by Nevada Barr
Despite the heat and exertion, suddenly Anna felt chilled. The healing cuts had not been reported, nor had Anna worn anything short or sheer enough that they could be seen.
“Regis tell you that?” she asked, then sucked in a breath of air, held it, and pushed up with every aching ounce of strength in her butt and thigh. Pressure on the rope through the sole of her foot, she dared pull up harder with her hands and arms without the fear of shifting the rope loop and warning Bethy that she was moving. That or it would spill her out of her single-thread hammock and leave her again dangling like a trout on a line. She would not have the strength to perform this mutant high-wire act a second time.
“No, stupid, I told Regis you were a whore.” Bethy laughed. Paper was being crumpled, wadded up. Lunch must be at an end.
Anna was upright, her leg trembling. She jammed her other foot in the rope stirrup and looked up. The top of her head was only a few inches beneath the sharp stone lip where the plateau fell away into the canyon. Her toes and knees pressed hard against the rock, she leaned into the cliff, letting it steady and support her. Her wrists were slightly above her head, one on either side of the looped rope. Anna wondered if Bethy had packed two lunches and eaten them both, or if she guessed Anna would opt to dine above the slot canyon. Then she wondered why the human brain would wonder over trivia when it might be smashed like a melon in the next few minutes.
“It was me that cut you. It was me Pizza Face ratted out his buddies to, it was me. All me. You should’ve seen yourself. Pathetic!” It sounded like Bethy was standing up.
“Did you bury Kay?” Anna asked, afraid no response would bring Bethy back to the cliff edge.
“Shut up,” Bethy said. “I gotta pee.” Anna heard her footsteps walking away, the need to hide behind a rock or bush for the private act apparently unabated by the fact there was no one to see her for miles in any direction.
This was it. This was the chance gamblers bet on. Mentally walking with Bethy, Anna pictured her stopping as the faint crackle of her shoes on the sand ceased, pictured her undoing her belt, unbuttoning her shorts, unzipping, pulling shorts and panties down, and squatting. She would get no more vulnerable than that.
Anna shoved her cuffed hands over the lip of the canyon, forcing the chain to move under the taut rope. Skin was scraped from her forearms; she didn’t feel it, just noted the red streaking the dirt.
Closing her fists around the rope as far as she could reach, she levered herself up by her forearms, her feet scrabbling for purchase. The loop of rope, no longer stretched and held by her weight, whipped around her legs. Then her chest was on solid ground. Sweat blinded her, and dirt was scoured into her mouth as she grunted and gasped for breath. Her belly was on the plateau. Only her legs and feet still hung over the sixty-foot drop.
“What’re you doing?” she heard Bethy call. “Are you doing something?”
No breath to spare for an answer, Anna dragged herself a few more inches and twisted. One foot, one knee, a leg, jackknifed on the tableland.
“No!” she heard Bethy yell. Anna didn’t dare pause to look up. With an effort that wrenched a scream from her as muscles in the small of her back tore, she got her other leg up on the plateau and began to belly-crawl from the edge of the ravine, her manacled hands scraping across the broken landscape. The earth, mere inches from her eyes, unrolled with agonizing slowness, inches only as Bethy’s furious shriek, guttural, then high like the war cry of a banshee, pulled the oxygen from her lungs and the blood from her heart.
FORTY-NINE
At one thirty Regis realized he’d forgotten to eat lunch. He’d been on the phone interviewing a fascinating woman in Olympic National Park for the district ranger position at Dangling Rope. The woman was eminently qualified but hadn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of getting the job. Three veterans were blocking the register. Vietnam had dumped an endless supply of vets into the federal system, and they got preferential treatment. If they all dropped dead, he still doubted she’d get it. He didn’t think Glen Canyon had ever had a female district ranger and doubted Andrew Madden was chomping at the bit to change that during his tenure.
At one thirty-two Regis was unrolling the top of a paper bag, soft from being reused a number of times, to see what his wife packed him for lunch.
At one thirty-four he was running from his office, ignoring startled looks from the people he passed.
At the small municipal airport on the outskirts of Page he untied his Super Cub, started the engine, and cleared for taxi, without pausing for a preflight check, a flight plan, or even to close the clamshell doors.
Folded on top of his tuna sandwich had been a note: “Hi Baby! Meet me at the head of Panther. I got a surprise for you! xxxooo Bethy.” He thought he would faint or vomit as he’d raced to the airport, but the fear solidified into a column of ice that ran from rectum to sternum.
Takeoffs and landings were a point of pride with him. An airship was most at risk when moving from one element to the other, from earth to sky and back again. The rest was easy. This time he didn’t so much take off as jerk the airplane off the runway and stagger into the sky. In the superheated air of the desert there was little lift. Fear of wrecking the Cub shoved aside the panic of Bethy’s upcoming “surprise” for a tense thirty seconds until he got enough air under the wings to stabilize the plane.
He was already late. Usually he ate lunch around twelve thirty. Bethy knew that. Bethy might have waited for him. He hung on to that thought as he climbed free of the traffic pattern and leveled off at seventy-five hundred feet on a north-by-northeasterly heading. Once across the bottom of the reservoir, he turned right, flying along the jagged northern shoreline. Winds over the lake were unpredictable. Besides, he didn’t particularly want anyone to recognize his plane and wonder what he was up to in the middle of a workday.
The Piper Cub, built in the fifties, wasn’t a fast plane. Her top speed was around seventy miles per hour, slower than most cars on the road. Push the throttle as much as he might, the flight to Hole-in-the-Rock Road, and the head of Panther Canyon, took the better part of an hour. Hot wind and engine noise buffeted Regis through the open doors, sucking the moisture from his lungs and fanning the flames of a vicious headache, but he couldn’t focus long enough to wrestle them closed.
Forcing calm, he made himself execute a neat pattern over Hole-in-the-Rock Road. The prevailing wind was from the north. He touched down near the canyon rim and slowed. Chafing, he turned and taxied back toward Glen Canyon. When he ran out of dirt road, he jumped from the Cub and chocked the wheels as best he could with rocks.
Hands on a wing strut, he ceased his frantic movement for a moment, staring at the ecru sand between his feet, trying to make room in his mind for thought.
His head jerked, and his hands fell from the aluminum wing support. Moving deliberately he opened a small baggage compartment behind the rear seat and lifted out his desert survival pack, a precaution most small-plane pilots took in rugged country.
Having ripped open the Velcro straps, he folded back the flap and removed the hunting knife in its leather sheath. He didn’t thread his belt through the loop on the sheath. He unbuttoned a shirt button and pushed the knife in where it could ride between belt and belly.
After closing and restowing the survival kit, Regis headed toward the head of the slot canyon that eventually widened out into Panther.
He did not run but walked, swift and sure.
FIFTY
Enraged, Bethy descended on Anna like a hoard of furies, kicking dirt in her face, kicking her head and ribs and back. Reflexively, Anna curled into a ball to protect her belly, her hands closed over her skull, forearms over her face, letting her daypack absorb the worst of the blows.
For a fraction of time the kicks ceased; then a jackhammer blow hit her shoulders. Half stunned, Anna felt herself shoved nearer the precipice. Another blow and another few inches. Until she’d hit Regis with the canteen and rolled rocks down on him, Anna had never
struck out at anyone in anger, at least not since she was three and beaned Jimmy Newton with a dirt clod. The beast instinct had not atrophied. Time to fight or die.
Rolling to elbows and knees, she sustained another shattering blow that nearly knocked her back to her side. Refusing to let the shock nullify her mind, Anna forced herself out of her defensive position. The instant her head came up she could see what Bethy was doing. She’d dropped to the ground and, propped on elbows and back, was using the powerful muscles in her legs to drive Anna over the edge.
Thrusting out with her toes, Anna lunged forward, sprawling on her attacker. Bethy’s bunched legs pistoned into Anna’s midsection. Gasping for breath, Anna fell to the side, her shoulder slamming into Bethy’s. Before the other woman could recover, Anna slipped her manacled hands over Bethy’s head, trapping her in a mockery of a lover’s embrace.
“If I go over, I’m not going over alone,” she promised in a voice more akin to an animal’s growl than a human utterance.
Thrashing and bucking, Bethy tried to head-butt, tried to force her knees between their bodies. Chin tucked protectively into her shoulder, Anna hung on, hugging Bethy more tightly. Screaming, Bethy turned in Anna’s arms and tried to crawl away.
Quick as a cat, Anna was on her back, her legs wrapped around Bethy’s waist, the chain between the handcuffs jerked tightly across her throat. As Bethy ran out of oxygen, the fight went out of her. Finally, she collapsed, facedown in the dirt, Anna riding her like a demented jockey. Muscles spent, throat dry and raw, it was all Anna could do not to collapse on top of her. The battle had lasted less than sixty seconds, yet both women were utterly spent. Fleetingly, Anna thought to mention this fact to the fight choreographer.
“Uncle,” Bethy muttered, a puff of dust rising with the word.
“Uncle” was what children cried when they lost a wrestling match. Fury, smothered until now by fear and exhaustion, roared up from the paltry reserves of Anna’s strength. Tightening the chain across Bethy’s throat, she croaked, “Uncle, my ass. You tried to kill me.”
“I didn’t, though,” Bethy managed. “So you can’t strangle me to death.”
Anna wasn’t sure of the legalities of that argument and at the moment didn’t care. During the brawl they’d tumbled up against the TV-shaped boulder Bethy had looped the rope around. Grunting, Anna rolled herself and an inert but conscious Bethy Candor over and sat up. Wriggling back against the rock, Anna used her daypack—effectively locked onto her when her hands were cuffed—as a cushion. She dragged Bethy with her, squeezing until the other woman was sitting between her legs, Anna’s still locked around her middle, the cuff chain hard against her throat.
Slowly, their breathing returned to normal. Twice Bethy struggled, and twice Anna tightened the chain around her neck until she became docile.
With air and rest came thought. Anna’s first was: Like a dog chasing a car. She’d caught Bethy. Now what? If she let loose of her, she didn’t doubt Bethy would try to kill her again. Anna was strong now, but Bethy was bigger and heavier and younger. In a fair fight Bethy would win. So fighting fair was out. Anna’d always thought it was silly anyway, like the rules of war. War was war; the point was to kill and prevail via the use of force. Pretending to do it in a civilized manner was a sop to the conscience of killers.
Continuing to sit stalemated indefinitely, they would die of thirst before anybody came upon them. Already Anna felt she was dying of thirst, though she knew she had many hours of torture to look forward to before she would actually expire.
The rope running between her cuffed wrists inspired her. Gathering a length of it, she began pulling it through her hands, dragging the loop around the rock they leaned against, moving the circle of rope.
“What’re you doing?” Bethy asked.
“Making us more comfortable,” Anna lied.
“You better let me go,” Bethy warned, but she made no effort to escape. “Regis is coming, and he’s going to make you let me go.”
“That so?” Anna wondered if it was true. More rope paid out between her hands. She felt her senses split, the hands working toward one goal, the rest of her alert to any change in her prisoner that might signify imminent danger.
“Yup. It sure is,” Bethy said with a smugness Anna found alarming. “He’s going to kill you,” she announced with satisfaction. “That’s why I didn’t just kill you right away. I was saving you so he could do it.”
“That was nice of you,” Anna said. A clink of metal let her know the carabiners affixed to the ends of the rope were moving closer.
“I’m a nice person,” Bethy said with what sounded like absolute sincerity.
The carabiners were in sight. Bethy reached out and grabbed them.
“Let go.” Anna tightened the chain.
“Bitch,” Bethy gasped and let the interlocked carabiners drop.
Two more pulls and Anna had them in her hands. Fingers thick with dust and aching from dragging the rope, she fumbled the carabiners open with difficulty and broke the loop. Before Bethy could get any ideas, Anna whipped one end of the rope around her neck and clicked the carabiner back on to it. An effective noose created, she jerked it tight.
“What are you doing?” Bethy screeched and reached up to claw at the rope around her neck.
“Shut up,” Anna said. “Hands down.”
Bethy did as she was told. Despite the fact Anna had her in a stranglehold, and had a slip knot around her windpipe, the lack of fight was worrying. Maybe Bethy hadn’t been bluffing, and Regis was coming to murder her. A couple’s bonding experience. Shared interests were important in a marriage.
Shoving that thought aside, Anna lifted her manacled wrists and arms from around Bethy. Too long held above the level of her heart, the hands were beginning to numb. Needles of feeling prickled as blood flowed back in. With the heels of her hands she shoved Bethy off her chest, jackknifing her nose toward her knees while keeping the slip knot around her neck tight.
“Give me the key to the handcuffs,” Anna demanded.
“I don’t—”
Anna jerked on the slip knot she’d made with the carabiner. She hated doing it, hated choking Bethy. The temptation to pull the rope tight enough to kill the horrid woman was too great. Each time Bethy forced her to do it, it was a little harder to back off the pressure when Bethy became compliant. The need to kill wasn’t fueled merely by anger but by exhaustion. Anna wasn’t sure how much longer she could maintain the upper hand.
“Key,” Anna demanded.
Bethy reached into her trouser pocket, contorting her upper body since Anna had no intention of allowing her to sit up straight or lean back against her. As Bethy’s hand began to pull free, Anna tweaked the rope enough to get her attention. “If you even look like you’re thinking of tossing that key into the canyon I will kill you without a qualm.”
“You don’t need a qualm, you’ve got a rope,” Bethy grumbled.
The key was out; pinched between her fingers, she lifted it toward her shoulder. The instant Anna reached for it Bethy turned her head and popped the tiny silver key into her mouth. Any shred of conscience that remained to Anna burned off like sulfur off a match. Bracing her knuckles against Bethy’s neck, she pulled the rope so hard the other woman’s flesh popped through the carabiner next to her spine.
“Spit it out,” Anna said; venom through clenched teeth.
Bethy spat it out.
“Give it to me.”
Bethy gave it to her. Anna unlocked the cuffs carefully. The lock was easy but the mechanics of the handcuffs unfamiliar. When they were off, she dropped them over Bethy’s shoulder into her lap.
“Put them on.”
Bethy put them on.
Working as quickly as she could, Anna wrapped the long rope around and around her prisoner, trussed her up the way people in cartoons were trussed, with coil after coil pinning her arms to her body. When she was nearly out of rope she wove the other end, with the mate to the carabiner serving as
a noose, through several coils on Bethy’s back and clipped it to the rope still circling her throat.
“If you struggle you will slowly strangle yourself,” Anna said. She didn’t know if that was true or not, but Bethy apparently believed her. As Anna backed away on shaking legs, Bethy sat perfectly still.
With a thump, Anna sat in the dirt and shrugged out of her daypack. Hands finally free, she took her water bottle from its canvas pouch on her belt and, never taking her eyes from Bethy, drained it. She had another in her pack.
Immediately a modicum of strength and sanity flowed back. In grade school she’d learned the human body was 60 percent water. Until she’d known extreme thirst she’d never really appreciated that fact.
“Can I have a drink?” Bethy begged.
“Maybe.” Anna eyed her coldly. “If you tell me what is going on with you and Regis.”
“We’re in love,” Bethy said smugly.
Very deliberately Anna rose, crossed to where Bethy’s pack lay, took out her water bottle, uncapped it and took a long swallow.
“Bitch,” Bethy cried. Anna took another.
“You were doing everything you could to make my husband pay attention to you. You were acting like the whore you are,” Bethy snapped. “Then this pimply-faced creep told me that him and his pals threw you guys in that hole. I knew it was you. All that skanky red hair and nasty black clothes.”
“Why would he tell you?” Anna asked suspiciously.
“Because I was the first uniform he saw, stupid. Visitors don’t know law enforcement from interp,” Bethy told her with scorn.
“And you told Regis.”
Bethy smiled a perceptive close-lipped smile. “That’s right, and he hated you and he went to kill you. Now can I have a drink of water?”
The smile bothered Anna, though why, of all the alarming upsetting things about the bad-seed-child in a woman’s body, one sneaky little smile should set off alarm bells, she was unsure.