by Zoje Stage
Beck held a canteen to Imogen’s lips so she could take a sip; her own shaking hands wouldn’t cooperate. Then she handed the water to Tilda. Tilda and Beck shared a complicated look, a silent attempt at communication with pinched eyebrows and angry eyes. Were they mad at Gale, or each other? Imogen’s heart was finding its way back into the center of her chest, done with its stomping around. Should she have shaken her head to stop Tilda? At least they knew now. He had a gun.
Gale had shot a cop. Gale was on parole. Gale had borrowed Doug’s car to drive to…where had he said? Nevada. But why risk his freedom? I am out. Fair and square.
“Guess it don’t matter who goes first now, right?” Gale said. “Better this way. Just do what yer told and it’s all easy.”
“Okay? Everybody ready?” Beck asked them. “Want me to go first?”
“I’ll go,” said Tilda, retrieving her walking stick.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Gale said. “Anything else.”
Tilda glowered at him. “That was really subtle. For someone who wants to lay low. Firing off a gun.” She seethed, skirting around him again.
They watched her cross. Her runner’s legs were more tentative now, taking small steps aided by her bamboo stick. Imogen wondered if it could possibly be true: Could the sound carry far enough? Could anything other than the rocks and the ravens have registered the gunshots? There’d be no SWAT team, but anyone—a lone ranger—would be better than nothing.
“That girl’s got pluck, give her that. But damn, disloyal. Probly thinks she’s too good fer everybody else. Seems more like a big-city girl than Ohio.”
The smirk he gave Beck and Imogen said it all: he knew they weren’t from Ohio. Fucking Gale missed nothing. Perhaps he assumed everything they’d ever uttered was a lie.
Imogen went next, so she wouldn’t have to be alone with Gale. She dreaded what lay ahead: the fear and uncertainty; the terrible possibilities of a forsaken life. She shut off her mind. Ignored the heaviness of the pack, the thirst, the rumbling from her insides that was either hunger or the collapse of the world she’d known.
Beck was only a couple of strides behind her, followed by Gale. They’d really done it. Gotten in the car with the kidnapper, and shut the door.
22
Her mind raced during the rest of the hike back to Boucher. Where once her mantra four miles an hour or get shot in the back had been a macabre form of motivation, now it was sickeningly real.
Gale corralled them back to their camping site, which he’d evidently left in a hurry: the ditty bags were upended; Beck’s sleeping bag, three-quarters unzipped, had been carelessly tossed aside, its two halves like crumpled butterfly wings.
Imogen couldn’t read Tilda’s or Beck’s expression, aside from their obvious apprehension. It was beyond frightening how well Gale handled his multiple hostages. As if he’d done it before. He didn’t even need to keep the gun in view, having successfully taught them that he would use it, though he kept his knife drawn. They were the flock and he the attuned sheepdog. Imogen hated the image of herself as a sheep—hated it so much she decided to make use of it, let it fuel her fortitude. Farm animals were butchered; she wouldn’t allow that to be her fate.
He gathered the three walking sticks and stashed them near his own disorderly collection of stuff. Then he allowed Imogen and Beck to take off their packs. With the knife, he directed them where to stand: in a line, two feet apart from each other.
“What are you going to do with us?” Tilda asked.
“As little as possible.” After positioning himself where he could watch all of them, Gale ordered Imogen to retrieve their nylon rope. “Know you got it, to tie yer stuff up in a tree.”
It took Imogen a minute to search through the packs. Gale didn’t hurry her. All things considered he seemed rather cheery and calm, a marked improvement from how jumpy he’d been at Travertine. Tilda’s escape attempt had bolstered his confidence; he’d established the pecking order. He sipped from a canteen and watched Imogen scurry about.
“Yer gonna be my little helper,” he said to her, “’cause this one lied to me, and that one’s a piece a work. Yer the only one who ain’t pissed me off yet. And you are little.” He grinned at his own wit. As Imogen handed over their bundles of cord—some short pieces, and some quite long—he beamed as if she’d delivered a bag of gold. “Perfect. Thin and strong, just how I like it. All righty then.”
He clicked his tongue as he pointed at Tilda. “Where ya wanna sit? Over here? Against this rock?”
“I’m not going to run again—across that fucking deathtrap.”
“While I kinda believe you, it don’t matter. This is how it’s gotta be now, and you got no one to blame but yerself.”
As Tilda walked over to the rock he’d indicated she scowled at Imogen and Beck as if they were the ones about to tie her up. She plopped down in the dry dirt and kept her head turned away, refusing to look at any of them as Gale bound her wrists together. With a quick slice of the knife, he cut a second piece of rope and knotted it onto the cord above Tilda’s hands. She clenched her teeth and rolled her eyes as he wrapped it under her legs and tied her ankles together.
“Really?” she asked. “I’m that much of a threat to you?”
Imogen’s heart skipped a beat and she glanced at Beck. Tilda was known to crack a joke when a situation overwhelmed her, but Imogen feared her sarcasm and hostility would only antagonize Gale. They really didn’t need the twitchy side of him to resurface; the twitchy side might not aim over their heads. Beck stared at Tilda, maybe trying to mesmerize her into acting more rationally, but Tilda wouldn’t look at her. Fortunately, Gale laughed it off.
“There, keep you outta my hair fer a bit.” He shoved the rest of the cord in his pockets and strolled back to Imogen and Beck. He carried the knife casually, indifferent to its pointy tip as he used it to gesticulate. “I don’t like having hostages, ya gotta understand. It’s baggage I don’t need. But maybe it ain’t so bad.” He winced a little, holding his injured arm against his belly. Was the morning’s activity getting to him? At least he had a weak spot. “Got my own doc and tour guide—and a personal assistant. Why don’tcha make us all some breakfast. Oatmeal and coffee sure sound good.”
Imogen decided to risk that his mood was as congenial as it seemed. “Can I pee first?” she asked.
Without missing a beat, Tilda said, “I have to pee too.”
“Oh fer fuck’s sake. The sisters can pee, but the Mexican’s gonna have to wait until after breakfast—I just did up those knots, why didn’tcha ask before?”
If it had been a scene in a movie Imogen would have laughed. Everything was backward, the wrong people getting mad about the wrong things.
“Sorry, I’ve never been kidnapped before!”
Imogen didn’t understand how Tilda could think her anger was a good move, but once again Gale didn’t seem to care.
“Fine,” he said to Imogen. “I’m coming with ya, a course.”
She got out their toilet paper and Beck led them to their preferred rock.
“’Kay, do whatcha gotta do.” He turned around without being asked, which Imogen supposed was decent of him. But she hesitated. Was it safe to drop her pants anywhere near a man like this?
“Come on,” Beck whispered.
Gale half glanced behind him. “Hurry it up. Ain’t gonna wait all day.”
Imogen squatted beside her sister, one eye on Gale as she emptied her bladder. “What do we do?” she mouthed.
“Wait. Watch.”
As Imogen and Beck started the stove and got out what they’d need for breakfast, Gale patiently unpacked their things, investigating with a thoroughness he hadn’t bothered with before. When possible, he did everything one-handed, and Imogen hoped Beck was plotting a new way to “help” him that might involve a misuse of her medical expertise. In the meanwhile, the three women could do nothing beyond cast each other glances, checking in to make sure they were all okay.
&
nbsp; He found Tilda’s camera and examined it with interest. He held it up to his eye, and looked at each of them through the viewfinder. “Smile!” But instead of clicking the shutter, he got to his feet and dropped the camera to the ground. Smashed it with his boot. “In case y’all got any photos a me.”
When it was in pieces he sorted through the debris and retrieved the memory card. That he pounded with a rock.
“Can I have some water?” Tilda asked somberly, watching the destruction of her work.
Imogen took a canteen to her and helped her drink.
“Front pocket,” Tilda whispered.
“What?”
“Cut me loose.”
“What’re you two yakking about?” Gale asked.
“We should refill the canteens,” Imogen told him, disappointed to have to turn away from Tilda before she could figure out what she was trying to convey.
Gale scanned the creek and nodded. “Stay where I can see you.”
The creek was barely forty feet away. Imogen took three canteens. Refilling them wasn’t an urgent necessity, but it was the first thing that had popped into her head. Now she cursed herself for a missed opportunity. Her brain wasn’t in full working order, a deficit caused by stress and hunger. Tilda had been trying to tell her the Swiss Army knife was in the kangaroo pouch of her sweatshirt. She wouldn’t have used it to free Tilda, that would’ve been too obvious and taken too much time. But Gale didn’t perceive Imogen as a threat, and she needed to take advantage of that. She’d try again—Tilda would need more to drink, or help eating, and Imogen would pick her pocket then.
As she filled the canteens she kept one eye on the camp behind her, in case she needed to dash back. Gale just sat there making piles of their belongings. He handed her the iodine tablets when she returned with the fresh water.
“Thanks.” It felt weird to thank him, but the habit was ingrained.
Beck busied herself with the coffee preparations, nervously watching Gale. Imogen started toward Tilda, but Gale stopped her with a word.
“Hey. Now what’re you doing?”
Imogen held up the dripping canteen. “Thought she might like some cold water.”
“She already has to pee, give the girl a break. And just ’cause yer little and ain’t pissed me off yet doesn’t mean you can wander around doing whatever you want. Breakfast almost up?” Beck nodded. Gale turned back to Imogen. “Sit. Chillax—do the kids still say that?”
Imogen sat cross-legged near Beck; she rubbed her wet hands over her face. She felt Tilda staring at her, her gaze scorching with disappointment. Beck flicked a questioning look between the two of them. She knew the iodine needed thirty minutes or so to do its thing and not nearly enough time had passed.
Almost finished with his examination of their gear, Gale lined up the three flashlights at his feet. Imogen felt his earlier friendliness—if it could be called that—start to evaporate.
“Can you untie one of my hands? So I can eat?” Tilda asked, oblivious to the change of mood.
“I’ll tie up the sisters after breakfast and you can go to the john and eat then.”
“I’m sorry about the flashlights,” Imogen said, trying to stay a step ahead of his fury. “We really did need them. We really were just going to leave and not cause you any trouble, and I didn’t know you were afraid—didn’t like the dark.” She prayed he wasn’t a man who’d want revenge for a perceived slight on his masculinity.
Beck gazed at the flashlights, proof of another lie, and shut her eyes for a second. Maybe she was concerned about retaliation too, or maybe she anticipated what was coming next. Gale dug out Beck’s Swiss Army knife from deep inside her pack.
A wicked grin traveled from his lips to his eyes, but to Imogen’s bewilderment he didn’t explode. It was good he didn’t have a short fuse, but unhelpful in predicting his behavior that it burned at an unsteady rate.
“Everybody keeps some secrets to better their own chances,” he said, his voice ominously soft. “What else you hiding?”
He sprang up, tucking Beck’s folded knife into his pants. “More of a girly knife but might be useful. You each got one then? Turn out yer pockets.” Imogen balked, not because she had anything to hide, but because she knew they were about to lose the last of their weapons. “Turn ’em out or I’ll pat you down.”
Beck and Imogen got up and emptied their pockets. Dirty facial tissues. Lip balm. Imogen’s little notepad. A small piece of schist, meant as a souvenir. They made sure Gale could see they didn’t have anything else, and Imogen hoped he’d leave it at that. But no, he went to Tilda.
“Any pockets in these?” he said as she squirmed. He ran rough hands around her hips and backside.
“No!”
He reached into her sweatshirt pocket. “Bingo! Can’t believe I didn’t check that before tying you up, I’m getting sloppy. So that’s two. You got one?” he asked Imogen.
“That’s hers,” Tilda said before Imogen could reply. She was telling the truth, of course, but Tilda’s continued eagerness to separate herself was becoming more than a little annoying.
“That true?” Gale asked. “You know she had it?”
“Yes,” Imogen said. “She used it to open our freeze-dried dinners.”
Gale swirled his tongue around the inside of his mouth, his eyes hard and evaluating. What conclusions would he draw?
“You didn’t ask us to hand anything over before,” Beck said. “We bring these as tools.”
It felt like he stared at them for an hour before finally passing his sentence. “We got everything out in the open now?” They nodded. “Don’t need to do a strip search?” They adamantly shook their heads.
After a shrug and a huff, Gale reeled back and threw Imogen’s knife as far as he could—far enough that they didn’t hear it land. They’d never find it.
“Don’t ask, don’t tell.” He chuckled, amused with himself, and approached Beck’s neat row of brewing coffees. “Can’t fault you fer following the basic rules a common sense—so that one’s on me. My bad. Been off my game fer days, a wonder I’m not dead. I’ll even forgive you fer the flashlights, ’cause if I’d wanted y’all to die last night I woulda found a more direct way a doing it than leaving you to stumble around this shithole in the dark. Now, why don’t we sit a spell like civilized people.”
Civilized people who casually threaten other people’s lives? Imogen lowered herself into her former cross-legged position and gathered up the detritus from her pockets. Gale claimed Beck’s mug of steaming dark-roast coffee. He sat near their kitchen, but with enough separation to keep an eye on everybody.
“See, we can keep it all friendly. Makes everything easier.” He took a slurp of the coffee. “Coffee’s good. Been a minute. Thanks, Doc.”
Beck took the second-darkest cup. Tilda’s mug sat there on a rock, cooling off. Away from the rest of them, her wrists and ankles bound, Imogen watched a tear slide down her cheek.
23
Beck made only one packet of oatmeal for each of them. Imogen knew they usually made two per person but Gale didn’t, and she understood her sister was rationing. Gale expected Beck and Imogen to share a bowl again, but Imogen took the double serving over to Tilda and for every spoonful she ate, she fed one to Tilda. It was one thing to leave her without coffee, but Imogen couldn’t just let her watch them eat. Fortunately, Gale didn’t object.
After a minute he proposed that Tilda scoot over on her hiney so they could all eat together. And with a little help from Imogen, she did. In spite of Tilda’s bindings (and questionable behavior), Imogen felt safer sandwiched between the warm blockades of the two strongest women she knew.
“This is good. Thank you, girls.” He looked at them, an expression Imogen would have shockingly described as appreciative on his worn-out face.
“You’re welcome.” There was no rational reason for it, but in that moment Imogen felt more relaxed than she had all day.
There were times when she caught glimpses of
the normal person in Gale. In fleeting instances he could even seem good-natured. The more she thought about it, this realization might actually be the best thing she could contribute to their survival. Beck saw him as a challenge to be conquered by outmaneuvering, and Tilda perceived him as a menace to escape from posthaste. They were valid perspectives, but ineffective if applied without a better understanding of what made him tick. If Imogen could look past her fear and hold in her mind an awareness of his vulnerabilities, his fundamental needs and wants as a human being, she might be able to connect with him in some important, lifesaving way.
Like the young heroine she’d been conjuring the night before, who had to endure an arduous quest to find her true self, Imogen realized she might now be on such a journey too.
“Yer the soft one,” Gale said to her, alarmingly in tune. “See you thinking, but what you worry about is if yer fickle friend is thirsty or hungry, and is yer big sis gonna make it all okay. She’s older than you, right?”
“Yeah, a little. Less than two years. You’re good at reading people.” The compliment was genuine.
Gale shrugged. “Everybody gotta be good at something. Coulda used a slightly more practical skill, like being handy with tools or good with a computer. But you take whatcha can get.”
Ha. Gale probably hadn’t meant that as a double entendre, but it worked. In another situation Imogen might have counseled him that reading people could make him a good writer or actor, or a good therapist or salesman. It was unfortunate that he’d found other ways to use his talent; she might have guessed his criminal aptitude would make him a con artist, if it weren’t for the evidence of his violent side.
“What’s your plan?” Beck asked Gale, bursting into the conversation, impatient. “Even rationing food there’s only enough for a few days, and possibly less fuel if you’re spreading it over more meals.”
“Always using that fat brain, aren’tcha? Well, from where I’m sitting things ain’t so bad. Just enough people come through here to get what I need, but not so many to rat me out.”