Thunder Falls

by Michael Lilly

  “You might call that loyalty,” says Todd.

  “Oh, you don’t have to lecture me about loyalty,” says Ginger. Just then, a fire seems to ignite somewhere inside her, in that barren, desolate plane deep in the distant reaches of her emotional landscape, the dark and shadowy terrain ruled by id. Her eyes gloss over with that mischief again, her eclipse goggles intended to shield her from the light of external feelings and truth. She smiles a nasty grin and pulls a handgun from behind her at last.

  For now, at least, the firearm remains pointed at the ground, dangerous and wary like a rattlesnake, but still subdued.

  “Like I said, my father and his people helped me out of my pickle all those years ago. It wouldn’t be right of me to let you walk away.” Though her voice drips with a malevolent venom, Creed can’t help but wonder if he detects a trace of doubt on it.

  A sinister quiet befalls them, complemented rather than interrupted by a car’s poorly aligned serpentine belt, a calling bird, and an odd rhythmic thudding. Ginger’s gun is still pointed at the ground, but her finger is on the trigger and the hand which holds the piece twitches now and then.

  Creed looks from Todd, breathing his slow, calm breaths, to Ginger, whose respiration has become labored and intense. Ginger is having to work harder and harder to maintain her façade of untouchability, while Todd’s calm is cool and consistent. But, while he’s winning this psychological battle, she’s still holding a presumably loaded gun, and entirely unpredictable.

  Their circumstance has become something of an Icarus situation. If Todd steers her back to her more stable mental state, she has access to a much cleaner stream of thought, which may afford her opportunity to gain an upper hand (even beyond where she is now). On the other hand, the less stable she becomes, the more likely she is to lose control entirely and smash through any remaining inhibitions keeping her from shooting them where they stand.

  A car with the squealing belt seems to be idling nearby and that odd thudding grows and diminishes in volume, grows and diminishes, but with each cycle seems to net an increase, like a tide coming in, pushing and pulling but with just a little more push than pull.

  Creed looks back to Todd, whose gaze remains fixed on Ginger. He seems to be focusing on her eyes, but Creed knows that Todd is watching the armed hand intently, as well. Now, Ginger’s breaths have become more regular, but are no less intense. Indeed, they seem to be getting deeper, heavier.

  The squealing car finally peels away, leaving the thudding ever louder in its wake.

  “Why can’t you all—” shouts Ginger, her eyes filling with tears of the most reluctant kind,

  Thud-thud-thud-thud

  “—just fucking—”

  THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD

  “die?!”

  Ginger aims her weapon at Todd, hands shaking.

  Twenty-Seven

  Remy

  As the morning yawns and stretches into day, I begin to worry; is this a red herring? Have I been stationed here to wait for a threat that’s not coming? And if so, what possible reason might my enemies have for that?

  I pace the streets for a while, without a destination but still adhering to some obscure guideline that I can’t fish out of my subconscious. Before long, I’m back at the apartment’s parking lot, still waiting for the sounds of roaring engines or yelling or the thundering cracks of gunfire.

  But they don’t come.

  It’s then that the horrible thought occurs to me: I’m not the target.

  Not now, at least. They know about Todd. They know he’s here.

  He’s the target, and he’s two hours away.

  Before I realize I’m doing so, I’m pulling desperately at car doors in the parking lot, hoping to find one unlocked, which I can then enter and borrow. Fortune smiles upon me when I try the second-to-last car on the lot, a sedan with peeling paint; not only does the door open, but its poor owner has accidentally left the keys in the ignition. I make haste, lest the car’s rightful driver return, perhaps only taking a load of groceries inside. The car revs to life, and before I know it, I’m crossing the city’s boundary en route to Cheyenne.

  Even after the past few days, my extended time spent without contact has rendered my phone’s buzzing an unfamiliar phenomenon, and it thus startles me when I receive a message from Todd. First is a text message that urges me more than perhaps anything else could have, composed of only two words: Get here.

  The second is an audio file. I download it and press play, nervously glancing back and forth between the road and my phone (I normally refuse to use my phone while driving, but such dire circumstances cannot be ignored), and my phone begins to regurgitate what I assume is Todd’s interview with Ginger.

  I don’t know how, but things must have gone awry. Without much time or mental bandwidth with which to plan, I forward the message to Beth’s E-mail, with a quick message:

  “I’m alive, but here’s in case I’m not for much longer.”

  Within the minute, my phone buzzes itself into a frenzy, reporting the reception of what seems to be a flurry of E-mails, texts, and phone calls from a furiously concerned Beth. I force myself to compose one more message to Beth, still anxious for any time spent distracted by the device.

  “I don’t have time to explain now, but I might in a few hours. Hang tight and I’ll give you any updates I can. If you don’t hear back from me, send that file to the police force in Cheyenne.”

  I have no time to read the messages she’s sent me, but I’m confident they’re littered with profanities and threats of various methods of castration. My phone continues to buzz for the remainder of the journey, and I appear to have made great time; today’s graciously clear weather has made visibility a non-issue and the roads are clear, not only of precipitation, but of traffic and construction as well.

  Now, I’m in Cheyenne. I only hope I’ve arrived in time to be of any aid at all. Todd’s message came only a few minutes ago, so, with luck, whatever crisis was in progress at the time either is still in the air or has resolved favorably. Of course, Todd isn’t helpless, and Creed has demonstrated a fair amount of competence himself, but my unrest isn’t one that can be settled by my confidence in Todd’s and Creed’s merit. Not with the threat they’re up against.

  I park the car (poorly) as close as I can get it to the northern entrance to the plaza where Todd was supposed to meet Ginger, only pausing to lock the vehicle out of a sort of apologetic courtesy to the owner. I approach the plaza at a sprint, keeping my eyes trained for anything suspicious-looking, anything hurried or hunched or armed, but for now, I see nothing.

  I crouch low, hurrying between the rows of cars, which laze on the lot like a lounge of lizards sunning in the afternoon shine. The air around me seems to be abuzz, like the anticipatory chatter before a headlining band takes the stage, or like the way the atmosphere crackles and simmers with ozone before a violent thunderstorm. Each step I take seems to contribute to this pent-up chaos twisting through what would otherwise be a pleasant warmth.

  Still at the height of my sensory awareness, I close the distance to the curb. Well-groomed trees sway gently in a barely palpable breeze, and a bird’s shadow zips across the concrete, startling me for a split second. I reach the plaza’s outer perimeter and press myself against the brick exterior of what smells like a seafood joint.

  I peer around the corner, into the central plaza, where Todd should be. I don’t see him, but I do see two men—one on his hands and knees, the other on his back, evidently out cold, blood streaming down his face. If that doesn’t speak for Todd and Creed’s trail, I don’t know what does. I start making my way toward them, ditching my crouch in favor of a casual, inconspicuous trot.

  I notice more signs of commotion—an overturned bistro table, a smashed-out glass doorway and its glass guts being swept up by a panic-stricken worker wearing an apron and an expression of exasperated disbelief.

  The tension in the air, building up like a river into a small reservoir, seems to be ap
proaching a tipping point; the first ominous cracks have broken their way into the base of the dam, and the water will burst forth at any moment.

  Then, it does.

  “There he is!” yells a voice from underneath a nearby awning. I look toward it in time to see two guys jump to their feet and break into a run in my direction, reaching to their hips as they do so and drawing guns.

  I have to think fast. I have no doubt that I’m faster and can out-maneuver them—even if they’re firing at me. The problem is that there are bystanders. I can’t risk them getting hit by a missed shot. In an effort to minimize the risk, I move westward, putting myself between my attackers and a brick wall. They run toward me, but one trips on the leg of a cast-iron bistro chair and stumbles into the other—and here’s my best chance to resolve this encounter.

  I’ve walked too deep into the plaza to make a retreat before they recover, but they’ve made the mistake of coming too close to me. In that second, adrenaline primes my neural pathways to make the moment quick, calculated, and decisive.

  One of the guys stumbles just ahead of the other, and a step to my right lines them both up in front of me, so that the attacker in front obstructs the line of sight between his partner and me. As the one in front tries to adjust his aim while simultaneously finding his footing, I lunge in toward him, grip the barrel of the gun, point the firearm upward, and throw my body weight into him, hoping that it’s enough to toss him into the other.

  Alas, it is not. However, the shock of the body hurtling toward him sends him teetering backward anyway, and the general mess of the food court comes to my aid once again as he loses his balance and falls into an empty chair over its armrest with enough force to send the chair dangerously over toward its other side. The man flails his arms to try to retain his balance, in the process losing his grip on his gun and tossing it away. It lands on the ground and discharges, cracking the air like lightning and embedding a small round in the concrete planter beside it.

  I realize that I’m still holding the first guy’s gun. Part of me wants to make use of it, but with the commotion that’s erupting around me, I figure it’s best not to be running around with a loaded gun. To that end, I eject the magazine and toss it to the ground, then leap to the other gun and do the same.

  By now, both guys are recovering and angry, like wasps that have been swatted at by a flustered gardener. The one closer to me charges like a bull. I take a step back at a slight angle and plant my hand on his shoulder blade as he approaches, dropping my weight onto him as I do so. He collapses to the ground with a pitiful mmf and stops moving. I look up in time to see his partner charging me in a similar manner and lift my knee to meet his face. I feel a sharp pain, just above my kneecap, where I assume I’ve just knocked several of his teeth out. He makes a sort of gargling howl and collapses with his hands over his face, blood trickling through his fingers like the first spring runoff after a snow-heavy winter.

  I almost make the mistake of feeling proud of myself, but I remember that these guys were only an obstacle on my path to a different goal. I know Todd and Creed are around here somewhere, and my best bet of finding them is from the rooftops, rather than on the ground where my line of sight is apt to be obstructed by people, buildings, cars, and small trees.

  I slip into the nearest alley and climb up a length of pipe on the side of the building (my shoulder aches from its month-old wound, but the pain serves to fuel me rather than to hinder me). Upon finishing the climb and vaulting over the lip of the building, I begin to run southward, toward the opposite gate of the plaza, checking the perimeter of each building as I go, and making leaps between the close-quarters rooftops. I don’t worry about security spotting me; if I find what I’m looking for, it can only be helpful to have some badges around to assist in that mess.

  Building after building, my panic bolsters, threatening to take charge of my psyche. In most of these small alleys, there’s nothing but day-old garbage or boxes that need to be broken down. One alley is the setting for what looks like a drug deal, and one has been deemed fit for an impromptu (I hope) make-out session.

  I reach the south end of the plaza having found nothing of interest. There’s an archway over the southern gate, made up of a series of thick iron bars welded together, and I use this as a bridge to the east half of the plaza, where I’ll head back north. The buildings on this side aren’t quite as even as they were on the west side, requiring more climbing and rolling as I ascend or descend to their varying heights. The biggest drop is maybe ten feet or so, and threatens to obliterate my ankles, but as I drop down onto the lower rooftop, I’m able to roll out of the fall and minimize the impact of it.

  Suddenly, I hear voices. It takes a moment of concentration to isolate these calmer voices from the still-frantic ones from the plaza, but I hear a controlled, measured, unmistakable voice speaking from the east, off to my right somewhere. I run to the north end of the building I’m on now and don’t see anything in its northern alley, but the voices have become louder, clearer, and more recognizable—indeed, I’m able to pick out Todd’s easy tone. The voice that answers him is a female’s—Ginger’s, presumably—but she has none of the careful, practiced undertone that I heard just a second ago.

  I continue to work my way toward the source of the noise (this next alley, surely) and when I slow to a halt and peek my head over the lip of this structure, there’s a woman with fiery red hair (what is it with redheads and trying to kill the people in my life?) pointing a gun at Creed and Todd, both backed into the corner of the alley. A delicate situation to be sure, but Todd has been talking smoothly and calmly so as not to throw any unexpected wrenches into the mix. Ginger yells something, but the only word I can pick out is ‘fucking’. She has Beth’s mouth, apparently.

  In what little time I have, I try to assess my safest plan of action. I can’t very well hurl myself down there, as she might (accidentally or otherwise) pull the trigger as I land. If I alert her to my presence too early, she may well decide that her best option is to do away with Todd and Creed before turning the weapon on me. I need to disarm her quickly and safely, without drawing any attention to myself.

  But at that moment, the last grains of sand in the hourglass slip into its lower chamber as I hear Ginger scream, “DIE!”

  I take a step to the east—parallel to the alley and toward the parking lot—then grab onto the lip of the building, letting my weight swing me back westward, toward the three. Ginger still hasn’t noticed me, and the commotion of her screaming still hasn’t quite finished bouncing around the alley. In my descent, which seems to take place in slow motion, Todd and Creed flatten themselves to the north and south walls, respectively. Ginger fires and a chunk of brick cracks out of the wall where Todd had been half a second earlier. My feet hit the ground perhaps five feet behind Ginger while she’s still reeling from the recoil. I roll toward her left side and come up just in front of her, gripping the barrel of the pistol and aiming it skyward.

  Ginger’s eyes widen (whether out of fear or anger, I can’t tell) and she pulls the trigger again. My ears ring and I feel the heat left behind by the round as it exits the barrel. Ginger’s eyes zip from the now-raised firearm to my own eyes and I see recognition, anger, and fear wash over her. She tries to thrash and rip the gun out of my hands, but she only succeeds in forfeiting what grip she does have, and within a couple of seconds, it’s completely in my control, her fingers trying desperately to cling and claw at my hand to get it back.

  I use my hip to push her backward, which I’m sure will throw her into a frenzy, but now that she’s disarmed, I have little fear of such a frenzy. She can scratch, kick, claw, and punch at me all she wants—without the gun, there’s very little chance that it will be fatal, and with Creed and Todd here, I’m confident that she can be subdued until authorities arrive.

  “Welcome to the party,” says Todd, smiling a welcome (if facetious) smile.

  I smile back, half at him but half at Ginger, as she starts swingin
g wildly at me, like a three-year-old who just declared war on a piñata. Blocking and dodging these strikes isn’t so much difficult as it is exasperating, and it only takes a moment for Todd to jump in from behind and seize her arms. He drags her backward to the corner, only a foot or so from where her bullet punched a hole in the wall.

  She grunts and thrashes for a few seconds, but then puts her forehead against the wall and begins sobbing. Every few seconds, it turns into an angry yell, but she doesn’t thrash anymore. As an added bonus, her sobbing will help lead the cops to our location.

  I take a moment to absorb the scene. Creed is standing well out of our way and looks like he’s waiting for someone to tell him what to do. Todd continues his restraint on Ginger and holds her in the corner looking like he’s removed himself mentally. For the second time in the past few minutes, I realize that I’m holding a gun, and for the third time, I eject the magazine and toss the piece aside—I’m unwilling to risk her (or anyone) gaining control of the weapon and re-escalating the situation.

  Sure enough, some cops show up within minutes. Part of me wants to be critical of them for taking so long to arrive, but then I remind myself that, though it felt like hours, the time that has passed since I arrived has been perhaps five minutes, and this area isn’t exactly the type of urban density that would have ten available units within a minute’s notice.

  Twenty-Eight

  The rest of that afternoon is a blur. Later on, as I reflect on it, I remember only a distinct handful of things. I remember the more significant events, of course—watching Ginger as she’s detained (on multiple charges and warrants), e-mailing the audio file to the police, sitting with Todd and Creed in the police station. I remember the sirens and the crowd’s excited commotion (things are happening, get the camera!). I remember the ambulance carting the unconscious pedophiles off to local hospitals.