by Sonja Yoerg
He ignored it. “So you want to stick together, is that it?” His expression hardened. “Do you think just because some twisted creeps are trying to scare us that everything is fine between us? Because it isn’t.” He pointed a finger at her. “Remember, Liz, the Roots are only guilty of killing a marmot.”
Her heart beat faster and blood rushed to her face. She stepped back, shock morphing into a flash of indignation. “You’re right! I know what I did, and I know we’re not even close to fine. But you might think about the fact that I didn’t get pregnant by myself. We were at Etta’s wedding, remember? In Santa Fe? You knew I was drunk. You didn’t care about birth control that night any more than I did. Most of this is on me, Dante. I admit it. But not all of it.”
His eyebrows shot up. He spun away and strode several paces, and stared into the distance. Liz inhaled deeply to calm herself. She waited, hoping Dante would not run off and leave her. He was right. She couldn’t imagine facing the rest of the journey by herself, with the Roots stalking and threatening them. And, practically speaking, she and Dante had so little between them that could be used to defend themselves. It made sense to try to work together—if Dante could stomach it. He turned to her. “As we are here, it seems foolish not to continue together. And at night it’s too cold without a tent.” He moved to his pack. “I’m having lunch now.”
Liz watched him for a moment, relieved, then dug some cheese and dried fruit from her pack. As she ate, she searched the woods for signs of movement and the skies for signs of a storm.
After eating, they descended through foxtail pines, crossed Tyndall Creek and climbed away from the Kern River drainage toward Bighorn Plateau. The mountains of the Great Western Divide stayed beside them, increasing in grandeur as the trail ran parallel to the range. In the middle of the afternoon, they arrived on the plateau—two miles across, level as a pool table and framed on three sides by granite peaks. A deer bent to drink at the rim of a small, round lake. There was not a breath of wind.
Dante, in the lead, stopped and pivoted to take in the view. Liz pulled a water bottle from his pack and gave it to him, as only a contortionist could reach a bottle on his own pack. When Dante finished drinking, he handed it back.
She drank the rest and inserted it in the pouch. “I’ve still got a half liter, which should last until Wallace Creek.”
The deer lifted its head. They marched on, accompanied by the grinding of their boots on the ground and the click of their poles.
The path led across the plateau and down sharply to Wright Creek, one of several wild threads that rushed off the precipitous eastern slopes to spill into the Kern River. They crossed on half-submerged boulders, using their poles for balance, a performance now second nature to both of them. A mile farther along, they encountered Wallace Creek and a large campsite in a stand of trees thirty yards from the riverbank.
They agreed on the placement of the tent and proceeded to set up camp, all with a minimum of conversation. Liz inflated the air mattresses and fluffed the sleeping bags (thinking all the while it didn’t feel as much like nest building as it had in the past) and prepared to head for the river. She picked up her sleeping outfit, stacked her towel and comb on top and stepped into the meadow separating the campsite from the water. She stopped short. An undulating call—a bout of yodeling—originating from somewhere upriver. Dante had been organizing his clothing on a rock ledge and froze at the sound. They looked at each other, waiting. Another call, similar to the first, filled the valley.
“Shit,” Dante said.
“Shit is right.” Liz hugged her clothes tighter to her chest and retreated into the cover of pines.
“If we only knew what the hell they wanted.”
“The calls sounded like they came from the same place, so they weren’t communicating with each other. That was for us.”
He clenched his jaw. “There must be something we can do.”
She put down her clothes and approached him. “We have to try. I don’t think I could sleep knowing they might be planning something.”
He considered her. His face softened a notch. “Where do we start?”
“With seeing what we’ve got to work with.”
They took inventory, taking pains to regard the familiar objects they’d carried with them for two weeks with fresh eyes. Other than Dante’s slingshot and a single flare, nothing could reasonably be categorized as a weapon.
Dante said, “We could move our camp to someplace less obvious.”
“We could. But it’s getting late and we’d be just as likely to be moving closer to them instead of farther away.”
Dante picked up the bundle of nylon cord. “Can we do anything with this?”
Liz glanced at the position of the tent, then scanned the entire area. “I’ve got an idea.”
They moved the tent to the edge of the site where it was bordered on two sides by ten-foot-high boulders crammed against a steep hill. Using trees as anchors, and tent stakes when necessary, they strung cord along a twenty-foot perimeter, eight inches off the ground, hoping it would be invisible at night. It wouldn’t stop the Roots from getting to the tent, but at least there might be a warning.
They ate dinner, washed the dishes and got ready for bed, taking care to step over the trip lines. Dante gathered stones in a pile outside the tent door and practiced a few times with the slingshot. Clouds appeared, and coalesced, turning magenta, violet and turquoise with the setting sun. Liz wondered if it might rain, or even storm during the night, and decided she didn’t care. In fact, if a storm would keep the Root brothers at bay, she’d welcome it.
At dusk she and Dante entered the tent. The temperature had dropped rapidly and they hurried into their sleeping bags. For a long while, they lay on their backs listening to the wind sweep up the valley and stir the branches overhead. Liz wasn’t confident she could sleep, both because of a possible threat from the Roots, and because she was lying next to a man whom she loved dearly but who was in all likelihood no longer hers. She wouldn’t cry—she was spent. She would simply close her eyes and await the morning.
Dante rolled over to face her, although the dark was absolute. “You were right to say it was partly my fault you became pregnant. I wish we’d both been more responsible.”
His tone was sincere—when was he not sincere?—but guarded, as if a bigger truth was on the way. “Thanks. So do I.”
“But I can’t see how that changes what you did, and how you hid everything from me.”
“No, it doesn’t change it. Nothing will. But, Dante, I knew that you would want to keep the baby, and get married.”
“Is that so awful, Liz?”
“I wish you wouldn’t put it that way.”
“How would you put it?”
She sat up, agitated. “That if pregnancy automatically means marriage and a family, then people who can’t remember to use birth control should probably not be having sex!”
He was quiet for a moment. “So what is it you regret? Moving in with me? Ever having slept with me?”
She felt pinpricks behind her eyes. Her mind was awash with emotion. She couldn’t think straight. With pain running like acid through her veins, she did regret those things. She regretted everything.
She lay down and he went on. “Now that I think about it, you only moved in with me because you lost your condo.”
“That was the impetus, yes,” she said weakly. “But I wanted to.”
He ignored the last part. “And sleeping with me in the first place? Or dating me, for that matter? Or having a drink with me at Freddie’s? What was the impetus, as you say, for that, since you seemed to know you would come to regret it all?”
The feeling came to her with the certainty of a sunrise. “Hope. Foolish hope.”
They gave up on talking and retreated into separate, broken worlds. In those parallel landscapes, Liz on her inflated
rectangle and Dante on his, they each found sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
She was half awake and contemplating whether she needed to go outside to pee or whether she could wait until morning. They’d gone to bed so early she guessed it was now not even midnight. She was summoning the motivation to brave the cold when the sharp snap of a branch alerted her. She pushed her hat away from her ears and rose on one elbow. Rustling sounds, or maybe the wind.
She placed her hand on Dante’s cheek. He stirred and she moved a finger to his lips. He touched her arm in acknowledgment and rolled to his side.
More rustling. A faint light winked, or maybe she imagined it.
“An animal?” Dante whispered.
A loud thud. “Oof!”
Liz sat upright, her heart racing. Dante shucked off his bag and fumbled for the zipper on the door.
Outside, “Darn it!” Rodell. “Don’t move, Payton. There’s a friggin’ wire!”
Dante crouched in the vestibule. Liz’s hands darted around her, searching for the flashlight. She found it in the corner near her feet, pushed the button and shone it toward him. The beam shook and she used both hands to steady it. Rodell swore again and she could hear one of them move through the undergrowth. Dante loaded the slingshot and scuttled sideways out of the vestibule, determination and fear written on his face. Liz crawled to his side and pointed the light to the location of the sound. Rodell was framed in the beam, scrabbling for the flashlight that had been knocked out of his hand in the fall.
“Get out of here!” Dante shouted.
Her hand shaking, Liz swung the beam to the right. Her heart stopped. Payton, framed between two trees, exactly as she’d seen him that night during the storm. His feet were planted wide, his shoulders broad and squared. She shone the light directly at his face. He didn’t squint. He tucked his chin and glowered at her. She gasped.
Dante grunted and released the stone from the slingshot. Payton ducked behind a tree and the stone flew past, narrowly missing him. Liz spied Rodell’s light moving and jerked her own back to him. He was retreating, cutting through the meadow with a limp.
Payton shouted, “If he’s hurt, you two are gonna pay!”
Dante had reloaded and was aiming in the direction of Payton’s voice. She searched for Payton with the light but saw only tree trunks and shadows. Dry leaves crunched underfoot. A twig snapped. Liz held her breath. More rustling, now farther away. She was shaking badly now, from cold and fear, but kept scanning with the beam.
Beside her, Dante lowered the slingshot and exhaled. “Dios mio.”
Her breath came in shallow gasps. She shone the light all around, again and again.
Dante said, “Let’s go inside.”
Liz wasn’t convinced the Roots had gone—how could they know?—but crawled into the tent anyway. She tried to zip her bag closed but her numb fingers couldn’t grip the tab. Then she realized she still had to pee. She clambered over Dante with the flashlight, apologizing, and crept a few yards away, in the opposite direction of the Roots. As she returned to the tent she swept the beam across the trees and meadow, but saw nothing unusual.
Her teeth were chattering as she blew into her hands. She managed to open the zipper and slipped into her bag again. Her voice wavered as she spoke. “That was exactly what Payton looked like the night he scared the crap out of me at Shadow Creek.”
“You were right about them all along. I don’t know why I didn’t see it.”
“They didn’t want you to. Until now, they’ve saved their best for me.”
“But I should have believed you. Thank God we put up the cord.”
“Yeah, it actually worked.” Liz shuddered, thinking about what the brothers had intended to do, and anticipating they might be back. “We should take turns keeping watch for them.”
“Okay. I’ll go first. Just let me warm up.” He paused. “Do you think they really did kill Brensen?”
“I don’t know. It’s all fun and games with them. Hard to tell where they’d draw the line.”
“If they wanted him dead, they could’ve shot him.”
“Assuming they really have a gun. I’m not sure what I saw.”
“And this way it’s less clear how he died.”
A wave of fear pulsed through her at the cold-blooded premeditation this suggested. She wished Dante would go out and stand watch. She tightened the drawstring on the hood of the sleeping bag and rubbed her feet together to warm them. “Paul and Linda would’ve told the police about Brensen yesterday, or the night before. Do you think they’ve already come to get him?”
“Probably. Are you thinking about an autopsy?”
“Yes. But then again, as Paul said, a fall and a push might look pretty much the same.”
“So we can’t count on anyone coming after the Roots.”
“I don’t think we can count on anything.” Her words hung in the air.
They lay still, striving not to disrupt the pockets of warmth their body heat had created. After a few minutes, Dante sighed and crawled out of the tent. A light crossed the ceiling, then swung away. She listened as Dante’s footsteps receded toward the meadow. She willed him not to go far. The beam lit the tent again as he approached. He made several small circuits within the trip lines before returning inside. She smelled the cold on him as he wriggled into his bag.
“The wind’s increased.” His voice quaked. “It’s unbelievably cold.”
“I’ll go in a sec.” She pulled her knees into the fetal position, gathering heat and resolve. She didn’t want to leave the tent, but neither did she want to be ambushed. She wanted peace, and sleep. She closed her eyes, but her brain was in overdrive, rifling through images of the Roots: Payton looming over her at the creek, Rodell acting out the dare at the pass during the storm, the two of them folding their tarp like housewives. Even that quotidian act disturbed her in retrospect. She pictured them lurking in the woods beyond the tent and sat up. “I’d better go.”
“Stay near the tent.”
“I will.”
She climbed out and stood, directing her flashlight into the forest, sweeping the beam back and forth. She hugged herself with her free arm and stomped her feet as the icy breeze stole her body heat. Crouching into a ball, she returned to the question that had been eating away at her since she first felt Payton Root’s peculiar attention: Why her? Finally, she believed she understood. Stripped of her shell of lies and deceits, she could see herself as Payton did: a woman strong enough to be worth conquering, and fragile enough to break. It terrified her to know he was pursuing her, threatening her, with his brother in collusion. And as much as she wanted Dante by her side, Payton didn’t consider him a deterrent. She could only hope she and Dante could hold off the Roots until they encountered other people, or until someone realized they were in trouble and sent help.
The cold found its way to her bones. She scanned the trees one last time, unzipped the fly and crawled inside. Dante shifted as she climbed over him and settled into her bag. They didn’t speak, but his breathing told her he was as alert as she was, despite their exhaustion. Morning could not come soon enough.
Several times over the next hour, Dante crawled partway out of the tent and scanned for signs of the Roots. Liz’s eyelids would not stay open, and she struggled to listen for sounds above the whistling of the wind. She slid briefly into unconsciousness, but her jangled nerves prevented her from finding real sleep.
Dante clamped his hand on her arm. “Liz!”
She pushed herself up, disoriented, and rubbed her nose. A smell. A barbecue? Dante was scrambling out of his bag, grabbing his jacket, jamming his hat on.
“What—”
“A fire! We need to get out!”
Her stomach dropped. “Where?”
He opened the door and stuck his head out. “All I can see is smoke!”
He
r mind racing, she tried to unzip her bag. It caught. She cursed and wriggled out. She threw on her jacket and stuffed whatever clothes and gear she could find quickly into her sleeping bag. Dante climbed outside, cramming his feet in his boots as he went.
Liz shouted, “Get the packs first!”
She crawled out, dragging the sleeping bags behind her. Her heart beat in her throat as she stood. Smoke everywhere, illuminated faint orange on the far side of the campsite, toward the trail. Too much smoke to see how large the fire might be. The wind was blowing toward them. She waved smoke from her face, the acrid smell stinging her nose. Where was her flashlight? She dropped the sleeping bags. Hands trembling, she fumbled in one pocket, then the other and found it. She clicked it on and spun around to find Dante hoisting both packs. He ran away from the blaze toward the meadow.
“To the river!” he shouted over his shoulder.
She scanned around her with the beam, holding her arm over her nose. Her legs wouldn’t move. Panic swamped her brain. Think. What was vital? She stuck the flashlight in her mouth, and shoved on her boots, tying them roughly. Stuffing one sleeping bag inside the other, she tossed them over her shoulder and crossed to the cooking area, waving smoke away as she did. She threw the stove and lighter inside the cook pot, grabbed two water bottles and hugged everything against her with one arm, and took the flashlight from her mouth with the other. Coughing, she sprinted after Dante. Her foot hit the nylon trip line, and she flew forward, twisting sideways as she fell. Her left arm hit the ground, the blow cushioned by the sleeping bags. She pushed herself upright, scooped up the water bottles she’d dropped and raced ahead.
Dante was running toward her. “The bear cans!”
“Oh, shit!” They’d left them somewhere between the tent and trail, close to where the fire seemed to be. She abandoned everything except the flashlight. The beam jumped up and down as she ran back to the campsite. The wind parted the smoke for a moment, revealing flames licking the stunted trees, a dozen yards away. Dante was near the tent, smoke billowing around him. Where had they put the cans? An image appeared in her mind. A large rock. She swung the light to Dante’s left where she thought they might be.