Make Me Tremble

by BETH KERY

  Jake had known better than to argue. Sometimes Emmitt got like this when he was planning some kind of dirty deal—a drug or a weapons exchange. Emmitt’s illegal endeavors spread far beyond dogfighting. Or more correctly, dogfighting, by its very nature, drew in a variety of ugliness and crime.

  His room had been sweltering hot. He’d drowned in his own sweat, lying on his bare cot. He’d found a book abandoned at a camp sight three miles through the woods—Dune. He’d reread it thirty-one times now, and guarded it like a religious icon. Usually, he reserved all his reading for the public library in Poplar Gorge. If Emmitt saw a book in his room, Jake cringed to think of the shit he’d get.

  But it was too hot to focus on reading tonight. Luckily, he’d brought a glass of water in his room last night, or he might have dehydrated. With nothing to do in the nearly empty room, he’d eventually fallen asleep.

  Only to awaken hours later to the sound of the dogs barking in excitement . . .

  He heard the scuffling sound of footsteps near his window and flew out of bed. Cautiously, he peered around the wooden frame of the curtainless, dirty window. It was a clear night with plenty of star shine. He saw the unmistakable outline of Emmitt’s tall, powerful form walking toward one of the barns. There was a pack or bag of some kind thrown over his shoulder. As Jake watched, a slender, pale forearm fell from the bag. The hand hung limply in the empty air, the fingers unmoving. A sick feeling rose in his stomach.

  Oh no. Not again.

  Anxiety shot through him at the recollection of finding another girl once, two summers ago. Afterward, he’d prayed it’d only happen that one time. He’d hoped Emmitt would never venture into this particular scheme for profit again. Wasn’t it bad enough that he abused and took advantage of animals the way he did? Now he was going to subject innocent human beings to his, and other men’s, sick appetites?

  But fear shot through Jake’s veins for yet another reason. Emmitt had gone batshit crazy when he’d found out Jake had seen and spoken to that other girl two years ago. He’d promised to kill Jake, and Jake believed wholeheartedly he’d do it. Emmitt had held him down on the barn floor and nicked his tongue with his huge buck knife, ranting about how he’d cut his tongue out completely before he killed him if he ever uttered a word to anyone about seeing that first girl.

  And now, here was another one.

  What if she was dead?

  No, Emmitt had as much use for a dead female as he did a cold dog.

  An icy sweat broke out over his body despite the fact that it was probably ninety degrees in his tiny, unventilated room. He may not get the exact specifics, but he understood now more than he had when he’d been eleven years old and discovered that first girl. He knew what rape was from the sly, ugly innuendo of not only the adult men who were drawn to Emmitt’s place, but his experience at Poplar Gorge Junior High. Boys could be graphic, even if most of his idiotic classmates didn’t understand a tenth of what they were talking about.

  Whatever his uncle had in store for that female was the stuff of nightmares. He knew about sex and breeding, not only from living with dogs and in the middle of the woods surrounded by nature, but from his uncle and other men who attended the fights. Prostitutes were often brought in on fight nights—rough-spoken, hard, usually drug addicted women that Jake regarded with mixed distrust, pity, and disgust. He’d heard the disturbing exchanges between those women and men in the woods or out on the landing in the darkness of night. Whatever his uncle had in mind for that female with the slender hand, it somehow involved turning her into one of those pitiful women.

  Where’d Emmitt nabbed her from? Surely his uncle couldn’t have been so bold as to snatch her from nearby Poplar Gorge, the town where Jake sporadically attended school. He hadn’t known at first where Emmitt had gotten that first girl. Later, after doing some research at one of his favorite sanctuaries, the Poplar Gorge Public Library, he’d found out. There’d been several newspaper articles on the kidnapping in the Charleston Gazette. She’d been taken from a campground ten miles down the river.

  She’d never been found by the police, that Jake knew.

  Could he possibly scout out a couple of the campgrounds in the morning? If there was news of this new missing girl, maybe he could somehow leave a hint as to where she was before Emmitt transferred her elsewhere?

  Don’t think about it. Block it from your mind. There’s nothing you can do.

  Jake couldn’t help that girl any more than he could save the other one two summers ago. And he couldn’t save Mrs. Roundabout from what was going to be an agonizing, painful death from her injuries no matter how much he tried to doctor her. Emmitt reminded him several times a day of how useless he was. He couldn’t save himself from Emmitt. How could he possibly save anyone else?

  Nevertheless, he didn’t go back to bed that night. The memory of that small, motionless hand haunted him. For some reason, he needed to see the face of its owner.

  He waited until he saw Emmitt leave the south barn and lock the doors with a heavy chain and padlock. He pretended to sleep as he listened to Emmitt’s heavy tread approach the house.

  Eventually, even the dogs his uncle had put into the south barn to guard the girl quieted their bloodthirsty barking. Jake waited until the sky over the trees turned a pale gold.

  Dawn was for the clean of spirit. That’s what his Grandma Rose liked to say. Jake knew from experience it was the period when Emmitt slept the deepest. He also knew dogs that had been given an excessive amount of blood and meat often slipped into a deep sleep afterward. Jake suspected Emmitt had given the guard dogs just that, not only to gain their cooperation and temporarily silence their bloodlust, but to amplify their murderous hunger upon awakening . . .

  Moving with the silence of an experienced eluder, Jake snuck into the kitchen and opened a cabinet, searching for food. He slipped out the back door and across the grounds to the south barn. He could pick the lock his uncle had put on the door. Being a prisoner of sorts himself, Jake had learned long ago how to open every lock Emmitt owned on the property. But he hesitated. The clanking sound of the chain sliding through the clasp was a risk. It might awaken the dogs. Or Emmitt.

  But he knew of other openings and secret places. He was small enough and agile enough to slip through them.

  As he climbed to the highest branches of the old maple at the back of the barn, the sun’s rays shone through the top of the tree line and pierced the thick foliage. Ignoring the forty-feet drop below him, he shimmied out onto a narrow limb. There were some advantages to being skinny . . . although this trusty branch was bending more and more with his weight each passing summer.

  Clinging to the limb like a leech, he reached his goal: a window in the hayloft used for ventilation. It was too small for even him to crawl through. The tiny glass pane was intact. It was open as far as the hinge would allow.

  He peered inside the window. The maple tree was now ablaze with first morning light, and it was hard to adjust his eyes to the darkness of the interior barn. Suddenly, there was a flash of brilliant copper in his eyes, and a face appeared in the window. He started back in surprise. He and the girl were only inches apart. Her skin was pale, but reddened. She’d been crying. The next thing he became aware of was her eyes. They were huge and the color of the sea—or at least that’s what he imagined, never having seen an ocean or sea. He recognized what he saw in her eyes from firsthand experience, on the other hand.

  Pure fear.

  She opened her mouth, but he put his finger to his mouth in an urgent hushing gesture.

  “The dogs,” he mouthed, barely a whisper leaving his lips.

  “He said they’d kill me,” she whispered, and he saw the wildness in her eyes. Jake knew the layout of the barn. Emmitt had put the girl in the loft and stationed some of their more vicious dogs at the bottom of it. Emmitt hadn’t been boasting. Those pit bulls would tear her to pieces if she trie
d to escape.

  “The dogs won’t kill you,” he whispered, straining to sound confident when he wasn’t. Instinctively he understood that she verged on panic. If she started screaming, it’d waken the dogs, and his uncle in turn. “Stay calm around them. Keep your fear boxed up tight. It’ll only make them more aggressive if they sense it.”

  “Who are you?” she whispered after a tense pause, in which Jake realized he’d been gawking at her hair. The sunlight was setting it ablaze, and it was so pretty.

  “Jake,” he mouthed.

  “Get me out of here, Jake. I want to go back to my parents.” Her soft whimper and trembling, pink mouth sliced through him.

  “I can’t,” he whispered. Her desperation was so palpable, it felt like a weight on his chest.

  “You have to,” she insisted, those blue-green eyes going fierce.

  “I can’t. He’ll kill me,” Jake whispered. Wild to do something, he clawed in his jeans pocket. “Here. I brought you some Pop-Tarts,” he said, holding up the package triumphantly. “They were from my grandma Rose’s groceries, but I don’t think she’ll notice if a few are missing. They aren’t good for her heart anyway, but she loves them so much, I talk Emmitt into getting her some once in a while . . .”

  She stared at him like he’d gone mad. He realized how lame his offering was, given the direness of her situation. It struck home again just how lame he was. How inadequate.

  “He tied my hands behind my back so I wouldn’t try and get down the ladder,” she whispered. She blinked the tears swelling in her eyes. He felt himself dying a little inside.

  “Oh.”

  “But I am hungry. And weak,” she added.

  “I’ll feed it to you,” he whispered. He ripped open the paper package. “Come closer,” he directed. She came nearer, and the sunlight fully illuminated her face. There was a sprinkle of light freckles on her nose. He saw the mottled bruise on the left side of her forehead. It stood in such contrast to her pretty face and pale, smooth skin. He paused in the action of extending his hand.

  Anger pierced his helplessness. He recognized Emmitt’s handiwork. She was staring hungrily at his hand, which held the Pop-Tart. She parted her lips, and he got a hold of himself.

  He shimmied out further. The limb dipped alarmingly. Her eyes went wide.

  “’S okay. It’ll hold,” he assured. He held out his hand and it crossed the pane of the window. She craned her neck and took a large bite out of the Pop-Tart and, without chewing, bit off another. She was hungry. When had Emmitt taken her? Had it been before she’d had her evening meal? Or were fear, adrenaline, and her injury responsible for her sharp hunger? He wanted to ask her, but her mouth was full as she demolished the Pop-Tart. Then, when she slowed down a little, something else preoccupied him.

  Her even, small white teeth and pink mouth.

  The Pop-Tart almost gone, he extended his thumb and forefinger with the last bite. Her lips brushed against his skin as she nabbed it. Pleasure tingled through him. Her gaze darted to his face and she abruptly ceased chewing. Had she felt it, too?

  “You have to get me out of here,” she whispered after she’d swallowed the last of the Pop-Tart with effort.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Harper. Harper McFadden. He hit me when I was in the showers at the campground.”

  “Which one? Which campground?” he added when she just stared at him blankly.

  “I don’t know the name. It’s on the river. My parents are Philip and Jane McFadden. Go to the police and tell them I’m here!” she hissed, the idea seemingly enflaming her.

  “I can’t do that,” he whispered, thinking intently. “Town is too far away. He might have moved you by the time I got there.”

  “You have to do something,” she insisted. A tear spilled down her cheek. She clenched her eyelids shut. He sensed her misery. “He . . . he took off my clothes. I’m . . .”

  Her face collapsed. She couldn’t bring herself to say it. Her mortification at her nakedness and vulnerability, the stark evidence that she’d been robbed of her basic dignity, made something new and unexpected happen inside Jake. His anger at her mistreatment at the hands of his uncle made him go cold . . .

  Cold and hard.

  He did have to do something.

  She’d lost herself to distress. Her eyelids remained clamped but a few tears escaped down her cheeks. She was holding her breath. He recognized that she was trying to contain her fear and admired her for it. He sensed her terror, and it was huge, but she was fighting it like crazy.

  “Breathe, Harper,” he prompted firmly. Her eyelids remained squeezed shut. He stretched his arm and touched her damp cheek. He felt a tremor go through her. Her shimmering eyes locked on him.

  “Okay. I’m going to get you out of here,” he said. “But you’re going to have to wait here for a few hours. There are some things I’m going to have to do to make this work. When I do come to get you, you’re going to have to do exactly what I tell you to.”

  “I don’t want to stay here alone. Get me out of here now,” she pleaded in a shaky whisper.

  He steeled himself. “You have to. I’m sorry. If I don’t put a plan in place, Emmitt will catch us in about two hours flat after he wakes up, probably less. The only way we’re going to get you back to your mom and dad is if you stay strong and stay put. You’re safe, for now.”

  “What are you going to do?” she whispered as he started to inch back on the limb.

  “Lay a false trail. Then sedate the animals. All of ’em. Including my uncle,” he replied before he shimmied backward on the branch.

  * * *

  Present Day

  Jacob jerked on his bed at the still-vivid memory, his hand thumping on the luxurious, cool bedding.

  So different, Jake Tharp from him.

  He wasn’t sure what drove him to do it, but he switched on a lamp and rose from the bed. He entered his large closet. Behind stacks and stacks of glossy shoe boxes, he found what he was looking for. He pulled down the ragged, faded Converse All Star box and walked with it back to the bed. He tossed off the lid and picked up a folded piece of notebook paper, a feeling of mixed sadness, pity, and irritation going through him at seeing the scrawl.

  Harper,

  How’s it going? Do you like the seventh grade? I hope math isn’t as bad as you were worried it’d be. It’s been so hot here, they might as well have just extended our summer vacation. Kids’ brains don’t work in this kind of weather. Billy Crider got sent home because he kept falling asleep in science, and about six detentions and threats of more wouldn’t wake him up any. You probably have air-conditioning in your school at Georgetown, right? The heat sure hasn’t been good for Grandma Rose, either. She’s been pretty weak, and she hasn’t hardly eaten anything but half of a Pop-Tart once in a while. I know I should give her something healthier, but it’s the only thing she’ll eat except for some crackers once in a while. It’ll be okay, though. Weather forecast says it’ll get cooler next week.

  I started reading The Hobbit, since you said it came before Lord of the Rings. I feel like I already read LOR, though, because you told me every detail of it. Remember? That night in the cave?

  Hope I’ll get a letter from you soon. Thought I’d have one by now, but the mail service to Grandma Rose’s isn’t that great. I’m looking for an after-school job. If I get one, maybe I’ll get a P.O. box so I’ll be sure to get all your letters.

  I guess you must know how much I miss you.

  Jake

  A sharp pain of longing went through him. Longing for what, he couldn’t say. He refolded the piece of notebook paper and shoved it back in the Converse box. He sprawled back on the bed.

  She’d never written. Not even one letter.

  Despite his bitterness at that, Jacob knew Harper would always be special to him. That was a given, eve
n if there hadn’t been a flicker of recognition in her eyes when she looked at him today.

  He hadn’t realized it as a kid, but Jacob recognized it now twenty years later in spades. The moment Jake had made the decision to free Harper McFadden had been the precise moment he’d saved his own life.

  Chapter Three

  Harper plunged into work the next day, glad for the mayoral press conference and the tangible bit of news that came from it. It helped, having something to focus on beyond the bewildering, mind-blowing memory of what had happened on Jacob Latimer’s moonlit terrace last night. Being in South Lake also helped her avoid the newsroom, Ruth Dannen, and her prying questions. It did until two o’clock that afternoon, that is.

  “Well? What’s the news from the king’s palace?”

  Harper looked up from her layouts. Ruth leaned inside the doorway of Harper’s office.

  “Nothing really,” Harper said levelly, glancing back to her layouts. For some reason, she felt a need to protect Jacob Latimer. Or maybe she just felt the need to hide her outlandish behavior on his terrace last night.

  “Did you figure out why they asked you?” Ruth persisted, stepping into Harper’s office.

  Harper exhaled in mild frustration. Ruth wasn’t going to be easily shaken. Might as well spoon out a small measure of the truth. “I did, in fact. As it turns out, Latimer was a fan of a feature I did at the Chronicle—the one about Ellie and the homeless children of San Francisco? He’d mentioned it to Cyril Atwater—”

  “The director?”

  Harper shrugged sheepishly and nodded. “I’d never heard of Atwater until last night.”

  “I’ll bet Cyril loved that,” Ruth said, smirking. “That man has an ego the size of Texas.”

  “You know him?”

  “Sure, Cyril is another one of our local celebrities. He gives me an interview once a year about his latest film project. Go on.”