The Ridge

by Michael Koryta

  “I’ll do my best,” Kimble said. “And you do yours. Give me time enough to get it started. That’s all I ask.”

  He looked at Dustin. “I’m going to go down there and soak those old planks in this gasoline, and when every drop is out, I’ll put a match to it. By the time that happens, I want you both gone.”

  Dustin nodded. He hadn’t spoken since they left the trailer. He was oddly self-possessed, though, exhibiting none of the fear that the situation seemed to dictate. He was braver than Audrey had thought he would be, but how did you ever know? How could you anticipate a situation that called for true bravery?

  “What about my cats?” she said.

  “What about them?”

  “You’re starting a fire. What if it gets into the woods and comes toward my cats?”

  Kimble shook his head. “There’s a good stretch of rock between that trestle and the woods. Even with a strong wind blowing, it couldn’t make the woods.”

  He waved the gun at Dustin. “Sit down.”

  Dustin sat on the passenger side of the little cart. Kimble turned to Audrey and offered a bloodstained hand.

  “Good luck,” he said.

  “You, too.”

  He got behind the wheel then, and the little motor bubbled to life, and then they were out of the barn and driving off into the night, down toward the trestle. Dustin didn’t even look back at her.

  Audrey stood alone for a moment. Around her the cats were on the move, gathering near the fences, watching with curiosity. A lion roared, one tiger responded, and then it was quiet again. Snow was falling steadily. Audrey watched the tiny headlights of the cart move toward the trestle, and then, after a hesitation, she followed.

  Kimble parked the cart just outside of the torn-down fencing, turned to Dustin Hall, and looked him over. The kid gazed back with a blank face, oddly unbothered. You had to have some nerve to work around those cats, though, and after everything that had happened this week, with the deaths and the escaped cougar and the kid’s dealings with Shipley, maybe he was getting a little desensitized.

  “You ready to help?” Kimble said.

  “Sure.”

  “Come on, then.”

  They got out of the cart and Kimble took a gas can in his left hand, keeping the gun in his right. Dustin Hall picked up a can in each hand.

  “Give me a moment,” Kimble said. “When I call for you, come on out.”

  He ducked through the fencing and went out onto the trestle. He went to the spot where he’d stood with Jacqueline, and then he dropped to one knee and stared into the shadows where the foundation bracings met the rocks and water below. Where she’d seen the ghost, and seen her fate.

  There was nothing.

  Kimble touched the weathered planks with his palm—built by dead men—and remembered the way she’d kissed him back up at the car, remembered the feel of her on top of him in the dark lighthouse, remembered that she’d had the gun pointed at his face and her finger around the trigger in the end and had not pulled it.

  You know what you’ve done… I’m scared of him.

  “All right, friend,” Kimble whispered, staring down at this demon who would not show himself. “We’ll see how you like a little heat. I’m going to set your fucking house on fire.”

  He stood up again, called for Dustin Hall, and began to pour gasoline over the boards. He was very careful to see that the old wood drank it up and that as little as possible fell to the water below. He didn’t want to waste a drop.

  They worked swiftly and in concert, no sounds but their footsteps echoing on the boards and the gasoline splashing. Snow fell around them but the wind had lain down and it was a quiet night. Kimble worked on the western end of the trestle, Dustin Hall on the eastern, closest to the preserve, as instructed. Kimble wasn’t sure they had enough fuel, and he thought that it would be better if he could get the fire going on both ends and let it work toward the middle. If even one end collapsed, the rest of the trestle would come down.

  When his cans were empty, he discarded them and walked back across the trestle, gun in hand, to join Hall.

  “It’s all gone?”

  “Yes.”

  Kimble bent and picked up one of the cans, turned it upside down and shook it. Only a few drops flew out.

  “All right,” Kimble said, feeling the matches in his pocket. “You need to get the hell out of here. Go on up with Audrey. I’ll come up when I’ve seen that it’s burning.”

  Dustin Hall didn’t move. He was looking at the lighthouse.

  “You say there are infrared lights in that thing? On right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it bothers him.”

  Him. The word snagged on Kimble’s ear, and he realized Hall had used it earlier. Not in an informal, pronoun sort of way, either, but with a personal touch to it. As if he were speaking of someone he knew.

  “I think it does,” Kimble said slowly, and it occurred to him now that he hadn’t had time to follow up with Hall about the allegation that Shipley had moved the rifle in the cage.

  The kid turned back to him, snowflakes melting on his glasses, and said, “That’s good to know,” just before he slammed into Kimble with a lowered shoulder.

  Kimble stumbled backward, his first instinct to lift the gun, his second that lifting the gun was no concern, balance was the only concern, and he was losing his fast. He reached for something to catch him, but there was nothing but snow and darkness.

  45

  AUDREY WAS STANDING IN the trees at the crest of the ridge, snow speckling her hair, the wind stinging her face, and the night had taken on a magical surrealism to her—she was a part of this but not, detached from it all, those sounds of footsteps and splashing gasoline on the bridge couldn’t belong to her world, they represented something far too strange, and the silent snow only contributed.

  Then Dustin slammed into Kimble and the deputy was off the bridge and pinwheeling through darkness and Audrey’s scream shattered the dreamlike feel of the night and grounded her in reality once more.

  For an instant, she started toward Dustin. She was horrified but did not blame him yet; her initial response was to think that he had done what he believed was right, acting out of fear of Kimble, acting in self-defense, even in defense of her. It was Dustin’s response to the man’s death that brought her to a stunned halt.

  He showed no outward emotion, neither fear nor horror, as he knelt on the edge of the trestle and looked down to where the chief deputy had fallen into the same black water and jagged rocks that had claimed Audrey’s husband, and though he surely knew she was there from her scream, he paid her no mind.

  Not at first.

  At first he simply stared into the darkness, then nodded his head and, as he straightened, lifted his right hand and snapped off a crisp salute.

  Audrey felt the first creeping knowledge then, tendrils of memory and understanding seeping through, too fast and too vague to be grasped firmly, but strong enough for her brain to accept them and merge them into one central, critical point: Dustin was dangerous.

  Even to her.

  He brushed dirt and snow from his jeans casually, in no rush, and then finally pivoted toward her, searching for the place where he’d heard the scream. He found her, and then, still at a calm, measured pace, began to walk off the trestle and through the snow. Coming for her.

  It was his pace and his silence that extinguished any remaining doubt, and she began to back away, not running yet, because she didn’t want to turn her back on him, didn’t want to lose sight of him even for an instant. It was only when she began to move that he broke the silence.

  “Audrey, come down here.”

  His voice did not belong to the competent but socially awkward young man who’d helped her handle the cats for so long. It seemed to come from another man entirely, the voice dark and demanding and with a quality of patient threat to it, like an interrogator who wanted to make it clear that he would play the game but for only a while, a
nd then God help you if you hadn’t satisfied his questions.

  She continued to backpedal. The rocks were slick with snow and she slipped once and almost went down, and for the first time she looked away from him, conscious of how close to the edge of the ridge she was, how treacherous the footing. The trees were just ten paces away, and beyond them the fences, and in the moonlight and snow she could make out only the white tigers and the eyes of a handful of others. Kimble had fallen from the bridge with her car keys and her cell phone in his pockets; it was now just her and the night woods and Dustin Hall.

  And the cats.

  “Audrey,” he said again, and the threat in his voice was clearer now, his stride widening. “Come down here now.”

  “You shot Kino,” she said. The thought had just entered her mind, and with it some shred of hope that she was making a mistake, that he was not really menacing, because Dustin would never have killed one of the cats.

  “To be fair,” he said, “I was aiming at Wes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I had to kill someone, and he was handy. Just like you are.”

  Now she did run.

  As soon as she turned her back and began to flee, she heard his boots slapping off the planks of the trestle and then a rattle as he pushed through the fencing and she knew that he was pursuing—fast.

  She was faster, though. She’d run cross-country in high school, had pounded out many road miles in the days before David’s death, the days when there was time for such things, and she knew she could stay ahead of him, could keep going until she made the trailer, and then she could lock herself inside and find a knife and…

  But she wasn’t faster than he was. When she glanced back over her shoulder she was astonished and terrified to see how quickly he was closing the gap, and how craftily. Instead of running directly after her, he was angling to his left, understanding exactly where she was headed and determined to head her off.

  He could, too. He could beat her to the trailer.

  With her first option removed, she did what panicked quarry generally does and redirected without purpose, simply heading in the opposite direction.

  She reached the fences, heard a roar from one of the lions—fast-moving animals excited the cats, always, they incited the predatory response—and kept angling to the right.

  Behind her, Dustin called, “Stop running, Audrey. Stop it, now.”

  He was nearing the trailer, and once he saw that he’d succeeded in flushing her away from it, he would begin direct pursuit. Understanding that she could neither find protection nor outrun him, she made the final decision of panicked quarry: she had to hide.

  She stumbled along between the enclosures, ducking and moving slower now, watching as Dustin turned away from the trailer and followed. For the first time she paused, knowing that the next choice would be critical, critical in the way a choice can be only when it might be your last.

  Where to hide?

  She dropped to all fours and began to crawl, but he was upright and moving quickly and would find her easily enough. Wherever she picked had to be close. She could not make the road, and to push deeper in the woods seemed hopeless, because she knew of no hiding spot and would make noise searching for one.

  Dustin had paused, too. He looked in her direction but clearly could not see her, and then he walked to the trailer, opened the door, and stepped inside. For a moment she just crouched in the darkness and took deep, gasping breaths, watching him and thinking that perhaps the chase was done, perhaps he had other things on his mind.

  Then the door opened again, and she saw the beam of the powerful flashlight, and she knew that the chase was hardly done.

  To her right was one of the largest enclosures, home to three male lions. It was wide open and exposed space. To her left…

  She saw Jafar’s golden eyes, the leopard pacing, unsettled, and then she saw the shadowed shape of his house. He’d emerged from it, straw stuck to his paws, to see what the chaos was about, and the shelter was empty now. Empty and dark and within reach.

  “Audrey!” Dustin’s voice was a shout, furious, and she took one look at the flashlight beam—it was pointed the wrong way, he was expecting she’d moved toward the road when he had gone inside—and then she knew that she was out of options.

  She crawled to the gate and worked the combination lock. She had two numbers in when the beam swung her way, and she dropped and pressed flat, knowing that it would find her. Jafar came to the fence, curious, and the beam passed over him instead and moved on. She lay in the snow and watched the path of the light and realized that Dustin was looking everywhere but in the cages.

  Because Audrey wouldn’t go in the cages. She never had before, and he knew that. Everyone at the preserve did. It was the unspoken but shared understanding they all had as to why she could never manage the place on her own: she didn’t trust the cats.

  She lifted her head, looked at Jafar’s eyes, and whispered, “Let me in, please. I love you, buddy. Now don’t hurt me.”

  The cat gave a low growl and flattened his ears.

  Tension, she told herself, he senses your tension and doesn’t like it. That’s all, Audrey. That’s all.

  The flashlight beam passed close again, and she could wait no longer. When it was gone and she was in darkness, she lifted her hand and finished the combination. She did not need to fear the noise of the chain rattling; the lions behind her were roaring at full volume, and when that was happening, you could do about anything short of shooting off a cannon and not be heard. She pulled the gate open and crawled inside, and Jafar came trotting up with three loping bounds, then stopped with his back arched and tail stiff.

  She almost tried to open the gate and run again, thinking that Dustin was surely going to be no worse a fate than this, but then memory whispered at her.

  Playing, she thought, watching his stance, the way he was exposing his side, inviting her to chase. He’s trying to play with you.

  Audrey pulled the gate shut and clicked the lock back in place and then crawled for the animal’s house. The cat stalked alongside her, and she felt the tears sliding down her cheeks. She was shaking now and would not look at him, could not, as if to meet his eyes would be to engage him in hostility.

  The opening to his house was tight and narrow. She crawled in, cold straw bristling against her palms, and behind her the leopard gave a growl.

  It was his territory, and she was invading it.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Please, please, please.”

  He did not strike at her as she entered. She banged her head on the plywood ceiling and then ducked lower and crawled on through the straw, crawled until she reached the bend in the wall that indicated it was making the L-turn, and then she could see the opening on the other side. There, farthest away from either end and impossible to spot unless you were inside the enclosure, she stopped moving. Her breath was coming in sobs now, and she tried to quiet them. It was a good hiding place, as long as she was quiet. A good hiding place, as long as the cat allowed it to be.

  Out in the preserve, Dustin was still shouting her name, but that was good. That meant Dustin didn’t know where she was.

  She heard another growl, turned back to her left, and saw a pair of golden eyes at the entrance to the shelter.

  Jafar.

  He knew where she was.

  46

  JACQUELINE HADN’T BEEN WRONG in her recollection—the only thing Kimble registered about the fall was that it was far too fast.

  Then he registered the pain, and all else was gone.

  He struck the surface of the frigid water awkwardly and plunged deeply into it, but not deep enough. An upright, jagged stone caught him in the ribs and drove the breath from his lungs, and then another drilled into his shoulder and the side of his neck, radiant pain spreading through him as he scrambled wildly at the frigid blackness, sure now that he was dying and that it would be just as he’d always feared death would be: dark and alone.

 
When he broke the surface a wide, flat rock caught his body and held it, and for a moment there was nothing but the agony and the cold water and the night. Then there came a light, thin and blue and cold, and the world spread out from the light, and once more he could see.

  Silas Vesey was coming for him.

  He held the blue torch high, and though he waded through the water to reach Kimble, it did not appear to part for him or drag against him. He was of it, and it was of him, so no conflict existed. He just drifted on through the dark water until he was at Kimble’s side. He wore dark trousers and an ancient, faded work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and in the flickering blue light of the torch his face was lit clearly. He had dark hair and a sharply cut, sweeping mustache, and his eyes were sunken but powerful, penetrating. The flesh of his face seemed to drink in the blue light and spread it through his skin like a cobalt sunburn.

  He knelt in the water beside Kimble and rested the butt of his torch on the flat rock just inches beneath the surface, and then he gazed at Kimble and smiled. When he spoke, his voice was clear but hollow and with an odd hint of echo, like something rising up from the bottom of the deepest well.

  “You’re badly hurt, sir,” he said. Not a sympathetic observation but a delighted one. He passed the torch over Kimble’s body, and Kimble turned his eyes down and saw his own ribs, blue-white and dripping blood, the ends sheared roughly, like something cut with a dull saw. He found he could not move his head or neck, only his eyes.

  “Grievous,” the man said, this devil who had once called himself Vesey.

  Kimble didn’t speak. He was looking past Vesey, to where a blue bonfire burned, and saw familiar faces all around. Empty faces, haunted eyes. They watched him with sorrowful resignation, and he saw Wyatt French and then Jacqueline.

  He wanted to cry out for her, but she was staring right at him, and there was nothing in the gaze. Just an infinite emptiness.

  Silas Vesey moved, blocking Kimble’s view, his shadow spreading over the rocks, blue light enshrouding him.