Switchback

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “Where are we going?” she asked. She fought to keep a quiver out of her voice and almost succeeded.

  He veered the truck, and the tire noise changed from dirt crunching to foliage crushing. He didn’t answer her.

  “You can’t drive on the grass. It’s against Forest Service rules.”

  Not that rule-following seemed to be an issue to him so far, given that he was helping kidnap her. The only rule he seemed to follow was “Do what your daddy tells you to.” Because she might not know who he was, but the ringleader had called him “son.” Twice. So she was pretty sure that her driver was the ringleader’s son. And that his daddy was a big-time jerk.

  The truck lurched to a stop, backed up, then made a turn and kept going. The ruts and rocks were getting worse, and Trish bounced so high off the seat that she had to catch herself on the ceiling. After a few more jarrings that made it feel like her tailbone was jamming into her neck, the driver—the son—parked. Outside, Trish heard the rumble of an engine and the familiar voices of the other men. Her mouth went dry. Was this it? Was whatever bad thing they planned to do to her going to happen here? The son stayed in the driver’s seat. Cindy was kicking the inside of the trailer, over and over.

  The ringleader spoke through the open driver’s-side window. “We were talking about whether to ride out from here or drive up to the pass.”

  Trish heard a splatting sound as something hit the ground. The son grunted. Trish guessed that meant, “Yes, sir.” Cindy kept kicking.

  “Jesus, what is wrong with that animal?” the ringleader asked.

  Scary Guy said, “It’s a longer ride from here.”

  Creepy Voice whined, “But we’re hidden better here.”

  Cindy’s kicks intensified.

  “We only need one of those damn horses,” the ringleader growled.

  Trish heard him stomp away. The horse trailer opened and hooves clattered.

  “I don’t want any gunshots,” Scary Guy said. “Use a knife.”

  “No,” she said, her voice choked. “No,” she repeated, louder.

  Someone pulled a knife from a scabbard, the noise unmistakable to Trish. It was just like the sound her dad’s made.

  “Use this one,” Creepy Voice said.

  Trish scrambled for the door handle, screaming. “Don’t hurt her. Please don’t hurt her.”

  Just as she found it and wrenched it open, the son yanked her back in the truck by her other arm. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Trish stiffened. His voice was familiar. Then she heard a horse bellow and a loud thud as if something heavy had hit the ground.

  She dropped her face in her hands. Sobs racked her body.

  The ringleader came back to the son’s window. “Well, that’s settled. We don’t want to leave our trucks by a dead horse. We’ll meet you up at the pass.”

  Chapter Twenty-six: Change-up

  Undeveloped Forest Area Near Woodchuck Pass, Bighorn National Forest, Wyoming

  September 20, 1976, 7:30 p.m.

  Trish

  Less than ten minutes after the murder of her mom’s horse, Trish realized they were driving back the way they’d come. The bumps still jarred her, but she didn’t care. She was leaden. Her aching head didn’t even matter anymore. They’d slit Cindy’s neck, just for kicking the trailer. What kind of sick assholes did something like that? She heard a familiar and welcome sound. A horse neighing. Her poor Goldie, who must be scared out of her mind. She didn’t understand. Not any of this. Why they killed Cindy, why they had taken her, and what she was repayment for.

  “Why?” she said, her voice a croak. “Why did they kill our horse?”

  The truck and trailer turned onto a better, less bumpy road. The one where she had dropped her hair tie earlier, she figured. Her bad luck. She’d finally got her courage up to do something, and it was a dead end to a dead horse.

  “Aren’t you going to answer me? I know who you are.” She didn’t, of course, but she should. That familiar voice. It probably meant he knew her, so maybe he’d fall for the bluff.

  But he didn’t say a word.

  He turned the wheel abruptly, and Trish slammed into the passenger-side door. They were making a left turn. She hadn’t been prepared, and she had to mark it. Trish pretended she was just slow sitting up, as she pulled her other hair tie from her pocket. With only the moose picture left, she could only mark one more turn after this one. She dropped it out the window. She’d wanted to leave it visible from the main road, but they’d already traveled a good bit past it. God, please let my dad find it.

  Ahead, she heard the sound of rushing water. The brakes screeched and the truck slowed, then descended. Water splashed through the window onto Trish’s face, so cold it was like an electric shock. It dripped down her nose. She didn’t react.

  The truck bounced and dipped side to side as the son maneuvered it over creek-bed rocks. It felt strangely light to Trish, almost as if they were floating downstream, like when Goldie had swum the deep section of the creek. Had that only been yesterday? It felt like forever ago. The weightless sensation ended, and the truck started the climb out the other side, engine whining under the strain of the trailer, which was still splashing through the water. The downhill force of the current felt like it was twisting the trailer on the hitch and pulling the back end of the truck with it. But a long second later, the truck’s engine noises eased. The trailer was out. They were free from the power of the water.

  Trish wrapped her arms around her body. “Can we roll the windows up now?”

  The son didn’t answer. She didn’t know why she bothered. She stuck a hand out the window. The rain had stopped, but the temperature was dropping fast. The smells were changing too. Somehow, the air was crisper and cleaner. Her dad had taught her the difference in the scents of the evergreen trees. The pine was herby, almost grassy, and better than the Pine-Sol her mom used on the kitchen floor. Spruce was intense and kind of fruity. She breathed the sweetness in.

  She tried to visualize her surroundings. The road was super rough. She could walk faster than the son was driving the truck. They were still going uphill, but it wasn’t steep. She heard tumbling water out the driver’s-side window. It all seemed familiar. “Where are we?”

  No answer.

  Natch. She was sick of it. “It’s too late to give me the silent treatment. I told you. I know who you are. I’ve heard your voice.”

  When the son spoke, his voice was soft and raspy. Had he been crying? “Woodchuck Pass.”

  She knew it. Her dad had brought the whole family here a couple of times. It was one of his favorite places, and her mother liked it, too. Her dad had been trying to convince her mom that when they died, they have their ashes scattered in the pass off the top of Bruce Mountain, which was totally gross. Who did they think had to do the scattering? Her. And Perry. She didn’t want to get the ashes of her dead parents blown back in her face. That was what would happen here, too. It was always, always windy, and it seemed to come from every direction at once. The hike up would be hard, too. Bruce Mountain was over ten thousand feet high, which was above the tree line. The pass was pretty, though. Lots of moose, elk, and deer. In the summer, it was blanketed with wildflowers. Lupine. Columbine. And balsam root, which were like short mountain sunflowers. They were the reason her mom liked the pass.

  But those things weren’t what was important now. The son was talking. He was talking. She needed to ask him questions while she could.

  “Why Woodchuck Pass?”

  He cleared his throat. “It’s close to where we’re going.”

  His voice wasn’t mean like the ringleader, or scary, or creepy. It didn’t sound old like theirs did either. In fact, it was young, like the kids she went to school with, and sort of nice. Maybe even a little frightened?

  “Which is where?”

  “Into the wilderness.”

  That didn’t narrow it down much. Cloud Peak Wilderness is huge. And high. Her dad called it the spine of the
Bighorns, and she imagined the mountains as a stegosaurus—like the dumb rubber ones Perry used to play with—with a slightly humped back and the wilderness as its chunky spikes pointed up at the sky. The wilderness is where all the peaks are, tons of lakes, and even a glacier. They’d hiked and ridden in the wilderness before, and her dad had gone hunting for bighorn sheep in it once, although he didn’t get one. That secretly made her happy. The whole area was rugged and primitive, with no vehicles or buildings. She didn’t want to go there in the middle of a cold, wet night with anyone. Going with these horrible men was unthinkable.

  She shuddered. She had to get out of this truck, away from the men and what was coming. “You could take me back, you know. Drop me off by Ranger Creek, then just keep driving.”

  His voice came out tight. Higher-pitched and strained. “I can’t. They’d find me. Somewhere, sometime, they’d find me, and they’d make me pay.”

  She was right. He was scared. She softened her voice. “You can’t let them do this.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Hello?”

  “If you know who I am, then say my name,” he said.

  Her mind raced, searching for a face or a name. She didn’t really have any idea who he was. But she decided to try to fake it, based on what she did know. He was young, like her, and while she recognized his voice, it wasn’t one she’d heard much. “I don’t remember your name. But you go to school with me. You’re older.”

  Again, he said nothing. The truck started up a steeper hill. He downshifted. It was rockier too, and Trish bounced in her seat. Tree branches slapped the windshield and sides of the truck. A slim branch sticky with pine resin reached in and smacked her arm. One scratched along the top of the trailer, screeching. Then, to her horror, the son parked the truck. I’m out of time. He left it running and didn’t move.

  “You’re not like them. I know you’re not. Don’t let them make you do this.”

  The son turned off the truck. He grabbed her by the arm. “Come on. Get out on my side.”

  She jerked away from him. Bracing her back against the passenger-side door, she lifted her bound feet onto the bench seat, then kicked at him with all her strength.

  The son grunted. “That’s not going to do either of us any good.” He tackled her legs, but not before she connected with his nose. “Ow.”

  She bucked her legs, but the weight of his body made her efforts futile. She swatted his face, then clawed at it. He drove his head into her chest, knocking the wind out of her. By the time she recovered and drew in a painful breath, he had immobilized her in a bear hug.

  Trish knew he’d won this round. She needed to save her strength for when the time was right. Thanks to the altitude, the short fight had winded her. She struggled to catch her breath, uncomfortably aware of his body heat and dirty-gym-sock scent. She’d never had a boy lie on top of her before, for any reason, and she was mad that this was her first experience with it. She’d never forget it, and it was nothing like what Judy Blume had written about in Forever.

  The fight went out of her. She let her body go limp. “I’ll stop.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise.” For now. Her ankles were crossed, so she didn’t feel guilty lying.

  He sat up, sliding backward out the driver’s-side door. He pulled her after him, not roughly, but her arm and shoulder banged on the gearshift and steering wheel. She didn’t cry out, though. When her legs were clear, he dropped them and grabbed her elbows. He sat her up on the edge of the seat. “Hop off.”

  She did. Then she heard something sliding. Something slick against fabric? A few seconds later, he looped whatever it was around her wrists and snugged it tight. It felt like Ferdinand’s leash. Nylon. It had to be his belt. The son untied the rope around her legs. A tug on her wrists told her to follow him. She did, to the back of the horse trailer.

  “I’m hooking you to the trailer. Don’t try anything.”

  She nodded. But of course she’d try something if she got the chance. Especially while they were alone. Where were the others? Maybe they’d driven off a cliff and died, if she was lucky. She heard nylon rubbing against metal as he threaded the belt through something. He pulled it so hard that it lifted her arms. So much for him not wanting to hurt her. Her body weight tightened the noose around her wrists. The tie ring on the side of the trailer, she thought. He’d looped the other end of the belt above her head through the ring.

  The son moved away and opened the latch to the back door of the trailer. Goldie nickered. It was a nervous sound. She didn’t like strangers.

  “It’s okay, girl. I’m right here,” Trish called to her.

  She reached her fingers and hands in every direction, trying to get a grip on the belt. On anything. If she could only loosen the tension, she could enlarge the noose and maybe slip her hands out. She stood on her tip toes, but it didn’t create enough slack.

  “I can see you,” the son said.

  Trish didn’t answer. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t get loose anyway. The trailer door opened with a long squeak, releasing the scent of wet horse, manure, and sweat. Goldie’s hooves chattered on the edge of the trailer as she balked at the step down.

  “Get on there,” the son said.

  Trish heard a rope pop Goldie. The horse hopped down from the trailer. She rubbed her velvety nose against Trish’s neck as soon as she was out, talking to Trish with the funny noises in her throat that Trish loved. Her wind-loosened hair fell forward, creating a cocoon of their faces.

  Trish breathed it in, savoring the sweet-smelling horse breath and the warmth. “Good girl, Goldie. Good girl.”

  Goldie’s metal lead-rope buckle clanked. She swung her head in the direction of the son and moved toward him. Even though she couldn’t see Goldie, Trish could hear and smell the entire process as the son saddled her up. The flop of the blanket onto Goldie’s back, the creak of leather, the whistle of the cinch through the D ring, the clank of bit against teeth. Leather, drops of water, and more horse sweat.

  Quicker than Trish liked, Goldie was ready. The wind had grown colder. Trish shivered, wet and exposed to the chilly air, unable to huddle herself in her own arms.

  Hoofbeats approached. Then men’s voices, a thump, and footsteps.

  The ringleader’s voice and minty stench announced his presence. “You two are going to ride her horse.”

  “What happened to mine?”

  “Funny thing. We got ready to go and heard something fall in the trailer. We opened it up, and he was down. Took all three of us to drag him out.”

  “What happened?”

  “I think he hung himself in his lead rope.”

  “My horse.” The son sounded like he had something in his throat.

  Trish felt numb. Two dead horses. There was a SPLAT on the ground near the ringleader.

  “Yours. Get over it. It was just a horse.”

  Trish could hear the son swallow.

  “Yes, sir. Where did you park?”

  “Across the road, down in the trees by the little creek. We’re completely hidden. You did a good job parking here, too.”

  The son didn’t respond.

  “Your uncle is in a big hurry to get this show on the road. And you don’t ever want to piss him off.” The ringleader cackled.

  Uncle. So either Scary or Creepy was the son’s uncle. One big, happy, criminal family.

  The son didn’t laugh. His voice was cowed. “No, sir.”

  His daddy’s boots crunched rocks as he walked back to his horse.

  She whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks.”

  Trish’s brain felt like it was overheating. She had to figure out a way to escape these psychopaths or leave another clue for her dad. Anything to help him find her. The truck and trailer would have been a clue, except they were hidden up here in the trees. She had the moose-and-baby picture left. Thank God the son had tied her wrists in front of her. She’d drop the picture when they were clear of the
trees and moving out.

  The son said, “Time to mount up.”

  “I’m really cold. Do you have a jacket I could wear?”

  The son called out, “Dad, do we have an extra coat?”

  “For who?”

  “Her.”

  The voice drew nearer again. “You’ll keep her plenty warm riding double.”

  The son said, “But what about when we get up to the camp? It will be colder up there. Especially at night.”

  The ringleader leaned into Trish’s face. He smelled like foul breath, earthworms, and mint. She nearly gagged. “You just let me know if you get too cold, honey. I’m sure one of us will be happy to warm you up.”

  Trish tried not to shrink back, but failed. She couldn’t stand the smell. “I’ll be fine.”

  Trish heard the sound of a hand slapping a back. The ringleader laughed. “Son, your uncle has been without female companionship for a while. I think we should give the job to him.”

  Scary Guy’s voice came out of nowhere. “I’ve been without the companionship of a woman. This one is a child. Real men don’t hurt women or molest children.”

  The ringleader stopped laughing. Trish could feel a sudden tension fall over the men.

  “I was just kidding.”

  Footsteps moved away so quietly that Trish understood why she hadn’t heard Scary Guy walk up.

  “Shit,” the ringleader said. His voice was jittery. “He’s always been a sneaky bastard, ever since we were kids.”

  Trish heard horse hooves against rock, moving closer. Then Scary Man’s voice rang out. From its trajectory, she knew he was back on his horse. “Time to go.”

  Someone—the son, she hoped—unfastened the belt from the tie ring on the trailer. Blood rushed into Trish’s hands, and she fell on her butt.