“Ollie?” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure what good that would do. Louder, I called out, “Travis? I’m here. Hello?”
I stepped over a stuffed bear that was missing one eye and coming apart at the seams and moved past a bookcase filled with taxidermy raccoons and squirrels, blue jays and crows and something that looked like a bobcat. Their glass eyes twinkled and seemed to move with me, watching, disapproving. A few steps more, past a desk strewn with sketches and pictures of the same blond-haired girl, and I reached the sliding glass door that opened onto a balcony overlooking the woods behind the house. About fifty yards down a bark mulch path was another building, a shed, similar in color and style to the house, but smaller, a single cube instead of several stacked together. The lights were on inside.
I turned to go back out the front door, but I stopped halfway there and stared at my empty hands. I curled my fingers into fists. So small and fragile, so completely useless. I searched the living room, but nothing seemed right. In the kitchen, I grabbed a frying pan from the hook hanging over the stove and swung it once, twice, like a baseball bat, but it didn’t feel heavy enough to me. I needed something menacing, something I might not even have to use once they got a good look at it. I put the pan back on its hook and started opening drawers instead. I found the butcher’s knife in the third drawer alongside a lemon zester and a bottle opener. The knife was almost as long as my arm, heavy and sharp and glinting silver. This.
Keeping the blade pointed away from me, I ran back through the living room and outside. A light wind had started to blow, setting the trees grumbling like angry old men. A thin orange ribbon twisted through their thick black trunks. The sun was flickering out, collapsing into night.
The shed door was ajar. Hushed voices drifted toward me.
“If you have a better idea, I’d love to hear it,” Mrs. Roth said.
“I just think . . . maybe we should go to the sheriff first.” This was Travis. “Right now. Before we make it worse. If that’s even possible. Just tell them everything. Tell them the truth.”
“The truth.”
“Yes.”
“Tell them everything?”
They were quiet for a few seconds, enough time for me to get right up close to the shed and hunker down behind a stack of firewood. I clutched the knife in both hands now, holding it close to my chest.
Mrs. Roth said, “We’re as guilty as your father now, Travis. Our hands are covered in just as much blood.”
“But maybe if we tell them—”
“What? Tell them what, exactly? There’s nothing we could say to fix this.”
“So . . . what? What do we do?”
Mrs. Roth didn’t answer.
I needed to see what was going on inside, what I was up against. I needed to see Ollie. Staying low to the ground, I inched around to the other side of the woodpile, closer to the door.
“We could run,” Travis said.
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Mexico? Canada? Wherever. Somewhere far away from here.”
“And what about Sam?”
Something tickled the back of my arm, making circles near my elbow, then walking toward my sleeve, but I didn’t dare move. I was close enough now to see inside.
Ollie was tied to a chair. A sock or a handkerchief, some kind of cloth, had been shoved into her mouth, and her hands were tied behind her back, her legs tied together at the ankles. My grip tightened on the knife. I couldn’t see Travis, but from the sound of his voice, he was close to the door. Billy Roth was at the back of the shed, busy with something at his workbench. Mrs. Roth stood in the center of them all. I stared at the gun in her hand, stared and tried not to panic.
Travis said, “When she gets here, we tie them both up and that will buy us a few hours. Enough time to pack up a few things and get the hell out. If we drive fast enough, we might even make it to the Canadian border. We could disappear.”
“And then what?” Mrs. Roth said. “Keep running? Keep hiding? For the rest of our lives? Always looking over our shoulders? No. Absolutely not. Not when we’re this close. Not when it’s almost over.”
Whatever creature had been crawling around my elbow was almost to my armpit now. I twitched my arm, but I could still feel it creeping around, tickling its tiny legs over my skin. I brushed at my sleeve and a honeybee fell into the dirt. Dazed, she hobbled in circles for a few seconds, then gathered herself up again and flew away, circling around me and landing somewhere in the woodpile.
Mrs. Roth was still talking. “No, we stick with the original plan.”
“And if Sam doesn’t agree to it?”
Another bee landed on my jeans. I brushed her off.
“She won’t have a choice.”
“What do you mean?”
I leaned closer to the crack in the door, sticking my head out far enough that if either of them looked over, they would see me plain as day. But Mrs. Roth had her back to me now, reaching for something I couldn’t see, and Travis, a few steps from the doorway, was too busy watching her to notice me. Ollie saw me, though, and started squirming and grunting. I pulled back into the shadows.
Mrs. Roth said, “Hush, dear. No use working yourself into a fit. This will all be over soon.”
Ollie fell silent.
Mrs. Roth asked, “Do you still have the lighter?”
Travis said, “I lost it.”
I shoved my hand in my front pocket, took the lighter out, cupped it in my palm.
Mrs. Roth sighed loudly, then said, “Oh, it doesn’t matter. The purse will be enough.”
“Tell me again how this is going to work?”
“We’ll give it to Sam, have her take it to the sheriff. She’ll tell them she saw Bear with it the day after the murder, that she saw him throw it in the woods, but she was too scared to come forward with it until now. We’ve planted enough evidence already, everyone thinks he’s guilty. But just in case. If they have any doubts, they won’t after this.”
“She won’t do it.”
“She’ll have to,” Mrs. Roth said. “This won’t come back to us. I won’t let it.”
“You’re not going to . . .” There was a long stretch of silence, and then Travis said, “You promised you wouldn’t hurt them!”
“You understand what would happen if anyone else were to find out what we’ve done, right?”
Silence and then Mrs. Roth continued, “We’re the victims here, Travis. You, me, your father. We wouldn’t have to be dealing with any of this if your sister was still alive, if that accident had never happened. This is Frank McAlister’s fault. You know that as well as I do. He’s the bad guy, Travis, not your father. He’s the monster who started all of this. Try and remember that.”
The door opened a little wider, and Travis’s shadow stretched long across the orange swatch of light bleeding onto the grass. I leaned back against the woodpile, as far away from the opening as I could get. Two bees twirled and buzzed in the air around my head. I stayed still, hoping the shadows were thick enough to make me invisible.
Travis moved away from the door again. “Where is she?”
I couldn’t wait any longer. If I was going to do something, I had to do it now.
I crawled to the other side of the woodpile and scooped up dry pine needles and small twigs, making a messy pile of kindling that butted right up against the side of the shed. My timing would have to be perfect. I held the lighter to the bottom of the pile and struck a flame. A twig caught fire, then sputtered and died. Smoke curled away from me.
“It shouldn’t be taking her this long,” Travis said.
I tried again. Snick, pop, flare. I cupped my hand around the flame this time and blew softly on the fragile embers. Some leaves caught fire, then a bundle of dry moss. More smoke lifted, carried away by the wind. The twigs were burning on their own now.
�
��She’s told the sheriff. I know she has. We’re fucked. Completely fucked.”
“Language,” Mrs. Roth said. And then, “If she’d told the sheriff, they would have been here a long time ago. She’ll be here. Have a little faith.”
I reached for a small log teetering near the top of the woodpile. When I brought it down to the fire, the dim light caught the movement of fluttering wings and marching legs and yellow-and-black wiggling bodies. Half a dozen bees roamed up and down the stick. I rose to a half crouch to get a closer look at the woodpile.
The bees were coming from a large, hollow stump that was up against the side of the shed, teetering on the edge of a rotting pallet. From what I could see, the comb inside was new and thin and still growing, so they had only been here a few days, if that. They were starting to gather inside now, clustering together for warmth, whispering their bee secrets as night settled around them. I desperately wanted to believe they were Bear’s bees, the ones whose hives in the meadow were so recently destroyed, and I wanted to believe they recognized me. But even if they didn’t, even if they came from someplace else entirely, their low and steady hum still gave me courage.
My pile of kindling was starting to die, the embers smothering, turning gray and puffing bits of ash into the air. I left the bees and dropped another handful of dry tinder onto the fire. The flames shot up again, angry and red and hotter this time. I added a small log and the flames grew bigger still, taller and meaner. They thrashed against the side of the shed, snapping like devil tongues. The smoke bulged and shifted with the wind, burning my throat and making me cough. Sparks sprang from the center and then settled in the dry grass, and it was only a matter of time before something else caught fire, and the whole world went up in flames. If that happened, the bees with their wings would be all right, but I couldn’t say the same for Ollie and me. Too late, now.
I buried my mouth and nose in the crook of my elbow and ducked around the corner of the shed. I followed the walls around the back and then around another corner, and then I was at the front of the shed again, but opposite the fire, which was burning hot now, filling the night with noise and smoke and shifting red shadows. I held the butcher’s knife steady with both hands and waited.
“Do you smell that?” Mrs. Roth asked.
“What is that?” Billy Roth’s voice grew louder, coming toward the door. “Is that smoke?”
He thrust his head through the doorway, saw the rapidly growing fire, then disappeared back inside. Something scraped loudly across the floorboards.
“Get a bucket of water!” he shouted. “Hurry!”
Mrs. Roth rushed outside. Her eyes were red burning embers, reflecting the firelight. She kicked dirt at the flames, but the fire kept burning, devouring the siding now, grasping at the eaves.
Travis came, carrying a bucket. Water sloshed over the sides. He hurried to his mother and the flames and shouted, “Move! Get back!”
Their full attention on the fire, I slipped into the shed.
Ollie’s eyes widened, and she bucked in the chair, straining against her ties. I pressed a finger to my lips and held out the knife. She nodded and settled down.
Billy had his back turned to me. He was coughing into his elbow and trying to cover something with a canvas sheet, trying to drag it as far away from the door as he could.
I crouched behind Ollie and cut the ropes around her wrists first. They were made of soft nylon, the weave loose, and the knife went through them as if passing through butter. Ollie rubbed at the bruises and raw spots, and then pulled the gag from her mouth. She bent, reaching for the ropes around her ankles, but I pushed her hands away and hacked with the blade. The last thread snapped, and Ollie leaped to her feet. She threw her arms around my waist and buried her face into my chest. I pushed her away.
Hurry, I mouthed.
The scraping sounds and coughing stopped.
I turned to find Billy Roth scowling at me, one hand still holding on to the thing he’d been dragging.
“How did you get in here?” he asked.
I pointed the knife at him.
“Maggie knows I don’t like people seeing my work until it’s finished.” He dropped his hand and came toward me. “She shouldn’t have let you in.”
I pushed Ollie behind me and started to shuffle backward toward the door.
“Stay back.” I slashed the knife through the air.
He tried to grab my arm.
I jerked out of reach and then shoved Ollie. “Go!”
But she didn’t move. She pressed back against me.
I glanced at the door. Travis was there, framed in smoke and flickering light, holding the empty bucket, staring at me and Ollie and working his lips between his teeth.
I pushed Ollie toward the other side of the room. “The window!”
Travis shouted, “Dad! Don’t!”
Billy clamped his hand around my wrist. I dropped the knife. It clattered to the floor. I reached for it. He got there first and snatched it out from under my fingers. He twisted around and laid the knife on the closest corner of the workbench, well out of my reach.
He grinned, his hand still clasped around my arm, squeezing tighter. “Little girls shouldn’t play with such sharp toys.”
I kicked his shin, dragging my heel hard down the length of his bone. He yelped and let go of my wrist. I spun away from him and ran to Ollie. She’d managed to push the window up a few inches, enough to bring in a gust of fresh air, but not enough for her to escape. The wooden frame was swollen and stuck.
Travis dropped the bucket and came toward us. “Sam! Wait!”
I pounded my hands against the window, then jimmied my arm into the gap and pushed up as hard as I could. The wood squealed and gave another inch. I pushed up on the window frame even harder.
Billy pressed his hands to his temples, saying, “I can’t work like this. It’s impossible. All this noise. So much noise.”
Mrs. Roth stepped into the shed. “What is going on in here?”
She gaped at me and, for a stretched-out second, stood frozen in the doorway, the gun hanging useless at her side. Then she raised her arm, pointed the barrel straight at my head. “Come away from the window, dear. Before someone gets hurt.”
“Mom, the fire!” Travis reached for Ollie’s arm. She slapped at him and kicked his shin and spat in his face. He backed away, wiping his eyes.
Mrs. Roth said, “It’s out. I got it out.” And then, “Stupid girls.”
She came toward us, gun still raised.
I’d managed to push the window open wide enough so I could crouch and get my shoulder up under the frame. I heaved and shoved and pushed and slammed. The window squealed, sliding open only another half a foot, but this time it was enough.
Ollie grabbed the ledge and pulled herself up and over. She squeezed through the gap and tumbled into the dirt below, then sprang to her feet and motioned me to hurry. I took a single step toward the window, and then I was jerked backward.
Mrs. Roth twisted my arm behind my back, pulled it up so far between my shoulder blades, I heard a pop and pain burned down into my fingers. I cried out.
“Tell your sister to come back inside,” Mrs. Roth spoke softly into my ear, her breath warm across my skin. She smelled like smoke and wet ashes.
Through the glass, Ollie was a blurred and pale figure hovering in the dark, floating farther and farther away from me.
I screamed, “Run, Ollie! Run!”
Mrs. Roth yanked me from the window and threw me into the now empty chair. She kept the gun pointed at my head.
“Go after her,” she said to Travis.
He stumbled toward the door. At the threshold, he stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Should I bring her back here?”
“No,” Mrs. Roth said. “Take her to the meadow. We’ll meet you there.”
Travis hes
itated, glancing at me, his expression impossible to understand. He seemed about to say something, but then Mrs. Roth shouted, “Go on! What are you waiting for?”
He turned away from me and ran into the night.
“No!” I tried to go after him.
Mrs. Roth shoved me back down in the chair and pointed the barrel at my chest, right above my heart. “Careful, now, Sam.”
I stopped struggling and stared out the window into hollow darkness. Somewhere close by, Travis’s dirt bike roared awake, a sputtering, choking awful sound that turned into a shrill banshee scream as he sped into the forest after my sister.
34
ollie
I run into the woods behind the shed.
I run into the dark.
I run.
Serpents and ogres reach and grab and try to drag me down. Fangs and claws tear my skin. An owl screams.
I run and run and do not stop.
I can’t breathe. I do not stop.
I can’t see. I do not stop.
I stumble over a rock and twist my ankle. Keep running. If you stop, they will find you.
My tears taste like oil and smoke and blood.
When I looked back through the window, the pale girl Delilah was screaming and weeping, clinging to her old dead bones. But there was nothing I could do to help her, and then my sister yelled, “Run, Ollie! Run!”
She did not tell me how far or which direction. But I know to go fast.
Fast and faster.
There is no moon tonight, and clouds blur the stars. I have no way of knowing if I’m running in a straight line, but every step that does not take me back to the shed is a good step. I try to keep my body pointed forward, in one direction—away—but I am running blind and going nowhere.
Crooked River: A Novel Page 28
