The Nightmare Thief

by Meg Gardiner

The dirt crumbled beneath Peyton’s feet. “Wait.”

  She was so out of breath. These mountains had no air in them. Kyle, jogging beside her through the thick trees up the hillside, turned with a sharp look on his face.

  “What’s the problem?” he said.

  “I’m so tired. My shoulder’s killing me. I have to stop.”

  He looked, for a second, absolutely baffled. Then he eyed her, up and down, as if trying to fit her into some particular slot. His face, those bright intense eyes, softened.

  “Okay. We can rest a minute. Have a seat.”

  He gestured to a rock. She sat down. The stone was cold and wet. This sucked.

  Kyle put a hand on her shoulder. “Catch your breath. Just sit tight.”

  She nodded and tucked a damp, ropy lock of hair behind her ear. Her breath turned white in the air. Kyle stepped away.

  A moment later, he took a walkie-talkie from his pocket. He pressed a button.

  “It’s Howdy Doody time,” he said.

  He released the button and static scratched from the walkie-talkie.

  Peyton said, “What’s that?”

  A moment later, a man’s voice crackled from the walkie-talkie. “Don’t bother using up the battery. I have nothing to say to you.”

  Kyle pressed the button again. “You’re awful quick on the presumption there, Dane.”

  Peyton stood up. “Who are you talking to?”

  Kyle motioned her closer. Put a finger to his lips, conspiratorially. She leaned in and whispered, “What’s going on?”

  Kyle slid an arm around her waist. She wasn’t surprised. She’d been expecting it. She knew exactly how to handle guys like this. And, to tell the truth, he wasn’t the worst thing she could have come across on this disaster of a trip.

  He put the walkie-talkie to his lips. “You think I’ve been bluffing. You are sorely mistaken.”

  Well, except for Kyle’s peculiar cornpone way of talking.

  “You want the birthday party gang. But you don’t know where they are.”

  The walkie-talkie crackled. “Babble all you want. You’re alone in the night in the wilderness. You should be thinking about getting out of there before you freeze. Or get eaten by a bear.”

  “Oh, I ain’t worried about bears. There’s other wildlife that’s on my mind.” He squeezed Peyton to him. The flirt.

  “You know, I could listen to your drivel all night long, if I had insomnia. But I don’t have the time. So I’ll be signing off now.”

  “Not yet,” Kyle said.

  He let go of the Transmit button. To Peyton, he said, “Unzip my backpack, will you?”

  He turned and slid it off his shoulders. She whipped the zipper around.

  “Hand me that sack,” he said.

  “Which sack?”

  The backpack was heavy and crammed with ropes and water bottles and a burlap sack and what looked like nice felt drawstring bags—the kind that expensive whiskey came in, like Royal Crown. Or the kind that expensive shoes came in.

  “The big one,” Kyle said.

  Leather boot size, Peyton thought. She pulled it out. It was surprisingly heavy. And lumpy. Something shapeless filled the bottom.

  Kyle crouched down and untied a knot in the end of the sack. He picked up the walkie-talkie again.

  “Dane?” he said. “You find Von yet?”

  Peyton looked at him.

  “I’m gonna take your silence as a yes,” Kyle said.

  She grabbed his sleeve. “Von? That asshole who was in the Hummer?”

  Kyle pulled his arm free and shushed her. She grabbed him again.

  “Did you see Von?” she said.

  “Don’t get scared. Von can’t hurt you.”

  Her mouth opened. “Did you get him too?”

  “I tried to get him to tell me what’s up with Jo Beckett. He didn’t want to.”

  That explained it. “Is that where you got the gun?”

  He blinked, and his eyes looked unsettled for a moment. “Yeah. From Von.”

  “What happened to him?” she said.

  Kyle eyed her, heat in his gaze. He put the walkie-talkie to his face and pressed the button. “Did you take a close look at him?”

  There was no reply, but Kyle smiled. Peyton felt a wriggle of worry. What was Kyle talking about?

  He hefted the felt drawstring sack. In the dark, with shadows flickering across the hillside, it was impossible to see it clearly. But Peyton thought she saw it sway.

  Then she saw the movement again. And it wasn’t an optical illusion. It wasn’t the shadows that were moving. It was the sack. Her stomach clenched.

  “Crotalus scutulatus,” Kyle said.

  Static clicked over the walkie-talkie. But the man on the other end didn’t say anything. And Peyton thought about that man’s voice. It was familiar.

  She thought it was the man who had been in the speedboat earlier. It was the head honcho of the ambush gang. And Kyle was giving the guy an earful.

  She just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

  “Can you translate that?” Kyle said. “No? Mister big-brain, always the inte-goddamned-lectual, has no idea, does he?”

  Peyton whispered, “Don’t make this guy mad, Kyle.”

  His head whipped around. “I know what I’m doing.”

  Back to the walkie-talkie. “Y’all know me as the Red Rattler. But I got something here that’s a little bit fresher.” He looked at the sack. His eyes seemed eager. “I got me a green. Crotalus scutulatus, a Mojave green.”

  What was he talking about?

  “You think I’m just blowing smoke?” Kyle said. “I want you to listen closely.”

  He set down the walkie-talkie. Then, holding the sack close to his chest, rubbing it, he told Peyton, “This is gonna blow your mind.”

  She pulled her hands in. “I don’t think so.”

  She felt an urge to move back. She stood up and took a step.

  Kyle shot out an arm, quicker than a whip, and grabbed her ankle. Before she could react, he yanked. She lost her balance. On the steep hillside she threw her arms out and fell backward.

  She thumped down on rocks, hitting her head. Her broken collarbone shot through with pain. She tried to breathe but the agony was too sharp. She saw stars, flying stars, mingling with the others in the sky.

  Kyle jumped on top of her, straddled her, and before she knew it, pinned her hands beneath his thighs. He pressed a hand to her mouth. Her eyes went wide.

  With his free hand, he gently tugged open the top of the drawstring sack. Still grasping it, he held it out and set it on Peyton’s chest.

  Oh God. It was heavy. It was like a three-foot-long muscle placed on top of her. A coiling, purposeful muscle.

  There was a snake in the sack.

  She kicked her legs, dug her heels into the soft dirt and pine needles on the hillside, trying to push herself out from under Kyle. He was lithe and light, but stronger than steel cable. He squeezed her thighs and pressed his hand down harder on her mouth. His eyes were pinned on her. She tried to scream, but the sound was muffled by his hot palm.

  The snake nudged its nose through the opening in the sack. Slowly, steadily, its head appeared. It was big. It was gray under the ashen moonlight. Its tongue flicked out.

  She rocked, trying to escape. The chill of the earth, her broken collarbone, everything zeroed into fear.

  “Can’t tell what color it is right now,” Kyle said. “But it’s a Mojave green. That’s a rattlesnake.”

  Peyton thrashed and shrieked behind his hand. She tried to buck him off. Her sweater caught on a pinecone beneath her and pulled off her shoulders.

  “You’re just making him mad,” Kyle said.

  The snake gradually slithered out of the sack six inches, then a foot. Its tongue flicked again. Kyle adeptly pinched its neck, just behind its head.

  “Can’t hear the rattle for all this wind,” he said. “Shame.”

  The snake flicked, trying to ge
t away.

  “Ooh, he’s riled up now.” He smiled at the snake, shook it, made a hissing sound himself. Then he dropped it on Peyton’s face.

  The snake coiled and spun and slithered around. The bite came quicker than a bolt of electricity. The snake lunged and sank its fangs into her arm.

  She felt the shock, a new pain. Kyle pulled his hand from her mouth, grabbed the snake, and wrestled it back into the sack. Then he picked up the walkie-talkie. He pushed Talk.

  He didn’t say a word. He held the walkie-talkie while her screams filled the air.

  46

  The screams came from the trees, uphill in the dark. Jo turned toward the sound. Gabe stepped in front of her. He had the club in his left hand. In his right he held the buck knife.

  “Peyton,” Jo said.

  The sound was uncontrolled, unconcerned about drawing attention. It was beyond desperate.

  And it was moving.

  “She’s running,” Jo said.

  The screams vectored in the direction where Jo and Gabe had left Autumn and the others.

  “Come on,” Gabe said.

  He turned and ran back up the trail. Jo paused, looked at the dead man, and saw the walkie-talkie peeking from the pocket of his jacket. She grabbed it. Then she chased after Gabe, following the sound of screaming, hoping to intersect it. She was thinking the same thing Gabe had to be: If Peyton was that loud, everybody on the mountain would be coming.

  And there weren’t any rescuers on the mountain.

  Autumn heard the screaming and wheeled, brandishing her whittled spear.

  The horse raised its head in the moonlight. Its bridle clicked. The screaming intensified.

  “It’s Peyton,” Noah said.

  They heard panting, wheezing, hands shoving branches aside.

  She burst from the trees and staggered into Autumn’s arms. “Help me.”

  Her eyes were frantic. She threw her head back and collapsed. Autumn dropped to her side.

  “What’s wrong?” Autumn said.

  Kyle stepped from the trees. “What isn’t?”

  Jo pushed her pace up the hill. “We have to hurry.”

  Gabe ran, but he didn’t outdistance her. With a bright zing of worry, she realized that his breathing sounded ragged.

  They pushed through the brush and arrived at the clearing above the riverbank where they had left the group. Jo didn’t see Autumn, the horse, or Lark and Noah. But she saw a figure in dirty raspberry velour. Peyton knelt in the center of the clearing like a communicant. The screaming was unhinged and mixed with sobbing.

  She raised her head. “Help me.”

  They ran to her side. Gabe tossed the club to Jo and flipped on the flashlight. Peyton’s chest was heaving. Her eyes were insane. Her sweater had been torn off. Blood was running down her right arm from two puncture wounds to the biceps.

  Jo tried to hold her still. “Don’t move.”

  “It bit me,” she shrieked.

  “Snake? A rattlesnake?”

  Peyton nodded.

  “Sit down,” Gabe said. “And be quiet.”

  “Help me,” Peyton said. “I don’t want to die.”

  “None of us do. So keep quiet and hold still.”

  Jo squeezed her shoulders. “Look at me, Peyton.”

  “It bit me.” Peyton shut her eyes, leaned back, and screamed at the sky.

  Jo shook her. “Stop it. Right this second.”

  Peyton kept sobbing. Gabe’s face knotted with frustration. Jo pulled Peyton tight against her shoulder, pressed the girl’s head to her chest and spoke firmly into her ear.

  “The more you scream, the harder your heart pumps, the worse the effects of the venom. Be quiet.”

  It worked like a slap in the face. Peyton’s head jerked up.

  Gabe pointed at the ground. “Sit down. Come on. Quick.”

  Peyton shakily sat down. “He . . .” She huffed, fighting another sob. “He held me down. He let it out of a sack.”

  “Kyle did this?” Jo said.

  Gabe glanced at Jo. His eyes told her: Too late. Peyton’s screams had alerted the bad guys. She was both a message and a beacon.

  “They’re going to be coming,” he said. “Soon.”

  “No,” Peyton said. “They’re already gone. Kyle took the others.”

  On the slope, several hundred feet uphill from the ragged panic in the blond slattern’s screams, Kyle crouched on top of a boulder, waiting.

  The sack was tied securely. The snake was back inside it. He had slipped it inside his coat, to keep the snake warm. He liked the feeling of such power coiled against his body.

  Down the slope through the forest below him, the blonde continued sobbing and screaming. The wind rushed through the pines. It carried the girl’s wails up the slope. He glanced toward the logging road.

  Haugen would hear her. He’d pinpoint the noise. He’d come.

  Kyle smiled. He had three kids and a horse—and a twelve-gauge shotgun, aimed straight at them. They wouldn’t run. They wouldn’t utter a peep. Noah couldn’t. Lark wouldn’t run because she knew if she tried, he’d shoot Noah. Love—what a neat little knot it tied in people’s lives.

  And Autumn, his prize-above-all-prizes—she was too damned loyal to her friends. She just couldn’t stand what would happen to them if she ran.

  Sucker.

  He gave her the stare. The good old evil eye. She shrank from him, but she couldn’t look away. The white snake didn’t have to touch people to poison them.

  He waited while Peyton quieted down. Either she was passed out, or the helpful doctor and her beau had found her. Either way, they’d be tied up for a bit.

  “Let’s go.” He nudged the group forward with the barrel of the shotgun.

  He would have loved to linger and watch Peyton die. But he heard more sounds in the forest nearby. Haugen and his band of merry men. He got a move on.

  He had the walkie-talkie. He had hostages. Haugen would come to him.

  Peyton thrashed. “It hurts. Oh God, it burns.”

  Jo held the girl’s arm to keep her from raising it. “You need to keep the site of the bite below the level of your heart. That helps limit the venom from pumping through your body.”

  It was standard advice, but probably too late. Peyton had run across the mountainside, her heart thundering. She was likely to be well envenomated.

  Her eyes were still wild. “Suck the venom out. Cut an X on my arm and suck the venom out.”

  Gabe shook his head. “That’s the wrong advice.”

  “You’ve got that knife.” She grabbed his shirt. “Come on, do it.”

  He took her hands. “They used to do that. Not anymore.”

  “You scared you’ll swallow the venom? Give me the knife. I’ll do it.”

  How he maintained his composure, Jo didn’t know. He held tight to her hands. “Sucking the venom doesn’t work. Staying calm does.”

  But it would only work for the time being. Peyton needed to get to an ER and be evaluated to see if she needed antivenom.

  “First-aid kit?” Jo said.

  Gabe shrugged the sports bag off his shoulders. Jo rummaged inside for the kit and got out gauze and antiseptic. Cleaning the bite might be little more than a calming gesture, but calm was what Peyton needed.

  Tears welled in the girl’s eyes. “What about a tourniquet?”

  Gabe spoke in measured tones. “No. That could cause more harm than good. What will help is to stay calm. Because there’s good news. Most rattlesnake bites are not fatal.”

  Tears spilled down Peyton’s face. Her eyes were puffy. “He said it was a green.”

  Jo felt a jolt, a trace of electricity down her arms. “The snake?”

  Gabe said, “A Mojave green?”

  Peyton nodded. “He talked on the walkie-talkie. Said I had no chance.”

  “Peyton,” Jo said, “listen to me. He’s a liar. A psychopath.”

  “What did the snake look like?” Gabe said.

  �
��Like a goddamned rattlesnake. With fangs. He said it was a Mojave green.”

  Jo and Gabe exchanged a glance. Jo’s heart sank.

  Haugen put down the window of the deputy’s car. He heard the wind, a cold moan. The girl’s screaming had finally stopped. The walkie-talkie had gone silent.

  He flashed the lights at Sabine, up the road in the Volvo. She flashed back. She’d heard Ruby Kyle Ratner’s little broadcast too.

  He opened the door. He had to move on Ratner before the psycho killed Autumn. But as he did, the police radio crackled to life.

  “Unit Four, come in, over.”

  He paused. This car—he knew from the dispatcher’s pathetic attempts to raise the dead deputy, D. V. Gilbert—was Unit Two. The dispatcher was now calling somebody else.

  Backup.

  The dispatcher: “The state logging road north of mile marker ninety-two.”

  A distant, staticky voice replied: “Roger. I am on my way. I’m forty miles from there. Where’s the CHP?”

  “The nearest highway patrol unit is in Oakdale, but proceeding to the location.”

  “Should we set up a roadblock?” said Unit Four.

  Haugen held still. A roadblock would be fatal to his plans. A roadblock would catch him with his playthings, here in the wilderness. There was no other way out of this desolate forest besides downhill on this road.

  He smashed his palm into the steering wheel. Dammit. This should not be happening.

  But the Tuolumne County deputies were forty miles away. The highway patrol was even more distant. He had time.

  And if he didn’t?

  The walkie-talkie cackled. “Dane. Oh, Dane . . .”

  Whispery, singsong, Ratner continued taunting him. “You best hurry, partner. My piece of the pie can only get bigger.”

  Ratner giggled again. It was a high, slippery sound. It made Haugen’s throat contract. He climbed out of the car.

  “I suggest you get on the highway and start walking,” Haugen said. “Because you’re getting nothing. And if you stick around, you’ll die.”

  “That’s an awful rude thing to say to me.”

  “You can’t extort me on this.”

  “Course I can. I’m an expert at it.”