Freefall

by Jessica Barry

  The color drained from his face as I talked and I saw his hands gripping the edge of the table. “Did you tell his parents about this?”

  I remembered the carefully controlled anger in Amanda’s voice when I’d asked her, the floral smell of her perfume, the fuggy, underwater feeling of too much wine, and felt a flush of renewed humiliation. “Amanda told me they were tied up in probate.” Now that I’d brought it up, I didn’t want to talk about it. I picked up the mug to take a sip and then remembered it was cold.

  He shook his head. “It’s bullshit.” I looked up at him sharply, startled by the anger in his voice. “You’re her mother. You’re her next of kin. Her things should go straight to you. I thought . . .”

  He trailed off and I waited for him to continue. “You thought what?” I prompted, but he just shook his head and scowled. It felt like he’d retreated to some remote part of himself, one that I didn’t have access to. “Well,” I said eventually, “I’m not sure what to do. I suppose I could get a lawyer involved, but it seems crazy to chase after something I’m not even sure exists anymore.” I put my hands up. “Who knows, maybe they’ve already chucked everything out.”

  He sat back in his chair and rubbed his face with his hand. “Those bastards,” he muttered. His eyes met mine and I was surprised to see they had filled with tears. “People like that think they can get away with anything.”

  I stared at him. “What do you mean, people like that? You don’t know them.” I felt suddenly off balance, like a trapdoor had opened up under my feet.

  “Of course I don’t,” he said sharply. “It’s just that . . .” I watched him cast around for his next words. He was being careful, too. “They’re rich, right?” I nodded. “Well, that’s what I meant. Rich people think they can get away with anything. They treat people like us—normal, hardworking people—they treat us like dirt.” His face was red, his eyes shining. People in the café were starting to look over at our table. “They ruin people’s lives and then they laugh about it, because they don’t care about anyone but themselves and their precious pile of money. Someone should stop them. You know that? Someone should make them stop. They shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.”

  He wasn’t there anymore, I could see that. It scared me a little. I placed my hand gently on his. “Tony,” I said quietly. “Tony?”

  He seemed startled to see me. The anger receded from his eyes, replaced by a horrified sort of contrition. “I’m sorry. My wife always told me I was too hotheaded. I didn’t upset you, did I?”

  “You scared me a little,” I admitted. “I mean, I appreciate you getting angry on my behalf, but—”

  “I know, I know, I got carried away. Shit.” He looked embarrassed, like a dog caught chewing up a newspaper. “I guess it’s the old sixties socialist in me,” he said. “Always rooting for the underdog.”

  I gave him a smile and felt the balance between us return. “And I’m the underdog?”

  He returned the smile, though his held a sadness in it. “Afraid so,” he said. He leaned across the table and plucked the locket off my chest. I could feel the warmth of his fingers on my skin through my thin cotton shirt, and the electric current charged through me again. “My wife had one of these, too,” he said, weighing it in his hand. “But hers was silver. She kept a lock of hair hidden behind the photograph—her mother’s.” He kept hold of the locket in his palm and raised his eyes to mine. “It’s good that you have it now. Make sure you keep it close to your heart.” The insistence of his gaze unbalanced me, and I was sure now that I was blushing. I pulled away and the locket slipped from his hand and fell back against my chest.

  There was a tension between us now, though I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. I could feel him willing me toward something, like he was his own center of gravity and I was being pulled into it. I put a hand to my forehead. I felt suddenly, deeply tired.

  Tony placed his palms on the table and leaned toward me. “Maggie, you think she’s still alive, don’t you?”

  “A part of me does,” I said, and as the words came out of my mouth I realized they were true. “They never found her body, and the necklace . . .” I shook my head. “Even if she is gone, I need to understand her, and him, and everything that went with it. Does that make sense?”

  “It does.” He reached over and patted the top of my hand. “Keep going, Maggie. Keep digging. You’ll get to the truth, I know it.” His fingers slid underneath my palm. “But make sure you’re careful. These people . . .” He shook his head. “Just be careful, that’s all. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

  Allison

  The smell of me has filled the cab of the truck—the tang of dried sweat coupled with something rotten—and I roll the window down to let the air in. After I’ve walked for so long, traveling at this speed feels treacherous, and my eyes hurt from trying to single out the trees as they whiz past.

  I think about the blurred face in the photograph. If he’s there, it means they won’t be far behind. I should have been more careful. I should have known they wouldn’t let it rest. I should have known they’d come after her, too.

  “So, what’s this big emergency?” The man’s voice cuts through the silence and I jump. I forgot that someone was in the truck with me, even though he is driving.

  “A family thing.” I keep my eyes on the passing trees.

  “You read about a family emergency in the newspaper?” I can hear the incredulity in his voice. Fair enough. I barely believed it myself, and it was my life.

  Still, I’m not looking for conversation. My head’s too full of my own shouting voice to concentrate. “Look,” I say, “I appreciate the ride, but I’m not really up for talking.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I steal a glance at his profile. He has a nose like a hawk and a strong, square jaw, like something that should be carved into Mount Rushmore. One hand rests on the top of the steering wheel, the other on the stick shift. It’s like being driven by GI Joe.

  I turn my face back to the window. I can see the mountain crowning in the distance, its snow-capped peak looming over the landscape. It’s hard to believe I was on that mountain just a couple of days before, clinging to the side and praying for mercy.

  The driver clears his throat. “You’re that girl, aren’t you?”

  I look at him. His eyes are fixed on the road. “What girl?” I keep my voice neutral, uninterested, but panic swells inside my rib cage.

  His eyes dart toward me. “The one from the plane. I recognized you from the news.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Play dumb, I remind myself. Don’t give him anything.

  He smiles, and my throat tightens. “I wasn’t sure at first. You look a little different from your photograph, though I suppose that’s to be expected under the circumstances. But then I saw the look on your face when you were eating that hot dog. People only get that look when they’re desperate from hunger, and you don’t get desperate from hunger on a day trip.”

  “It was a long day.” I’ve misread him—he isn’t one of the good ones. Maybe he’s one of theirs, sent here to find me. Maybe he’s just your standard psychopath who wants to chop me into pieces. Or maybe he’s just an average Joe sensing a paycheck and a moment of fame for being the man who brings a damsel in distress back to civilization. It doesn’t matter: all paths lead to trouble.

  He sighs impatiently. “There’s no use in trying to say otherwise. I know you’re the same girl who was on that plane.”

  My hand grips the door handle and I give it a tentative tug. It’s locked. I’m trapped. All I can do is try to bargain with him. “What do you want for keeping quiet?”

  He looks at me now, a quick glance, but enough for me to catch the surprise on his face. “What do I want?”

  I nod. “What do you want?”

  A short laugh. His eyes go back to the road. “I don’t want anything.”

  I don’t like the fact he’s pl
aying coy. It most likely means someone’s already promised him something. I try again. “I’ll have money soon. Once we get into town. I could give you some.”

  “I told you, I don’t want anything.” We lapse into silence. My animal brain is screaming now. Maybe I can grab the wheel and force him to the side of the road. But then what? I’m in the middle of nowhere, weak and exhausted, and he’s twice my size. He’d overpower me in a second. I study the window. Could I reach around and open the door from the outside? How fast are we going—fifty? Sixty? Will I survive the fall, or die on the asphalt? His voice cuts in suddenly, interrupting my thoughts. “Look,” he says quietly, “I don’t know what happened on that plane or how you managed to survive or where you’re going to next. It’s not any of my business. But I see a young woman such as yourself on her own like this and possibly in trouble, and I have to ask if there’s anything I can do to help. So. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  My fists tighten. Don’t believe him. You can’t trust him. “You’re already helping me by driving me into town,” I say, fighting to keep my voice light.

  He grunts. “Anything else?”

  “You’re doing plenty,” I say. I don’t want your help. Your help is a trick. Then, as a gamble, “Just don’t tell anyone you saw me.”

  He nods, his eyes locked on the road. “You’ve got my word.” Silence settles between us again. My heartbeat begins to slow. A squirrel darts out from the brush and stops dead still in the middle of the road. The truck swerves to avoid it but the squirrel takes off in the wrong direction and slips under the wheel. We feel the slightest of bumps as we roll over it. The crunch of its tiny bones is drowned out by the hum of the engine. The man curses under his breath and I see the regret flash across his face. I glance in the rearview mirror. It’s just a smear of blood and fur on the pavement now, and before long it’s out of sight.

  The man clears his throat. “I couldn’t help but notice that you have a hunting rifle.”

  The fear grips me again. Is this how he does it? With my own gun? “That’s right.”

  Another darting glance. “You know how to use it?”

  “Sure,” I say, as confidently as I can muster.

  “You sure about that?”

  I falter. I watched my parents, but that doesn’t mean I know. Watching and knowing are two different things. But if I admit that, will he use it against me?

  He senses my hesitance. “Why don’t I teach you how to use it properly?” he offers, eyes fixed on the road. “Just in case you need it.”

  He’s offering me a choice. I can accept his help, which may or may not be genuine, or I can reject it. I realize, with a resigned sort of horror, it doesn’t matter: if he’s going to kill me, he will. There’s nothing I can do about it. I stare out the windshield. I guess I should choose the option that might end with me knowing how to shoot a gun. “That would be good,” I say finally.

  We pull onto the shoulder and hike a few hundred yards into the woods. My heart is pounding now, the adrenaline coursing through me. I keep the rifle close to my side.

  We walk until we reach a clearing. I fight the urge to run. Don’t let him see your fear, I remind myself. Fear is a trigger.

  “Okay,” he says, gesturing toward the gun. “Give her here.”

  I pause for a minute. My fingers are clutching the barrel of the rifle so tightly, they’ve turned white.

  He notices and smiles. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. I’m just going to show you how to load it.” He holds out his hand.

  I regard his outstretched hand warily. “Can’t you show me while I hold it?”

  He smiles and shakes his head. “You don’t have a very trusting nature, you know that?”

  I hug the rifle to my chest. “Learned from experience.”

  He watches me for a minute. “Okay, you hold her, I’ll load. First, you want to make sure the muzzle is pointed away from you—and me, for that matter.” He gently moves the muzzle so it faces a line of trees in the distance. “Next, you want to pull back the bolt. Now look in the chamber.”

  I peer inside.

  “You see anything in there?”

  I shake my head.

  “Good. That means it’s clear.” He picks up a few bullets from the box by his feet. “You want to load in a few rounds. This gun’ll hold three shots at a time.” The bullets click into place. “Okay, now that she’s loaded, you want to push the bolt back into place. This moves the shots into the chamber. Got it?”

  I nod.

  “Great. That’s the safety. If it’s up, it means if you pull the trigger, nothing will happen. If you flip it down, you’re ready to fire. Now go ahead and flip it down.”

  I flip it down.

  “You want to brace the butt of the gun on your shoulder joint—like this.” He lifts the gun and gently rests the butt against my shoulder. “Good. Now, with this arm, you want to steady the muzzle, and then you place your other hand on the trigger. Got it?”

  I nod.

  “Now take a couple of big breaths to steady yourself. Look through the crosshairs and find your target. Got one?”

  I focus on a knot in the trunk of a pine tree about ten yards away.

  “Got it? Good. You’re ready to shoot. You always want to fire on an exhale, so take a deep breath, let it out, and pull the trigger.”

  The recoil knocks me back and he catches me just before I fall. The crack of the rifle has left my ears ringing and the reverberation echoing through the woods. I rub at the sore spot on my shoulder from where the rifle kicked back, and feel yet another bruise start to bloom.

  He smiles at me. “You okay?”

  I nod. My mouth has gone dry. I don’t feel okay, not at all.

  “Try again,” he says encouragingly, “and this time, try to hit the target.”

  I focus my eye on the crosshairs. I brace the gun against my shoulder, lock my arm, and take a few deep breaths, the smell of gunpowder filling my lungs. I think of my mother, the light way she held the rifle, how her body stilled before she took the shot. Calm, I think. Steady. I breathe out and pull the trigger.

  I stagger back a step but manage to keep on my feet this time.

  “Not bad,” he says, nodding approvingly. “You almost got it. You want another try?” I shake my head, and he laughs. “Fair enough. You might turn out to be a decent shot one day. C’mon, let’s head back to the truck.”

  I realize, with a sense of flooding relief that makes my knees buckle, that I’m safe. He’s not going to hurt me after all. He really did just want to help. My stomach wrenches violently and I hold up a hand. “One second,” I say, before stumbling into a thatch of tall grass. The contents of my stomach empty noisily on the ground.

  “You okay there?” he calls.

  I rasp out a couple of breaths standing hunched over the remnants of the two hot dogs. “Fine,” I croak. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and head back toward him. “Sorry you had to hear that.”

  He shakes his head. “I’ve heard worse. I’m Luke, by the way.” He offers me a hand and I take it.

  “Allison,” I say. “But I guess you knew that already.”

  We climb back into the truck and Luke swings us back onto the road. He goes back to staring out the windshield and I go back to staring out the window. My stomach is still sour and the taste of bile won’t leave the back of my throat. The adrenaline has deserted me now, and I feel exhausted. The trees blur into a wall of green.

  We pull into the town around six o’clock. It announces itself with one of those old-timey wooden signs—WELCOME TO BUCKSHOT CANYON! POPULATION 2,960—and quickly reveals itself to be one long street filled with half-shuttered shops and the occasional neon-lit bar.

  “Think there’s a motel around the corner,” Luke says, and sure enough, we find ourselves parked outside a white stucco building with a vacancy sign posted out front. There’s a yellowish light coming from one of the windows on the ground floor, and I spot a woman sitting behind a
desk, staring into space, her mouth chewing mechanically. “I can’t vouch for the rooms,” he says, “but I’m guessing they’ll be better than where you’ve been staying.” Luke opens the door of the cab and hops out. “You coming?”

  I linger. “How much do you think it is for the night?”

  He glances back at the motel. The small parking lot is deserted except for a rusted-out Honda, and the railing on the second floor looks like it’s been kicked loose. “If it’s any more than thirty bucks, you’re getting ripped off.”

  “Okay.” I still don’t move.

  He leans back into the cab. “Don’t worry, I can cover you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  I shake my head. I’ve already accepted too much from him. I can’t accept any more. “I don’t want you to do that.”

  He grins. “Well, I don’t think you’ve got much of a choice.”

  He’s right, I don’t. Not unless I want to try skipping out tomorrow morning, but that’s risky. It could draw attention. I could get caught. Finally, I nod gratefully. “I’ll pay you back. I’ll have money first thing in the morning. I’ll send it to you, just give me your address.”

  He folds his arms across his chest. “The shop doesn’t pay much but it pays enough for me to let a girl have a room with a hot shower.”

  “I’ll pay you back,” I say again, insistent. I can’t bring myself to rely on a man’s credit, not anymore. Not ever again.

  He walks around the side of the truck and opens my door. “We’ll see about that. Now let’s get you into a room.”

  He swings my bag over his shoulder and strides toward reception. The heels of his boots click on the pavement.

  I swing open the door to find him already peeling off two twenties and handing them to the clerk. There’s a television mounted above the door and her eyes never leave it, even as she counts out six singles in change. I glance up to see what she’s watching. Judge Judy is seated on her perch like a crow, yelling at someone for not keeping her receipts. The receptionist hands the key over to Luke, who hands it to me along with the six dollars. “In case you get hungry for something other than peanut butter,” he says with a shrug.