by Meg Gardiner
“Taught what?”
“Never to hesitate. To protect myself.”
“By attacking?”
“Look out for number one. Cruel world, all that. My dad drummed it into me. You know, how you should never swerve on the road to avoid an animal? Because you might crash and kill yourself?”
“My dad told me the same thing when I learned to drive. But that’s a long way from brain people with a rock.”
Autumn seemed as tight as a cloth caught in a wringer. “My dad was serious. Full on. Like, the world is a road where everything’s trying to make you swerve. It not only doesn’t care if you live, it will actively hoard life to itself. You have to take your chances where you can get them, without regret or remorse.”
Jo let the words blow away in the rush of the wind. “Hard attitude.”
“It was ingrained in me. Protect myself. And sometimes, protecting myself requires proactive steps.”
Jo already, in general, hated the word proactive. Now she had an additional reason. “Preemptive war. See something, take it. Hell of a worldview.”
“Seize the day. Without hesitation or fear.” Autumn quieted. “Okay, I was mistaken.”
Jo ducked as a branch swayed down in the wind. “Is this an apology?”
“My dad also said never apologize. It’s a sign of weakness.”
“I hate apologizing too. Having to say sorry sucks,” Jo said. Her tone left room for Autumn to hear, but . . .
“I panicked. I won’t again,” Autumn said. “Are you okay?”
Apology, then. As close as it came. She’d take it.
“I’m okay,” Jo said. “So are you. Even if you’re a king-size pain in the ass.”
“I feel like my nerves are on fire.” Autumn’s voice thickened. “My dad’s plane has landed by now. Think he knows what’s happened?”
“Maybe.”
They rode. Jo thought about how to broach the subject she needed to talk about—without panicking Autumn. The girl was one spark away from an explosion.
“Tell me about the Bad Cowboy.”
Autumn stiffened. “Why do you care about it?”
It, not him.
“This weekend was planned as a way for you to defeat him. Edge and your dad set it up so you’d have the tools to do that.”
She spoke in the past tense to distance the conversation. She didn’t want to scare Autumn by bringing him into the present moment. Not yet.
She added, “It was built into the fabric of the reality scenario. It could be important.”
Autumn’s shoulders rose. Her shoulder blades protruded from the back of her sweater, birdlike. Jo sensed her fighting competing urges—to cry, to scream, and to keep it suppressed. Not the top layer of the story. The grit. The garbage she’d buried in the basement, years back.
“My dad never believed me that the guy was bad,” Autumn said.
“Did your dad ever see this man?”
“He says he doesn’t remember him. But I’m sure he did.”
Jo kept her arms snug around Autumn’s ribs, holding her steady as Faithful trotted through the trees. “This was at a birthday party?”
“No, somebody’s huge open-house thing. Fourth of July weekend. Cocktails and croquet on this enormous lawn, and pony rides for the kids. Keith Urban played a private set for the adults.”
Autumn’s Fourth of July parties definitely outdid Jo’s. When she was a kid, her family would drive to the beach at Bodega Bay and sneak a few sparklers along. Jo and Tina and her brother, Rafe, would run barefoot along the sand, racing the waves, waving their white-hot sparklers in the sunset. Then there would be hot dogs.
“This guy Red Rattler was on the staff?” she said.
“Valet parking the guests’ cars. All the staff wore costumes. He wore a cowboy hat and a shirt like the one in the sports bag. God, I want to gag. I can smell it.”
“What happened?”
“Some of us kids were playing hide-and-seek. I thought I’d outsmart everybody. I crawled through a hedge and ran to this field where the cars were parked, and I hid in my dad’s car,” she said. “So I was kind of scrunched down in the backseat, peeping out the window. And I saw him.”
“Red Rattler.”
“Going car to car, searching through them.”
“Stealing?”
Her birdlike shoulders tightened another degree. “Maybe. Probably. He was systematically going through each car. I didn’t know what to do. And he kept coming closer, and I got scared, so I hunkered down. I knew something wasn’t right, but I was frozen. I thought if I got out, he’d see me.” She stopped. “And then he came to Dad’s car.”
“Oh, Autumn.”
“I ducked down on the floor of the backseat but he opened the door, and he was whistling. He found me right away. The way he looked at me. It . . .” She paused a long moment. “It was like, burning. Like his eyes were on fire, and he wanted to drill a hole through my head.”
“How terrifying. What did he look like?”
“Those clothes. Except much bigger. He was fat.”
“How fat?”
“He was a whale. He wheezed when he talked, and he sweated. And he had long hair, like the hippies, or Indians—”
“A braid?”
“Exactly. He was early twenties, maybe. He had a mustache, Pancho Villa style. But that wasn’t the thing about him,” she said. “It was that weird eye with the white ring around it. And he said, ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ He seemed so angry. Then he grabbed me and . . .”
She went quiet.
Breathed. “He pulled me up, staring at me. Like staring would put me under his power. He said, ‘You was spying on me, wasn’t you?’ Then he said, ‘Spying’s a nasty habit.’”
Jo felt a chill.
“He was smiling, but not with his eyes. His eyes were probing me, like somebody pushing against you with a stick. Or with . . . eager fingers.”
“Did he touch you anywhere else?”
“No. He just stared, and talked. ‘You know who spies? Dirty worms. Crawling through the dirt so nobody can see them.’ Then he said, ‘You know what we call worms who spy on other people and then tattle? We call them snitches.’”
“Autumn, that sounds awful. Were there no adults around?”
She shook her head. “He said, ‘Bad things happen to snitches.’ Then he pushed his face right up next to mine. He pointed at that freaky eye, and said, ‘This is the white snake. It sees everything. If you snitch, it’ll see. And it’ll send other snakes to get you.’ ”
“Dear God.” Jo felt a hot lump in her chest—empathy with the confusion and fear Autumn had felt. “But you didn’t keep silent. You told your dad about him.”
“Not at the party. Later.” Autumn’s voice sounded thick. “It took days to work up the courage. I felt—dizzy. Scared to tell him.”
“Why?”
“Embarrassed. Frightened of the Bad Cowboy. He made me feel so . . . ashamed for some reason. And I was scared my dad would explode. He can be overpowering. Like a black tornado. But he . . .” She took a beat. “He thought I was blowing everything out of proportion.”
“This is your dad who tells you to watch out for number one? To strike first because the world is out to get you?”
“I know,” Autumn said.
But Jo didn’t. “What is it?”
“It was right after my parents divorced. I was seen as having adjustment issues.”
“Your father thought you fabricated the incident?”
“Embellished. Exaggerated. Misconstrued it. Got hysterical.”
“How confusing for you . . . to be told your experience wasn’t real by someone you trusted.”
The girl’s shoulders drew even tighter. She said, “Huh.” She seemed to fight for breath.
“Autumn, you were a child. Red Rattler was an adult. And he terrorized you. He was—”
“Mind-fucking me.”
“Yes.”
“And my dad didn’t beli
eve me. He thought I was trying to manipulate him. To get something from him by complaining.”
Jo wondered what was coming next.
“Screw my dad. For not believing me.”
Her shoulders shook and she began to cry again. “Dustin . . .”
Jo wrapped her arms tighter around Autumn’s waist.
She thought of other things Autumn might come to realize: that the power of the Bad Cowboy probably arose not only from the fear she experienced when he threatened her but from the rage she felt toward her father for not believing her—which left her not only terrified but alone with her terror. This was probably one reason the Bad Cowboy had invaded her unconscious life to such a degree. He represented her deepest fears of being powerless and unprotected in what her father had led her to believe was a terrifying world. She even used the word “worm” repeatedly—she felt invaded. The Bad Cowboy and her sense of not being heard, seen, felt, had wormed their way under her skin. And so it developed into a canker sore. Which she picked at, trying to make her father see what she needed from him.
And instead of listening to Autumn, instead of recognizing her terror, her father saw her as having developed a phobia. But the Bad Cowboy was not an illusion. Not a clown to be deflated. Emotionally, he was a continuing slap in the face.
Unfortunately, in real life he was something much worse.
Jo heard a noise behind her.
Autumn turned in the saddle. “What was that?”
Down the slope, through tree trunks that stood like toothpicks, Jo saw—what? Possibly a form, flowing in the darkness. Possibly nothing but her own fears.
“Let’s go,” she said, and kicked the horse in the ribs.
Faithful broke into a canter. Autumn tried to see behind them.
“I’m scared,” she said.
Who isn’t? “We’re going to get back to the Hummer and get everybody out of there. Hold on.”
They hit the crest of the ridge a minute later. Jo hauled back on the reins. Faithful tossed his head.
“You ever gone down a hill on horseback before?” she said.
“Yeah. If we slip, or you start to fall . . . jump.”
She nudged Faithful forward. He edged down the hill, digging his feet into the slope. The pitch of the wind changed. The trees overhead caught it and sent it whispering back at Jo, a fearful hush.
Below, the clouds parted for a moment, and she saw the white-water frothing over rocks. The rain was thundering down, and the river was higher than when she’d left.
“Here we go,” she said.
They got halfway down the slope before the soil on the hillside slipped, and the horse lost his purchase.
37
Von crouched behind the trunk of the pine tree just below the gravel logging road, sheltered from the wind. The bark was cracked and sticky with sap. The rain had momentarily stopped. The clouds were split, moonlight crackling down on the scene. But the temperature had dropped, like he’d opened a freezer door. He stuck his hands into his armpits and fought the shivering.
He still had no vantage point on the wrecked limo. He didn’t have the night vision goggles. Those were with Haugen and Sabine and Stringer in the Volvo SUV with its seat warmers and climate control and cup holders.
No, he was shuddering here in the bitch-cold mountain air. The last Mohican, holding the fort against those little shits from the birthday party who had caused this train wreck. So to speak.
And he hurt. He was so sore he could barely move. He needed a damned drink. Even a swig of Wild Turkey from his flask would heat him through. Oh yeah. But the flask had gone to the bottom of the gorge with the Hummer.
He peered around the trunk of the tree. Though moonlight shone between tumbling, hairy clouds, all he could see were the contours of the gorge. Trees bearded its flanks. He heard the river at the bottom, roaring. He couldn’t see the party brats. Down there, staying warm in the Hummer, no doubt.
Rain pattered through the trees and needled his face again. “Unbelievable.”
The sound didn’t jump out from the rest of the noisy night, but it caught his ear, because it seemed—sideways to the wind and rain. Like it cut through the air and was circling him. He turned. The gravel road was empty.
He flattened himself against the tree trunk and peered down the slash of the gorge. Rocks and dark and endless trees.
That sound again. He swiveled and drew his gun, arm extended. What was that noise?
It came as a whistle, a slap through the air, at the same moment his gun hand jerked. His wrist stung.
Something had hold of him. Something had—like it had bitten him, but it was smooth, a snake, or a trap, or—
His arm jerked straight upward. The something was pulling on him, hard. He heard a rasping noise.
“Hey—”
Then his shoulder jerked and he was lifted off the ground. His hand was caught in a noose. The rope was slung over a branch in the pine tree and was hauling him up like a window shade.
“Shit.”
The rope was hemp, thin and rough and ferociously tight. Von’s shoulder stretched in its socket.
The rope hummed like a saw over the branch above. Von wheeled in the air. His toes kicked, a few inches off the ground.
He swiped at the rope with his left hand. He was hanging at an angle, shoulders uneven, right side yanked so high and so hard he couldn’t reach the rope with his left.
But he managed to hold on to the gun with his right hand. Perhaps he could shoot the rope. He grimaced and tried to squeeze the trigger. He couldn’t. The noose squeezed the tendons in his wrist so hard that he could barely move his fingers.
He dangled, spinning. Someone had suckered him.
With a fucking lasso.
“Swinging like a fox, with its paw caught in the cookie jar. Ain’t that a sight.”
Von kicked and swiveled, looking frantically for the source of the voice.
“You picked a fine tree to cower behind.”
“Let me down,” Von said.
He kicked for the tree trunk. If he could stretch with his toes, maybe push off from the trunk, swing out, then back in—maybe he could grab the trunk with his free arm, shimmy up, take the pressure off.
And get the gun.
“Know why that tree is such a fine place for you to swing from?” the voice said.
It was a familiar voice. He’d heard it recently. A high tenor, no accent. It was the rhythm—the hard emphasis and drawn-out vowels. Like he wanted to hold you in his thrall while he tarried his way through his long, slow words. Playing with you.
“It’s the perfect tree because it’s old and big, and even branches twenty feet off the ground are strong enough to hold a grown man’s weight, six feet out from the trunk, where that rope’s hanging.”
“Let me down.”
“Go on, kick. The rope’s wet. This rain already soaked it good. The more you fight it, the more the rope’s gonna dig in and tighten up.”
Boots squelched on the gravel. The man sauntered out of the shadows.
“Kyle?” Von said.
The Edge Adventures newbie nodded. Only he no longer looked like an Edge Adventures tool. His preppie windbreaker had been replaced with an oilskin duster and a battered cowboy hat. Kyle touched the brim.
“Let me down,” Von said. “My arm’s killing me.”
“I let you down, you’ll shoot me,” Kyle said.
“No, I won’t.”
Kyle laughed. The brim of the cowboy hat hid his eyes. But Von saw his mouth, teeth showing in the moonlight.
Then Kyle lifted his chin. His eyes did catch the white sheen of the moon, before a cloud blew across it again. More rain tapped against Von’s cheeks. He didn’t like the look in Kyle’s eyes. Not at all. One eye seemed to glow white.
“Where’s Dane?” Kyle said.
Von felt the rain as hot dots against his skin. Screw Friedrich for mentioning Haugen’s name in the limo. “Who?”
“Huh.” Kyle looked at th
e ground and shook his head, as though gravely disappointed.
“Let me down and I won’t hurt you,” Von said.
“You won’t hurt me right where you are. Grub worm like you, hanging there squirming—no, you won’t hurt me.”
The AK-47 was resting against the tree trunk. Kyle threw it down the slope into the dark.
Despite the chill of the rain, Von felt himself steaming. “My arm’s killing me.”
Caught in the hideously tight knot of the wet lasso, Von’s right hand throbbed. It felt like a cartoon hand, swollen and thumping. He swung his left arm, trying to reach the pistol. He tried to bend his right elbow and lift himself with a one-armed pull-up, but couldn’t.
“Don’t bother,” Kyle said. “All you’ll get is more pain.”
“Fuck you, bastard.”
Kyle spit on the ground. “Now, see . . . ,” he said slowly, like he was talking through molasses, “that kind of talk will get you hurt.”
“Cut me down or I’ll shoot you.”
“Right.” Kyle stuck out a finger and pushed Von in the stomach.
Von kicked at him violently, and the rope tightened around his throbbing wrist.
Kyle put all his fingers against Von’s belly, and pushed. Harder. Von began to swing.
“Where’s Haugen?” Kyle said.
“I don’t know. Let me down.”
“Who’s with him?” Kyle said.
“Nobody. I don’t know. An army of assholes who are going to bounce your head off this tree if you don’t cut me down right this goddamned second.” His arm was about to rip loose. “I’m going to kill you.”
What the hell did Kyle want? Was he angry because of the crash? “You should be after those little shits from the birthday party,” Von said. “They’re the ones who caused this mess.”
Kyle pushed him again, making sure not to let him swing toward the trunk of the tree, but only parallel to it. The branch creaked overhead.
Then Von figured out what this guy wanted. “I’ll pay you. Let me down, I’ll give you a cut.”
“Ninety percent,” Kyle said.
“What? No.”
Kyle pushed him again. The rope swung in a bigger arc. “Ninety-five, then.”
