Knifepoint

by Alex van Tol

  Perfect contact. The knife flies out of his hand—and right into the mound of dirt beside me.

  No. NO! I almost scream in frustration. I kicked it the wrong way. If I’d kicked it the other way, it would’ve sailed off the edge of our little cliff and down into the trees, never to be found. What was I thinking? What was I thinking?

  Surprised, Darren looks at his empty hand. He looks at the knife.

  I’m not about to wait for him to pick it up. I flail my feet toward his crotch, connecting squarely with a sickening thump. He grunts and folds forward.

  I keep kicking, like a toddler having a tantrum on the supermarket floor.

  Doubled over, he holds his crotch with one hand and shields himself from my relentless kicking with the other.

  I almost feel sorry for him. I’m putting up a pretty good fight. Not such an easy victim.

  This last thought sobers me. I might be winning the battle, but I’m far from winning the war. I’m still stuck with a fruitcake rapist with a knife who’s going to recover soon from the testicular trauma I’ve inflicted on him. And I’m still tied to a tree in the middle of the forest, where no one can see me or hear me.

  Hear me! Why has it taken me so long to think of screaming? Feet still pinwheeling, I gather up a huge gawp of breath and start to holler.

  Chapter Ten

  I gotta hand it to this guy. Even through his pain, he can move fast. No sooner does the first sound issue from my lungs than the jerk is sitting on my chest, pressing a cloth into my open mouth. He shoves it in so far I think I’m going to suffocate. I try to push it forward with my tongue. Reaching into his pocket, he whips out a length of beige nylon and ties it around the back of my head. He knots it severely across my cheek. Pantyhose? Whose were these? My scalp crawls.

  I’m sickened by the idea that he had this all planned. While I was telling him my life story, this nut was planning how he’d take me into the woods and rape and kill me. Was he thinking it through, step by step, as he watched me round up the horses this morning? Why did he pick me? Why couldn’t Carrie and Laura have been there to see me leave this morning? Why didn’t I go back and double-check his registration?

  Unanswerable questions swirl inside my mind. I close my eyes, willing myself not to vomit. If I puke now, I’ll choke on it and die.

  I feel the tears welling up in my throat again, and I force them away. I have to keep thinking, keep moving. Keep trying to get out of this unbelievable mess.

  “Stupid whore,” Darren slurs, pulling my legs together and sitting on my thighs. Thtoopid. Now I can’t move at all. He reaches forward and plucks the knife up off the dirt from where it fell.

  I can’t stop myself this time. I sob.

  Tears squeeze out of the corners of my eyes.

  Like a little kid who’s just spied his Christmas stocking, Darren looks at me, delighted. A surprised smile crinkles his eyes. He blinks, absently running his thumb along the knife’s edge. New tears fall as I watch the sharp blade neatly disappear into the fleshy pad of his thumb. Droplets of red blood rise to the surface, then ooze toward his wrist.

  He puts his thumb in his mouth and sucks it. I taste bile in my throat.

  Sucking his bloodied thumb, he looks down at me and moans.

  He’s a lunatic.

  As suddenly as it came on, my despair evaporates. Disgust and fury take its place. Through the gag I growl my revulsion. I wave my hands at him.

  He looks up at them, and I pop my fists forward, jabbing my middle fingers in the air. His smile shrinks slowly and his eyes narrow as they meet mine.

  Maybe I’ve done the wrong thing, but this loser doesn’t get me without all the fight I can give.

  Suddenly Darren lunges at me, shoving his face into mine. His pupils are huge and black, like something dead.

  “I’m gonna kill you slow, Jilly,” he whispers. His tongue snakes out of his torn-up mouth and eases its way along my face. I gag.

  He sits up, breathing heavily, and looks at me for a moment. Then he smiles, sliding the knife under one of the buttons on my shirt.

  Ping. The button pops into the air, almost comical.

  Ping. Another one.

  Ping.

  My head swims. Darkness claws at the edge of my thoughts. How long until they find my body? What if he drags me deep into the bushes? Panic threatens to choke me, and I shove it down. It bounces back, like a beach ball popping to the surface of a lake.

  What’s he going to do with the knife?

  Darren hears my thoughts and opens his bloody grin into my face. “They’re gonna find you in a million” ping “little” ping “pieces.”

  Ping. The last button pops off. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself into a happy place. Sunshine, our kitchen, beaches, a Starbucks vanilla latte.

  I open my eyes, forcing myself back into the scene. Darren’s forehead drips sweat. He’s panting with the effort of sawing off my clothes. Blood smears his handsome features. His mouth is a ragged, torn mess of bleeding gums and broken teeth.

  I don’t want to die here. Anger washes over me at my situation. At my helplessness.

  Screw this, I think. With a super-adre-nalized heave, I pull downward with both arms. “RRRAAAAAAARRGGGHH! ”

  I roar through my gag like a cornered animal.

  The root I’m tied to doesn’t budge.

  But the tree does.

  With a groan, the old tree shifts in the parched soil that’s weathered away from underneath it.

  Startled, Darren looks up. That’s when I yank again. With a loud crunch, the tree gives way. It sails through the air, its muddy roots neatly clearing my body. I can see now that it’s a huge old stump. Time suspends itself for

  a moment. I gaze in awe as the stump floats through the airspace above me. It must weigh more than I do.

  It smashes Darren across the chest, knocking him backward into the dirt and jerking me into a sitting position. I blink, surprised to find myself in a different situation so quickly.

  Wrangler 1: Psycho 0.

  From beneath the wooden mass, Darren moans. He’s still conscious.

  Crap. His groaning clears my head. Darren might be down, but I’m still tied to a hundred-pound stump. There will be no running away until I get free of it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Frenzied, I kick at the root to which my hands are tied. It breaks on the third blow, and I scramble to my feet.

  I pelt away through the shrubby undergrowth, my feet guiding me toward one of the narrow deer trails that follow the ridge. I’m certain it will take me down to the river. That’s where all animal paths lead.

  My whole body feels supercharged, like I’m made of electricity. My hands are still tied, but I tuck them up against my chest. I throw my elbows out for balance. I jump, smooth and strong, over fallen logs, ducking and dodging the hanging branches. This is definitely what it feels like to be a deer. I’m almost enjoying myself, except for the fact that there’s a crazed murderer pinned under a tree stump behind me.

  Ah, but I should know better. He’s not just any crazed murderer. This is Darren Parker we’re speaking of. The insane, inescapable, undefeatable Darren Parker.

  I snort, briefly envisioning him chasing me through the forest in a pink bunny outfit, beating on a big Energizer drum.

  So when I hear his footsteps behind me on the path, I’m hardly surprised. He just loves the chase, this guy. And I just can’t get him to give up on it, no matter how many times I try. I realize that it’s probably his favorite part.

  But the last thing I want is to be caught again. Because I know there won’t be any third chances. If he catches me this time, he’ll finish me off wherever I fall.

  I hear his breathing now, heavy and rhythmic. He’s maybe twenty feet back.

  My brain sweeps away all the hysterical chatter, and I calmly size up the situation. On one side of me, the pine forest sweeps up the mountainside, dark and tightly packed. Straight ahead, the deer path runs as far as I can see along
the grassy ridge. To my left, the embankment plunges one hundred feet to the aspen canopy below.

  I can’t climb through the forest. He’s stronger and faster, and he’ll catch me.

  I can’t keep running. My chest is about to burst. I can’t breathe through this gag. And I can’t possibly outrun him with my arms tied.

  But I’m not ready to die.

  At least, not on his terms.

  I veer sharply to the left. Over the cliff. Into space.

  Chapter Twelve

  I expected to die. I’m almost tired of not dying, tired of having to keep going in this ridiculous game of cat and mouse. I am a tired mouse now, and I want to quit playing.

  But I can’t. Not while I’ve still got juice in me. Not while there’s a possibility that that busted-up freakjob is still out there, looking for me.

  The way I figure it, Darren wouldn’t have dared to follow me off the cliff. It’s just way too high to survive the fall. He—like me—would have had no idea about the rotting log at the bottom. Or the dozens of soft fir branches that come in pretty handy for breaking a fall.

  I look around me. Crazy. I’m on all fours, buried up to my elbows in soft, damp tree crumbs. My neck aches from whiplash, and I’ve got tiny red chunks of Douglas fir in my nostrils, but somehow I’m still alive.

  I push up with my hands and try to stand in the pile of decaying wood. But it’s too thick and soft, and I fall over with a flump. I lie there for a moment, suddenly ecstatic. I’m alive! What are the chances?

  But I still have to get out of here. I’ve got to get to safety. I’ve got to find people. Before that creep finds me.

  The idea of getting caught galvanizes me. I roll down from the rotting heap and stand on shaky legs. I slide my thumbs under the nylon that’s tied around my face. I pull. The band tightens behind my head. With a squeaking sound, the thin band of synthetic fabric stretches. I’ve managed to loosen it off a bit. I work it over my face and throw it into the bushes. I push the gag out of my mouth with my dry tongue. Fresh air, cool and moist, rushes into my body. It feels like I’m drinking a cloud.

  I wish I could get this rope off my hands! I look around for something sharp—a rock. But there’s nothing around except grass, trees and wildflowers. I wonder briefly how much farther the ridge path continues before it descends down to the level of the river. How long until Darren reaches the trail junction? How long will it take him to double back on the river path and find me?

  A small animal rustles in the leaves near my feet, and I jump. Panic suddenly grips me, and I bolt. I follow the gradual downhill slope, toward the river. I can see blue-green water sparkling in the sunlight. I’ve got to get to the main trail.

  I pound through the bushes, down, down, down. When my feet hit the hard-pack of the river path, I’m flooded with relief. I nearly fall to the ground with gratitude.

  I look up and down the path. No sign of anyone. I look upstream as far as I can see. There’s no one on the river either.

  It’s funny: I hadn’t considered that there wouldn’t be anyone around. I hadn’t thought any farther than reaching the river path. In my confused terror, I had just assumed that someone would be standing there, waiting for me with a blanket and a cup of hot coffee. But no one’s waiting here for me. I’m still alone. Being chased by a sinister, blood-streaked madman.

  I hear him before I can see him. Oh. My. God. This will never end. This is my own private hell that I’ve been thrown into. Perhaps it’s payback for teasing my friend Jennifer about shaving her legs in fifth grade. Maybe it’s karmic retaliation for eating the last of Brenda’s chocolate-covered digestive cookies when she fell asleep on the ski bus. Or maybe it’s penance for publishing pictures of naked people in my high-school newspaper.

  I giggle then, high and thin and on the edge of sanity.

  In the distance, Darren appears on the path. He’s shouting, but his missing teeth distort the words. I can’t make out what he’s saying. Not that it matters. He’s an enraged hornet who can’t get his victim to stand still long enough to sting.

  I want to stay on the path, but there’s no way I can outrun him.

  The river’s green waters churn at my feet. It’s deep and it’s fast and I don’t have a life jacket and my hands are tied together and there’s a shitty set of rapids ahead that will drown me, but it’s the only place I can think of to get away from this psycho.

  I close my eyes briefly. A deep sigh tears itself from the bottom of my soul and issues from my cracked and bleeding lips.

  Eyes still closed, I jump.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The frigid water of the glacier-fed river shocks me back into myself. When my lungs recover, I take a big gulp of air for flotation and turn over onto my back.

  I won’t think about the rapids ahead. Won’t think about the fact that I nearly died when I swam through them two years ago during river-guide training.

  They made us jump off the side and go through what the guides call Hell’s Gorge: a sphincter-clenching stretch of whirlpools and washing machines and standing waves. That was with a wet suit, with a life jacket and with free hands. It was terrifying.

  I can see Darren running along the shore. He’s doing a creepy little skipping dance as he follows me along. The river’s current is fast, but he’s faster on the ground. I wonder if he’ll jump in to catch me. God, I hope not. He probably won’t. He told me he’s not a great swimmer.

  Wait. Maybe that would be a good thing then.

  Jump! I think. Jump, you freak! He doesn’t.

  I scan the bank but see no sign of the eleven o’clock ride. Where are they? Suddenly my earlier optimism dissolves. Darren might not be coming out here into the water to get me, but unless someone stops him on the path, he’ll be waiting for me when I finally wash up on the shore, gasping and hypothermic.

  Unless I swim to the other side, I realize. The First Nations reserve is on that side. Surely I could drag myself out over there and walk to someone’s house and ask to use the phone.

  I glance at the bank again. He’s still there, hopping along. His hands are up beside his face, and he’s dancing around like he’s in the circus ring. How can there be room for so much craziness in just one brain?

  As I watch, he stops for a moment to take out his knife. Then he resumes his twisted dance, waving the knife in the air. His laughter reaches my ears.

  He’s loving this. He knows he’s going to win. I shudder, only partly from the freezing water.

  No.

  He’s not going to win.

  Still on my back, I angle myself toward the other shore and start to kick.

  The water is fast. I fight the instinctive urge to put my feet down on the bottom. We watched a Red Cross video in outdoor education class last year that showed what happens when you try to stand up in a fast-flowing river. They showed a bird’s-eye view of a real guy whose foot got caught between two rocks on the riverbed. He got stuck. And the water just…folded him over and held him there. Against the bottom. I was so messed up by watching the accident that I don’t remember whether they were able to save him. I just know that the image burned itself onto my brain.

  I raise my head briefly to see how much farther I have to go before I reach the other shore. My heart leaps into my throat. A huge sweeper lies dead ahead. The fallen tree leans out over the water. Its roots are still bound by the bank, but its branches and trunk trail on the river’s surface. It’s a hundred feet away yet, but I know I won’t be able to change my line quickly enough to avoid it. I scan the length of the sweeper frantically, looking for a place that’s free of branches. Maybe I’ll be able to slip through without getting caught.

  Because if I’m caught, I’m done. The branches will tangle in my clothes and hair, and they’ll hold me in the tree until I drown or freeze to death.

  But maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to get caught in the sweeper, I reflect.

  Because without my hands, I’m going to drown in the rapids ahead.

&nbs
p; I don’t have a choice in the matter anyway. The river’s current swirls me downstream, right toward the dying tree. Time’s up. I close my eyes as the water slides me in, under the big trunk.

  At the last moment it occurs to me that I could dive down, deep under the water’s surface, in hopes of avoiding the branches.

  But it’s too late. The sweeper snags me and I stop moving. It holds me in its grip. The water pushes furiously against me, rushing in a wave around my head as it tries to drag me along downstream.

  I open my eyes. My face is above water. I can still breathe. That’s good.

  That’s amazing, actually. I’m on the downstream side of the sweeper’s trunk, floating on my back. The river’s force stretches my body out, filling my boots and pulling my feet downstream. My shoulder screams that it’s being pulled apart. I kick off my boots. Too much weight.

  One boot comes up to float near the surface, half submerged. I watch as it fills with water and sinks out of sight. I glance over at the shore, but I don’t see Darren. My heart lurches. Where is he? If I can’t see him, where is he?

  I’m on the downstream side of the sweeper, nearly free of it. But I’m caught by the rope around my wrists. A stout branch has jabbed itself right in between my hands, under the rope. It impales my wrists against the tree. The branch is on the upstream side of the trunk, and I’m on the downstream side. There’s no way I can drag myself upstream enough to bend my elbows and pull my hands off the peg. Not even the Incredible Hulk could do it. The river’s pulling at me with about three hundred pounds of pressure. I’m stuck.

  Bloodied, battered and completely exhausted, the utter futility of my situation sinks in. My teeth start chattering. I try to stop them. I’ve experienced the onset of hypothermia before. I know the chattering will feed my panic and will make it hard for me to think.

  Think.

  I feel around with my thumbs. Can I hook one under the rope? I twist my hands around in their prison, straining my muscles to feel for a place where I can ease my thumb under. The water has loosened the rope a bit. I’m able to pull one of the loops toward my thumb. I slide my thumb under—yes! I wedge my palm after it.