage of time. So this is death. Fuck you, death.
Only then she feels yanked up and above the water’s surface. Someone takes a grip of her hand, wrapping his arm around her narrow, drenched frame. He carries Hayley across the tempest. Dimly she knows what has happened without seeing. Conscious of who has saved her. He brings her to the water’s edge and up the mud-slick bank. The side of her head rests on his shoulder. With eyes closed and despite the creek’s muck, she can smell him. Father.
Once he’s confident that his daughter’s air passages are clear, Tommy gently lays Hayley down on her back. His close-cropped, chestnut brown hair has caught odd bits of grass and mud. His copper complexion highlights his magnificent blue eyes, traits he has passed on to his daughter. Under his right armpit, a tattoo of crossed arrows is visible through his wet T-shirt. The number of hours the two of them had spent alone together could be collected inside of a single day. But the connection between them is strong, a mutual love more profound than any other in their experience. These feelings have gone unsaid. Neither father nor daughter is prone to revealing their inner selves to others. But that’s another story. Here, on this day, habitual inhibitions are broken down by the experience of near death. Of unspeakable grief drawing terrifyingly close.
Opening her eyes fully for the first time and seeing him, Hayley says, “Daddy.”
“Baby girl,” he says, near tears. Sitting on his knees beside her, Tommy squeezes his daughter’s hand.
“You’re okay,” he says as if to convince himself.
“Jess?”
He nods. “They were pulling her out a few hundred yards upstream as I was comin’ after you.” The voices of other men can be heard from farther up the way, the brittle shouts of amateur rescuers.
Moments later, she sits up. Tommy stops her from standing. He doesn’t want her to rush things. For her part, Hayley only wants to preserve their isolation, this extraordinary time with just the two of them. A moment she will not forget for the rest of her life. That she had nearly died is of far secondary significance.
“Thank you, Daddy. Thanks for comin’ to get me.”
Tommy squeezes her hand in acknowledgment. “Your mother’s probably worried sick. We should get back.”
Hayley nods, mute.
“You okay to stand up, baby girl?”
She nods again and accepts his hand getting to her feet. They start walking in the direction of the far-off voices.
“What happened, Hay? How’d you two girls end up in the creek?”
“Jess slipped in and I went in after her.”
“To save her?”
“Yes, sir.” After a pause, Hayley says, “She would’ve drowned for sure if I’d only gone lookin’ for help.”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure you’re right,” Tommy says with a nod. “You set her up on the rock?”
Hayley nods. No false modesty for her, even at this age. Just the truth, as she experiences it. Leave it to others to judge.
“You were just about gone there, baby girl. I almost lost you.”
“I was tired, Daddy.” She wants to please him and win his admiration. “I fought that dang creek best I could.”
“Uh-huh.”
They walk in silence for a moment. People are visible across the glade, folks from the busted-up welcome home/going away party, as well as passersby from town. A near drowning by two school kids is a seismic event in Lincoln County. Gossip will later suggest the Chill girl, known to be a discipline problem at home and school, pushed her friend into the rampaging creek. Small wonder the girls’ friendship survived the gossiping. Jessica Cole knew who put her in that creek. And who saved her.
“What, Daddy?” Eight-year-old Hayley knows something is on her father’s mind. “I’m sorry.”
Tommy clasps his daughter’s hand a little tighter. “You didn’t do a damn thing wrong, girl. You’re a tough little nut that don’t crack. I’ve seen enough of the world to know you’re gonna need that kinda spirit.”
“I was mad, Daddy. I was mad at the river.”
“I know you were, baby. When you’re in a fight, make that anger a small thing. Otherwise, you wind up just beatin’ yourself.”
Hayley nods, for the very first time in the long afternoon almost crying. Almost, but not quite. Tough nut, indeed.
Tommy says, “You’ve got the spirit of a whole army, Hayley Chill. That kinda strength, it can take on something bigger than itself. Win despite impossible odds. But, if it’s winning you gotta have, then you’re gonna keep that anger small. Keep cool, baby girl. Smart beats angry any day of the week.” With a smile, he adds, “And a little luck don’t hurt.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
No acknowledgments can be made without first mentioning my editor, Emily Bestler. Despite a global pandemic and its horrendous disruptions, Emily shepherded publication of this book with acumen, good cheer, and a fierce editorial eye. I am so grateful for her belief in my work. Whatever the outcome, my friend, we will always have Savannah.
I would also like to acknowledge the enthusiastic support of my publisher, Libby McGuire, and everyone at Atria Publishing Group, including associate editor Lara Jones, production editor Sara Kitchen, art director Jimmy Iacobelli, publicist David Brown, and copyeditor extraordinaire Tricia Callahan. Many thanks to all of you.
Also deserving special mention are the outstanding people at Simon & Schuster UK. Ian Chapman, Suzanne Baboneau, Bethan Jones, Genevieve Barratt, and Polly Osborn have brought the adventures of Hayley Chill to all four corners of the globe. I’m so grateful for their sterling efforts on my behalf.
Huzzah, too, for the singular greatness that is my agent, Dan Conaway. He keeps watch from the dugout with a steely gaze and makes sure everyone on the field is doing their job. This being my analogy and not his, Dan is wearing Dodger blue.
Jordan Bayer has been my film and television agent for nearly thirty years. For every minute of our long association, he has been my greatest advocate and one of my best friends. Thank you, Jordan.
Jack Carr, Matt Betley, Kyle Mills, Jamie Freveletti, Lisa Black, Rogue Women Writers, James Swallow, Simon Gervais, Brian Andrews, Jeff Wilson, Lynne Constantine, and Don Bentley have welcomed me into their community of authors with astonishing generosity. I am so appreciative of their collegial support and friendship.
Mention must be made of all event organizers and booksellers who endeavor tirelessly to put my books—and the books of all authors—into readers’ hands. In particular, I’d like to thank Jan Wilcox with Men of Mystery, Julie Slavinsky at Warwick’s, Kristin Rasmussen at Pages: A Bookstore, Jen Ramos at Book Soup, the amazing Barbara Peters at Poisoned Pen, Debbie Mitsch at Mystery Ink Bookstore, and Anne Saller at Book Carnival.
I want to thank book bloggers everywhere on the planet, including Ryan Steck, Liz Barnsley, Liz Robinson, Slaven Tomasi, Sean Cameron, Mike Houtz, C. E. Albanese, Eric Bishop, as well as superfans like Sarah Walton, Tracy Green, Kenton Long, Jon Brooks, Julie Watson, Tom Dooley, and Marc Harrold. Your enthusiasm and support are much appreciated.
Christie Ciraulo was first and last eyes on the book. Thank you.
George and Jackson Hauty have encouraged and supported me in the writing of this book and everything I’ve written in the last quarter-century. Their father is an extremely fortunate man.
Lauren Ehrenfeld deserves special thanks for being the best of partners, always of good humor, unsparingly kind, and an unshakable pillar of support. She makes the journey not only joyful but effortless. Of a year and then some, darling woman.
Mention must be made of Ann Rittenberg, who ushered me onstage for this miraculous third act. For her astute expertise and support, I am eternally grateful.
Morgan McNenny deserves acknowledgment not only for his ability to beat a California Form FTB 3532 into submission but also for being a good pal. Thank you, Morgan.
I also want to thank Clint and Heidi Smith for their generosity in sharing their home and vast knowledge of firearms. Their dedication to weapons training and education is nothing short of inspiring.
And finally, I would like to thank and acknowledge the late Carolyn Reidy, CEO of Simon & Schuster. It was my misfortune that I never met Carolyn in person. I was the recipient of one of her legendary handwritten notes, however, congratulating me on the publication of my first novel. That simple act of kindness made an enormous impact on this baby author. Her sincere enthusiasm, love of books and their authors, and a zest for life serve as a model for me and, undoubtedly, many others. Thank you, Carolyn.
More from this Series
Deep State
Book 1
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHRIS HAUTY is a screenwriter who has worked at all the major movie studios and in nearly every genre of film. He lives in Venice, California, and is the author of Deep State.
Learn more at ChrisHauty.com
@hautywriter @ChrisHauty @chrishauty
SimonandSchuster.com
www.SimonandSchuster.com/Authors/Chris-Hauty
EMILYBESTLERBOOKS.COM
@EmilyBestler @EmilyBestler
ALSO BY CHRIS HAUTY
Deep State
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ISBN 978-1-9821-2661-2
ISBN 978-1-9821-2663-6 (ebook)