by Henry, April
The black stove is unlit. Above it is a stone mantel made of river rocks, the only place that hasn’t been subject to the search-and-destroy mission. The two men must have seen no point in tossing the found objects lined up there: a long, speckled feather; a leaf reduced to a white skeleton; half a sky-blue eggshell that could fit over my pinkie. And in the middle, a framed photo. In it, a man stands with his arms around a woman’s shoulders. The woman holds a little boy, a toddler, by the hand. A girl stands next to them, grinning. She holds her hands apart as if she is measuring something.
I am that girl. I look in the mirror again and back down. Even though I think I’m a little older than the girl in the photo, it’s clearly me. I have no idea who the rest of them are.
I take the coat off the hook. It’s heavy brown canvas with a green plaid lining. I think it’s a man’s coat, maybe the man in the photo. I put it on, curling my damaged fingers when I push them through the sleeve so they don’t touch the cloth. The cuffs hang to just above my fingertips. I slide the photo into one of the coat’s front patch pockets.
I quickly check the two small bedrooms. One has a double bed, the other has two sets of bunk beds. The sheets have been yanked off and the mattresses hang half off the bed, slit open. On the floor of each closet, there’s a small heap of clothes and hangers, along with a jumble of boots, skis, snowboards, fishing poles, old games, mismatched sheets, and faded blankets. Dresser drawers gape open, but the drawers are nearly empty. I see wool socks, a blue bandanna, a hairbrush with a few blond hairs wound around the bristles. I’m too nervous to keep looking. The back of my neck itches, and I keep jerking my head around, expecting to see the guy I left tied up standing in the doorway.
Only, no one is ever there.
In the bathroom, shampoo, conditioner, and sunscreen have been squirted from their now empty bottles. I get lucky and find a few dry Band-Aids lying next to a mess of ruined ones. I wrap my poor throbbing fingers and let the wrappers fall to the floor. I’m heading toward the door before I’ve even got the second one all the way bound.
Twenty seconds later I’m sitting in a stranger’s car, with a stranger’s coat on my back, and with the picture of some more strangers in my pocket.
And then there’s the gun on the seat beside me.
I put the key in the ignition, turn the key, and release the emergency brake. All these things happen automatically.
So I guess I know how to do this. I revise my age upward. I’m probably at least sixteen. With my hands slick on the wheel, I turn in a big circle and head for the road.
CHAPTER 5
DAY 1, 5:23 P.M.
I follow a set of graveled tracks pitted with muddy puddles. They wind between tall fir trees, and then suddenly ahead of me is a road. I come to a stop. It’s a narrow road with soft shoulders, just big enough for two cars. Not even a white line down the middle. No street signs. Nothing to tell me where I am. Or where to go.
I wait for a few seconds, but no cars pass. There are no streetlights or even telephone poles, and it’s only then that I realize it’s growing dark. The clock on the dash says 5:23. It must be late fall, or early spring. No signs of old snow, so I’m guessing fall.
Which way should I go? Left or right? The road slopes down from left to right. It feels like I’m up in the mountains someplace. If I turn left and go higher, I could be turning away from civilization.
So I turn right, my damp palms sliding on the wheel. And realize only after I hear the tick-tick-tick that I put on the turn signal first, like there’s someone else out here to see.
As I drive down the new road, I look for other cabins, other roads, signs, some evidence of people, of a place I can go to for help, but there’s nothing. Just trees pressing up against the edges of the road. The speedometer says I’m going only thirty miles an hour, but I’m afraid to go faster. Are my lights on? I watch the road and see them, two pale cones of light pushing ahead of me. It’s definitely getting darker. The sun is sliding down behind the trees on my right. That must mean I’m driving south.
Why do I keep gathering scraps of facts? Like, what difference does it make if it’s day or night? Winter or summer? What difference does it make which direction I’m going?
What’s important is that I don’t know who I am.
And that two men want to kill me.
As I’m going around a bend, a blue Subaru wagon suddenly appears and passes me. It’s gone before I can decide what to do. The next time I see a car, should I honk and flash my lights and scream out my window that I’m in trouble? But the person driving the car that passed me was a guy. And I never saw the man who gave the order to finish me off. What if I try to stop someone and it turns out to be the person who ordered my death? What if he’s coming back to find out where his friend is?
It’s not safe to ask for help out here. Not where there aren’t any witnesses. I’ll keep driving until I get to a town. And then I’ll find the police station. They’ll know what to do. They’ll know how to help me.
Then I remember the guy’s phone in my pocket. I could call 9-1-1 right now!
Without thinking, I slide my hand past my open coat and start to wiggle my fingers into the left pocket of my jeans. Ouch! Tears spring to my eyes, and I yank my poor bloody fingers back as if they just got bitten.
The pain gives me a chance to think. What would I tell the 9-1-1 operator? All I know is that I’m on a road up in the mountains. Period. That isn’t enough for them to come find me. Cell towers are probably few and far between out here. And I don’t want to sit and wait while they figure out where I am.
Because what if someone else finds me first?
No. I’ll just keep driving. I won’t stop anyone for help, and I won’t try to call anyone.
But that doesn’t stop someone from calling me. Or rather, from calling the guy I left tied up in the woods, barely breathing. Because there’s a buzz coming from my left hip.
What will the person calling do when the guy doesn’t answer? Will they know that something is wrong? Will they find him—and then set out to find me?
I push down on the accelerator.
CHAPTER 6
DAY 1, 5:34 P.M.
The phone finally stops buzzing. My hands hurt from gripping the steering wheel. My teeth chatter even after I figure out how to turn on the heat. Waves of shivers wash over me.
I’m in a nightmare. But I don’t need to pinch myself to know that it’s all real. My fingers hurt too much for this to be a dream. Who am I? Who are those people in the photo? They looked like a family. Like a mother and a father and a daughter and a son.
And that daughter was me. Is me. If I can find them, they can tell me who I am. Maybe help slide my memories back into place, like putting a DVD in a player.
The road I’m on meets up with another one. Because the other road looks bigger, I turn onto it. I choose left and hope it’s the right way.
I think of something else. Who would frame a photo like the one in my pocket and put it on their mantel? It’s not exactly a piece of art, just an off-center snapshot. The only people who would put it on display have to be the people in the picture, or someone related to them. So was that my family’s cabin? My grandparents’? It seems likely.
But then shouldn’t I have recognized it? Nothing was familiar.
There’s something else. If that girl in the photo is me, then where’s my family? Are they in trouble, too?
Are they dead?
The whole time I’m thinking, I’m driving. Twice when I have to make a choice about what road to take, I pick the road that looks wider or has more cars. And each time, I look behind me to see if someone else is making the same decisions. But both times the road is clear. Every time I see a car come toward me, something jumps in my chest. Fear and longing. I want to be saved, but I’m so afraid. The wrong choice could kill me.
After I’ve been driving for about a half hour, the road I’m on is now some kind of highway. Cars pass me every two or three minutes.
So I guess I’ve been making the right decisions.
But all the cars just make me more nervous. I keep looking in my rearview mirror, wondering if someone is following me.
That’s what almost gets me in an accident. When a car in front of me turns left, I don’t see the blinking yellow turn signal or the red flare of the brake lights until it’s almost too late. I slam on my own brakes but I can feel that it’s not going to be enough.
I yank the car to the right, a horn blaring behind me, and just manage to squeeze past.
There’s a little grocery store up ahead, but it’s dark and closed. Still, I pull into the parking lot. I’m shaking so hard I can barely turn the key.
The sound of my ragged breathing fills the space. “Calm down,” I say out loud. “You’re safe.” But I don’t feel safe. Who can I turn to? Who can I trust? Every few seconds, another car rushes by, but they are filled with strangers who wouldn’t have any more idea than I do about how to help me.
Then I remember something about that guy’s phone. It looked like it connected to the Internet. I take it out and swipe my finger over the screen. It lights up. I have to scroll around a little, but then I find the browser, click on it, then type in googlemaps.com to see where I am.
I have to zoom out a few times to figure out what state I’m in. Oregon. Does that sound right? Is that where I live? I ask myself questions, but nothing comes back.
According to Google, I’m roughly in the middle of the state, which is basically shaped like a square. The closest dot on the map is called Newberry Ranch. And when I try typing in Newberry Ranch and police, I get this: “Located just inside the entrance of Oregon’s Newberry Ranch, our Security Department provides protection and community support to our residents and guests 24/7.” Newberry Ranch sounds like it must be some sort of resort, but it’s only two miles away. And protection and support are two of the things I need.
I wait until there aren’t any cars coming, and then I put on my signal and get back on the highway. In another minute, I see the wooden sign for Newberry Ranch. Above the words is a stylized picture of a sun. Definitely a resort, I think as I drive through a darkened golf course on a road that winds back and forth for no reason that I can see. Even though the road is empty, it feels busy, with signs warning about the five-mile-an-hour speed limit and bright yellow speed bumps to make sure you don’t ignore the signs. Past the golf course are houses that look like cabins on steroids.
If it weren’t for the word SECURITY on the side of the building and the black cop car sitting in front, I never would think this was a police station. It looks like a cheaper prefab cabin.
I’ve been watching my rearview mirror, so I know no one followed me here. But even so, the space between my shoulder blades itches. Just to be safe, I tuck the gun in the back of my waistband again like some kind of wannabe gangster. Then I get out of the SUV and run for the door.
CHAPTER 7
DAY 1, 6:27 P.M.
When I burst through the door, a middle-aged man wearing a uniform is sitting behind a desk reading People magazine. His name tag says OFFICER DILLOW.
“You’ve got to help me. Someone’s trying to kill me.” A sob pushes up from my belly as I stagger toward him. I put my hand over my mouth but it still leaks out.
“What?” He puts his coffee down so fast it slops on the magazine. He bounces to his feet, his hand on the butt of his gun. His eyes scan the flat black glass of the windows behind me. “Is he out there?”
“No, I don’t think so.” My voice gets higher as I think about how horrible it would be if one of those men was. “I don’t think I was followed.”
His hand doesn’t move from his gun, but he looks back at me now. “Followed? From your unit?”
He must think I’m one of the guests. “No. You don’t understand.” My words come faster and faster. “I was at a cabin. Someplace back there.” I wave my hand behind me, not even sure anymore that I’m pointing in the right direction. “Up in the mountain. About ninety minutes ago, I … I … I”—I stutter as the horror washes over me again—“I came to. From being unconscious. I was lying on a floor and two men were standing over me. And one of them said that I didn’t know anything and told the other one to take me out back and … and”—it’s hard to repeat this, to repeat how someone gave the order to murder me—“and finish me off. And then he left and the second guy dragged me out to the woods to kill me.” Tears are running down my face and into my mouth.
With every word, Officer Dillow’s eyes get wider. “Now slow down, honey, slow down. Here, why don’t you sit down.” He motions at the chair in front of his desk.
But I can’t slow down and I can’t sit down. “Look what they did to me.” I hold out my bandaged hand, which shakes so hard there’s no way he can focus on it. “They pulled out my fingernails.”
His face pales. “Really?” His brows draw together. “What’s your name? Where’s your family?”
I swipe my nose, try to get myself under control. “That’s the thing. I don’t know. Those guys must have hit me on the head or something. I don’t remember anything from before I woke up on the floor of that cabin.”
“You said one of the men left? What happened to the other one?”
I think of all the things I did, then simplify it to: “When we were out in the woods, I pushed him and he fell and hit his head on a rock. Then I tied him up with his own belt.” I remember the gasping sounds he was making, the sounds that weren’t really breathing, and push the memory away.
“Okay, so let me get this straight,” Officer Dillow says slowly. “You don’t know who you are, you don’t know where you were before you came here, and all you know is that two men are trying to kill you.”
Put that way, it sounds kind of crazy. “Yes. That’s right.”
“Let me ask you something.” He presses his lips together and tilts his head to one side. His coffee-colored eyes bore into me. “Have you had any alcohol or drugs today?”
“What? No. You can give me a Breathalyzer test or whatever it is you do. I’m not drunk or anything.” Even as I say the words, I wonder if they’re true. Maybe they did give me drugs. Maybe that’s why I can’t remember.
Officer Dillow leans closer, sniffs. I figure he’s trying to smell beer or pot on me. Then he shakes his head and steps back. “Frankly, this is all a little out of my league. Normally I just find lost dogs and tell people to turn down the volume on their parties.” He sighs and runs his hand through his short brown hair, leaving furrows. “So you don’t know who either of these men are? The ones who wanted to”—Officer Dillow hesitates—“kill you?”
I shake my head. “No. I took the guy’s car and I just started driving. But … wait a second.” With a feeling of relief, I remember the wallet. If Officer Dillow wants proof that the things I’m saying really happened, that the men really existed, I have it. I pull out the wallet and hand it to him. “Here. I got this off the guy who was going to kill me.”
Officer Dillow flips it open, and we both look inside. In front is an Oregon driver’s license. The name of the guy I left in the woods is Michael Brenner. He’s thirty-four years old, five foot nine, and weighs 153 pounds. In the photo on his license, he looks friendly. He doesn’t look like a bad person. He doesn’t look like someone who would pull out your fingernails and drag you into the forest to shoot you. Officer Dillow thumbs through the rest of the wallet. Brenner has credit cards, gas station cards, and some twenties and fifties.
As he is looking through the wallet, the phone rings. We both jump. Office Dillow excuses himself and goes into an office in the back. After a second, he closes the door. His voice is a low murmur. I should feel safe, being in a security office, but instead, with the darkness pressing up against the windows, I feel like I’m standing in a spotlight. It wouldn’t be hard to figure out where I would go. Either the hospital or the cops. And fixing my fingers is nothing compared to saving my life.
When Officer Dillow comes out, his mouth is se
t in a thin line. “That was my wife, checking in. And then I talked to the Bend police station. I’m going to take you over there. They’ve got a much bigger cop shop. We’re just a security operation. Frankly, we’re not set up for this kind of thing. We don’t even have holding cells. They’ll be able to help you there.”
He goes to the window, and we both look out again at the darkness. “In case those guys are out there, I’ll go first, unlock the cruiser’s back door, and leave it open,” he says. “Then you come out fast, keep low, and lie down flat on the back seat. And you’ll stay flat all the way to Bend. That way, if anyone is watching who’s coming to and leaving Newberry Ranch, they won’t know you’re with me.”
We do as he suggests. His black car has a light bar on top and NEWBERRY RANCH SECURITY written on the side in slanted white letters. A few seconds after he leaves, I bend double, hurry to the car, and crawl onto the back seat. I reach behind me and pull the door closed. It’s only then I realize that I am where they put the prisoners. A chest-high barrier of scratched metal runs the length of the car behind the front seats. It’s topped with a plate of Plexiglas, like a second windshield that separates me from Officer Dillow. Only the Plexigas doesn’t run all the way across. The last section behind the front passenger’s seat is made of cross-hatched metal mesh, I guess to allow the officer to talk to the prisoner.
It’s weird to be lying in the back of a police car. The seat is vinyl and hard, and I think it smells like pee. Pee and vomit. I remember what Officer Dillow said about loud parties. Maybe the only people who are ever back here are drunks. When was the last time Officer Dillow dealt with a real criminal? I wonder if he’s as scared as I am.
I shift around so that the side of my face isn’t pressed into the seat. When I do, I feel the gun in my waistband, poking into the small of my back. I should have given it to Officer Dillow. I’ll have to give it to the Bend police when we get to the station. That and the guy’s car keys and cell phone. Maybe they can use the cell phone to figure out who the other guy is. The one who left. The one who gave the order for me to die.
