by Zoje Stage
Uncertain, she looked back at him. His eyes met hers instantly. He was a master of self-preservation, always aware of the darkest options. While one fist held the rope-leash that kept Tilda and Beck’s hands tied—together, and to each other—his other casually rested atop his sheathed knife.
It would slice through the soft flesh of Imogen’s belly, damaging precious organs as it went in, in, deep into her abdomen. It would hurt so much. (Worse than a bullet.)
The thought—the fear—made her turn back and keep marching.
Weak. This was who she was and what she spread wherever she went. She was a coward, more scared now than she’d been on that long-ago night—or that Saturday morning—when at least it had ended quickly.
She remembered how she reacted during the rape. It was one of the things she never wanted to give much space to: the reality that she hadn’t fought back. Should she have fought harder? Or had her passivity saved her then from further harm?
Wasn’t that also why she (hid in a bush) hadn’t run into the synagogue to try to save her fragile friends? Because sometimes passivity was the smarter move?
It was the one thing they hadn’t tried with Gale: fully cooperating; going along with everything he asked. It was a submissive approach and Beck and Tilda wouldn’t understand its merits. But Imogen was the only one of them who’d survived any potentially life-threatening situations, and she’d survived twice by not making any brazen moves. Maybe she, and everyone else, underestimated the role of meekness; maybe it didn’t make her weak or a coward. Was it possible that her past attacks were rehearsals, preparing her for this?
Beck and Tilda wouldn’t agree to capitulate. But their efforts to negotiate or flee hadn’t worked, so what else was left? If only the three of them could really talk. The trio wasn’t on the same page, that was for sure, and didn’t know each other’s minds well enough to consult from the same book.
Yup, they needed to have had their great bonding vacation before they got themselves kidnapped. Imogen resisted the bitter urge to chortle. Their inability to communicate was as dangerous an enemy as Gale.
27
As soon as they were at camp Gale ordered them to sit. Beck and Tilda, though attached, kept their backs turned to each other. Before Gale could tie her up or stop her, Imogen dug out a washcloth, and doused it with the water from her canteen. She dabbed at the blood on Beck’s lip and chin.
“You okay?” She’d never seen her sister injured before, nor had she ever seen the fresh wounds made by another person’s fists. Beck’s face looked swollen and sore, but she gave a tiny nod, her good eye always on Gale. He paced, looking west, looking east; Imogen saw him weighing his options, trying to figure out his next move.
“Sorry,” Imogen whispered to Beck. “A pair of rafts came by but I guess they couldn’t hear me over the rapids.”
“That was the dumbest fucking thing you could’ve done.” Tilda practically spat the words at them.
“You’re one to talk. At least I had a plan.” The words slurred; Beck sounded like her mouth had been shot up with Novocain.
“I didn’t know he had a gun then,” Tilda hissed.
Stuck between them, Imogen wasn’t sure what to do. She folded the washcloth in quarters and soaked it, then laid it gently on her sister’s puffy eye. Gale strode an antsy patrol back and forth a few feet away, and she feared his paranoia was skittering back in.
“We have to overpower him,” Beck said, inching around to include Tilda.
“No.” At Imogen’s refusal Tilda and Beck both looked at her. “That won’t work.”
“You have an idea that will?” Tilda’s rancor betrayed her belief that none of Imogen’s ideas would ever work.
“So what are you thinking?” Beck asked, curious.
“We have to seem like we’re going along with—”
Not only did Imogen stop speaking, she stopping hearing. Something exploded against the left side of her head. A bomb of pain that instantly made her dizzy and nauseous. She was already sitting, but her muscles gave out and she wilted. Tilda’s body was there to catch her, to keep her from tipping over onto the ground. She saw Beck’s mouth moving, saw her livid face looking up at someone, yelling.
I can’t hear.
The thought lasted only seconds before the buzzing of a familiar agony set in. Gale’s face came into focus. She swayed, trying to sit straight; she knew what had happened. Gale had punched her in the head. In the same ear that hadn’t been quite right since the incident with her walking stick. This time she didn’t need to wonder if her brains were oozing out—she could feel something warm and wet. The nausea lingered though the sharpest pain started to fade. When she touched her ear her finger came back with a pinkish spot of blood.
“You punctured her eardrum!” Beck’s red face was now equal parts injury and rage.
Gale knelt. Tilda tried to squirm away, but couldn’t. He was close enough that Imogen could smell the regrettable dereliction of his body, his teeth.
“Sorry I had to do that,” he told her. “Know yer the soft one, but you gotta learn to stand on yer own two feet. Can’t listen to everything yer damn sister says—”
“I told her it was a bad idea.” Imogen’s voice was shaky. She wasn’t trying to sell her sister out, but she wanted him to know that she agreed with him.
“She says ‘Jump!’” Gale said, “you gotta learn to say ‘Fuck you!’” Tilda bobbed agreement, glaring at her. “I expected more from you.”
Imogen felt dazed. Part of it was the ringing in her ear, the rest was an unexpected barb of remorse. Gale seemed to have faith in her ability to do better. No one ever told Imogen her instincts were good; she felt a little sorry for letting him down.
Perhaps it showed on her face. He patted her shoulder. Then stood and said to all of them, “And fer the love of fucking Jesus y’all need to stop with this plotting and scheming. You said ya wanted to help? This ain’t helping.”
A few heavy drops of rain splattered on their pants and shoulders, on the surrounding dusty dirt. Imogen cupped her throbbing ear and, with the others, turned her face skyward. Her brain was still helter-skelter and the odd thought came to her that in this moment they were all in sync: an unhappy deity had demanded their attention with flicks of water, and they’d all looked upward in obeisance. What was It going to tell them? Something that would set them all free?
Apparently the others only saw darkening skies, laden clouds.
“Great,” Tilda said under her breath.
“We should move to higher ground,” said Beck. “In case the creek floods.”
“That happen often?” Gale asked, looking from the sky to the overhang in the cliff face where they’d first accosted him. What a mistake it had been, approaching the dragon in his lair.
Beck shrugged. “Depends on how hard it rains.”
“Been near a flash flood once. Got no desire to do that again.” He burst up and started shoving stuff into their packs. All of Beck’s and Imogen’s gear was in their sloppy postexamination piles, and Gale’s acquisitions were still scattered around. “You,” he said to Imogen, “help me get this packed up. Don’t matter what goes where.”
She got to her feet, but didn’t get far before she tottered and had to stop. The world spun and she kept her hands on her knees. Everything in her stomach was lurching around, in contra-rhythm to the sway of the earth. A groan escaped her mouth, which was preferable to vomit.
“Dizzy?” Beck asked.
“Yeah.” Dizzy sounded like a cute word compared to how she felt.
“She’s got vertigo,” Beck said to Gale. “She could even have a mild concussion. Why don’t you have one of us help you?”
“Too late fer that.” He snatched at whatever was at hand and jammed it into the nearest pack. “Come on, let’s go.”
The dribbles of cold rain helped Imogen focus. She let it wash away the feverish green feeling, until finally she could stand upright. She’d push through, because they needed
her: it would help nothing if their supplies and gear were swept away in a storm.
Imogen gathered up armfuls of their belongings and filled Beck’s pack. Just a few nights ago they’d been in Beck and Afiya’s living room and Imogen had been annoyed at Beck’s disorganization; how silly that seemed now. She wished she could shut her eyes and transport to the safety of that cozy room with its cathedral ceiling. She wouldn’t say no to a mug of Afiya’s earthy tea. If Imogen was thinking about this, Beck was too. And Tilda probably longed to be in her own home, away from the Blum sisters and their abominable ideas.
It was only early afternoon, but the clouds brought a mood that made Imogen want to find a nest and curl under a fluffy blanket. “Could use a nap,” she mumbled, strapping her sleeping bag to the bottom of the rust-colored pack.
“Just my plan,” said Gale. “Need some shut-eye myself. Not ashamed to admit I ain’t thinking my best and I don’t wanna make no more mistakes.” He looked at the sky again. The rain hadn’t gotten worse, but there was no hint that sunshine might return. “Ready to put that on?”
Imogen struggled into the bulky pack. The cliff shelter was the ideal place to go if it was going to storm, but she couldn’t imagine how she would sleep, or do anything else, while confined in a rock prison with the dragon.
He picked up a walking stick—Tilda’s, as it happened—and handed it to Imogen. “You head on up. I’ll watch these two. Hurry, in case the rain comes down harder.”
Once upon a time she’d contemplated how to use a walking stick as a weapon. Now she needed it to keep from stumbling. She glanced back as she started off. Though he’d ordered her to do it, it didn’t feel right leaving Beck and Tilda behind, again.
Her emotions had been caroming inside her since Gale had kicked her into wakefulness. She’d intermittently been a lump of ice or a puddle: solidifying when called to action, and melting in defeat as things worsened. Now she felt herself shrinking, losing substance; she couldn’t sustain this level of stress. On top of it, she was still queasy. She wanted to close her eyes, make everything as motionless as possible, retreat to a place of stillness and quiet so she could recharge. The stress was exhausting, and they couldn’t afford any more slipups.
As she clambered up to the overhang she dreaded the thought that Gale intended to use her as a mule, ferrying the packs to the shelter one by one. It would be faster if he carried Tilda’s next time, then they could complete their move. In her current state Imogen was the worst person to be hauling heavy backpacks, though maybe that was intentional, part of her punishment for running off.
Imogen walked into the rock shelter and unbuckled the hip belt, slipped her arms out of the straps. The backpack dropped to the ground. While only eight feet deep, the interior felt roomy with its high ceiling and wide wings. Twenty people could sleep beneath the overhang, but it was still too small if one of those people was Gale.
He’d said he wanted to take a nap. Undoubtedly he planned to arrange things so they would be helpless to escape or attack him as he slept. But maybe they could finally talk. Imogen needed to make them understand how they might win him over by expressing more sympathy, treating him with respect. Common wisdom recommended trying to make your abductor see you as a real person. She wanted to take that a step further and convey that they could be friends. That would require, at the very least, getting Beck on her side: Beck could be a master manipulator when she wanted to be. Somehow, they needed to convince Gale that letting them go was what he wanted.
Her skull ached and she still felt wobbly, but with the walking stick’s support she hurried toward the yawning mouth of the overhang, eager to get back. But then she paused beneath the towering umbrella of rock, stunned by what she saw across the creek.
She blinked hard, in case it was a mirage, in case her head injury was making her hallucinate. But no, it looked real. Her heart screamed go-go-go and she hurtled on, half slipping down the steep incline.
There was a man. A backpacker in full gear. Heading toward their camp—toward Gale. The backpacker would have easily spotted them on his steep descent into Boucher; much of the camping area was visible from the trail. With Beck and Tilda facing away, and Gale busy packing, they hadn’t noticed him yet.
Imogen recognized his approach for what it was: their best chance to end this.
28
Imogen charged across the creek, splashing in the inches-deep water. “No no no no…” The man couldn’t take this on alone—he might have sensed something was wrong, but he didn’t know what he was walking into. He didn’t know about Gale’s weapons.
Gale saw the backpacker emerge from the scrub when he was thirty feet away.
“Everything okay over here?” the man asked. Was he close enough to see Beck’s and Tilda’s hands, bound behind their backs?
Gale took a step forward and held up his hand, a halt command that the backpacker didn’t heed. “This ain’t none a yer—”
“Help us!” Tilda screamed—and kept screaming.
“What are you doing, what’s going on?” Alarmed, the man veered away from Gale to get closer to the two women.
Imogen raced across the level ground, her bamboo stick pumping freely at her side as if she were a locomotive, gaining speed.
“Stop! Stop!” she bellowed—it didn’t matter who it was for, she just needed to stop the impending collision. The backpacker looked at her, his face a frightened question.
“He has a—” Beck’s warning came too late.
Gale thrust his knife into the man’s chest, upward, under his ribs.
It couldn’t have been more than a minute from when Imogen spotted the backpacker to when Gale decided to end his life.
She flew the remaining yards, breathing hard, tears streaming down her face. Tilda shrieked, lurching backward against Beck. Maybe it wasn’t too late, maybe the man wasn’t dead, maybe—
“Nooooo!” Imogen cried.
Gale knelt beside the backpacker and thrust his knife in one more time. Ripped it out. Satisfied, he stood back and watched the growing pool of blood.
The man gurgled, twitched a little, and went still.
Imogen collapsed to her knees, skidding to a stop on small rocks that dug into her flesh. The man was on his side and the bulk of his pack shielded Beck and Tilda from the worst of it. But Imogen saw every detail.
—the harrowing splatters of blood—
The salt-and-pepper of his unshaven face. His gray eyes, surprised but sightless. The canvas hat that had tumbled off his head.
—flesh ripped through—
His dusky-green T-shirt bloomed with wet, dark stains; red rivulets streamed from the slashes in his chest. The man’s mouth had frozen in the shape of the surprised scream he hadn’t been able to utter.
—dentures exposed in shock—
The land spun and Imogen wasn’t sure what sickened her most. She crawled away and vomited.
“Why did you do that?” Beck howled at him. Tilda clung to her and they buried their faces in each other’s shoulders, sobbing.
Gale stood there gazing down at what he’d done, traces of disappointment on his face. “Yer smarter than that, Doc. Nothing else to do.”
Imogen wept uncontrollably. She wept until she started choking, and then coughed and wiped her drooling mouth.
“Why does she get like that?” Gale asked Beck. He sounded confused, but also maybe concerned. Imogen made wheezing noises as she tried to breathe.
Beck extended her foot toward Imogen, the only part of her body that could get closer. “Some things have happened. In her life.”
Gale nodded, watching Imogen. “Sorry you had to see that.” He grabbed her under her arms, practically picking her up off her feet, and moved her so she was closer to Beck and Tilda—where there was less gore. He wiped his knife clean on the backpacker’s rugged shorts before resheathing it.
Imogen felt safer in the proximity of Beck and Tilda. Her throat still burned from her lost breakfast, but she quieted as som
ething occurred to her: What if he wasn’t alone? What if the man had mates, walking at their own pace? Maybe another person—or a few—would yet stroll into Boucher. Gale might not think about that, but she knew seasoned hikers didn’t feel the need to stay in sight of each other. She fought the urge to look behind her, toward where the trail came into camp. It was better if he didn’t know this might not be over.
“On the bright side, y’all have been concerned about running low on provisions. This should help.” Gale compared the size of his foot to the dead man’s. He squatted down and loosened the laces before tugging off the man’s boots.
Aghast, Beck and Tilda gawked at him as if he were a demon, casting off the garb that had allowed him to appear human. But Imogen thought he had a point: he’d get less rattled, feel less pressure, without the constant worry of running out of food; this could buy them some time. She didn’t mean to be heartless—the man’s murder was unforgivable—but Gale’s response to her had been almost kind.
Gale yanked the heavy pack off the dead man’s body and an unwanted image flashed in her mind of an animal being stripped of its pelt. She wanted to vomit again, but all she could do was stare, hoping the film would burn in the projector so this horror show would end.
“Now. Where we gonna put this guy?”
None of them uttered a word. He looked at the dark clouds.
“Rain’s holding off. This is good. This is real good. A pack fer each of us.” It was almost pitiful the way he was trying to convince himself. “Can you take this on up?” he asked Imogen, tying the boots together and draping them over the pack.
With a glance at her sister, Imogen got to her feet. She didn’t want to approach—Gale or the body—but he was keeping the pack upright, ready to lift it so she could slip her arms through the straps. She shuffled forward, eyes on the backpack. Alive, the man probably had almost a foot on her and a good one hundred pounds. She started shaking her head, already seeing herself falling to her knees from the crushing weight.