“What do you think, Missy? These accommodations not as good as you’re used to? Far as I’m concerned, it’s the Taj Mahal. Because the law is after us, but it doesn’t matter. Because there’s no law out here. Except the law of the jungle. You heard of that?”
Tori nodded.
“No laws!” Melvin suddenly cried out, thumping his chest. He rubbed her shoulder, just to show her he could, and stood up. “I’m the law. You got that?” He moved away from her, unzipping his pants. He started peeing as he was walking away.
Gordon seemed to sense Tori needed comforting. He sat next to her, right where Melvin had been sitting. “You’re going to be one of us,” he whispered. “You’ll learn.” Melvin heard the whispering, zipped up, and marched back to them. He stepped up close to Tori, squatted, and put his hands on her, kneaded her flesh, her most private places. Tori closed her eyes, forced herself not to scream. Gordon stared like a hungry dog, and Melvin kept it up until he could tell his brother was in distress.
He let go of Tori and stood up. “We’ll find you a girl,” he told Gordon. “But not this one. You got that?”
Tori screamed—she couldn’t help it—as Melvin’s knees buckled. Melvin disappeared from Tori’s line of vision. He was on the ground, with another man on top of him, arms flailing. It was King! King had come out of nowhere, hitting Melvin under the ribcage with his head and shoulder. Now Melvin yelled, too—“Ahhhhh!”—as he tried to orient himself and figure out what had happened. Gordon turned toward the noise, confused, and raised the pistol. Without even thinking, Tori swung her elbow, catching Gordon in the cheek. He fell backward off the tree trunk and dropped the gun. Tori leapt and grabbed it.
Gordon sat up and put his arms out at his sides, as if he were pretending to be an airplane. He looked at her, this time without any lust. Tori leveled the gun and dropped into a crouch.
She thought about being at the shooting range with her father, both of them wearing those heavily cushioned earmuffs. “Yes!” her father barked whenever she hit the mark, causing a feeling of pride and happiness to course through her. She was doing this for him, shooting at these paper targets because he needed her to be strong for him—for them. Because all they had was each other. He never said that, but he didn’t have to. She knew. Who else would do this for him? Who else would save his life? Who else expected her to? They rehearsed what she would do if more men came to the door asking for him. The gun was always the last resort, for DEFCON 1 only, but it was there in the desk drawer, always loaded, ready to go.
The pistol shook in her hands. She considered her technique: she had both hands on the handle, arms locked, crouched as if about to sit in a straight-back chair. It didn’t matter. Her hands shook. The gun shook. This was nothing like being at the shooting range. She was having trouble breathing. She was having trouble holding her arms up. She couldn’t do it, she realized. She couldn’t shoot this man, no matter what he was going to do to her. No matter what he had already done. She just couldn’t do it. She backed up, stutter-stepped. She took in the scene, trying to figure out what was happening. King was on top of Melvin, but it didn’t look like that was going to last.
She reeled then, like a planet knocked out of orbit. Gordon had whacked her and was now scrambling in the dirt. He was going for the gun. She’d dropped it as she crashed to the ground.
“Run!” King yelled at her. “Go, go, go!”
Tori staggered to her feet as Gordon grabbed onto the gun. Without even thinking she thrust her right foot up and out, just like she remembered the blond guy in the movie Breaker! Breaker! doing, putting everything she had into the kick. Gordon flailed backward, his free hand grabbing at the air for balance. She couldn’t believe she did that! She watched in wonderment as Gordon fell. The sounds over by the tree trunk snapped her out of her self-pride. She wheeled around and spotted Melvin and King. Melvin had flipped King over and was trying to get a good punch at him. Tori kicked again, this time like a field-goal kicker. She caught Melvin in the forehead. He thrashed like a hooked shark, and King twisted his torso, trying to extricate himself from Melvin’s limbs. Tori followed his eyes to Gordon, who was upright again, gun still in hand. The gun went off, cracking across the sky like timpani just as Melvin hit King with a roundhouse right.
Tori, blinded by a flash of panic, took off as if reacting to a mechanical rabbit. She crashed into a tree, fought to stay upright, and kept running. Her shoulder throbbed, the panic pulled on her legs like an undertow. The trees and the sky—everywhere she looked—shook out of control. She realized she was on her knees, and so she scrabbled with her hands, digging her nails into the earth, forcing herself upright, forcing her legs to move again. Had Gordon shot King? Was he going to shoot her?
Tori stumbled into a clearing. She recognized where she was. She had run through here every morning for the past two weeks. She could find her way with her eyes closed. She closed her eyes and picked up the pace. She felt the wind whipping around her, its coolness gliding over her skin. Her legs loosened up, her arms pumped. Muscle memory kicked in. She made it to the other side in no time at all and ducked into a stand of trees. She was the fastest girl in the world, she told herself. Faster than Mary Decker could ever hope to be. Faster than Wilma Rudolph. Faster than the Kalenjin.
Except she could hear Gordon behind her. Crashing through the woods like a wildebeest. This mountain man in his lumberjack boots was gaining on her. How was that possible?
Tori felt her throat closing up. Her stomach bounced in panic, and she tasted bile in the back of her mouth. She forced her left knee higher with her next stride. She pulled her shoulders back. She knew she needed perfect form to survive; she needed to be perfect. Sure, Gordon was bigger than her—yes, he was much stronger. But she was lithe; she was as light as air. No way he could match her in a foot race. No one could. She was Flash! She was Mercury! She pictured herself turning into the home stretch at the Olympics. Mary Decker was a step behind and kicking for the finish, now two strides behind, now four. It was all in the mind, Coach Berman told her. Success was mental, not physical. It was all about belief. Tori dug deep, deeper than she ever had before. Her mind jumped, unbidden, to her first full day at Spritle’s, her first group run with the girls. For five miles she bounded along in the middle of the pack, nice and easy, her confidence growing—expanding, exploding—until she felt invincible. She belonged here; she was just like these girls, these beautiful gazelles. She even allowed herself to enjoy the scenery: the trees across the valley stacked in perfect order, the distant mountains with their white tops, the blue-gray sky that swirled up and up to infinity. “New girl. You okay?” Mary Bowen said.
“Yes,” Tori huffed, grateful for the concern. “Doing fine.”
“You sure?” Mary asked again, her voice reverberating with the pounding of her feet.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Let’s see about that.” Mary took off, her shoes rudely throwing dirt high in the air. The others had started to move away too, right on cue. Shocked, Tori picked up her pace as well, but the gazelles stayed ahead—and kept extending their lead. Breath banged in Tori’s throat; her legs refused to pump. Gravity held her like a wet coat. She wondered, terrified, if she could find her way back to the camp on her own.
A hand grabbed her shoulder and immediately lost the grip. She couldn’t believe it; Gordon had caught her. Tori tried to turn on the afterburners, but her legs ached. They had begun to go numb. She wobbled, and the hand grabbed again, this time snagging a tricep. Tori screamed, and her stomach collapsed, caving in on itself like a coal-mine disaster. She lost her balance and threw her arms out to save herself from crashing into a tree. The hand grabbed again as she tumbled forward, all momentum gone, but she fought on, swinging her body violently to break free.
“Whoa! Whoa! It’s okay. It’s me!”
Tori recognized the voice. It was King, not Gordon. Tori pulled up, came to a stop. A
shiver ran through her body. Her extremities tingled with relief. She gagged and felt the burn in her throat. She and King leaned into each other, hands on knees, sucking air.
“You were really moving,” he said between huffs of breath. “If you hadn’t fallen back there . . .”
“I’m a runner,” she said.
King nodded, still struggling to control his breathing. “I ran the four-hundred meters in high school. Almost went to State my senior year.”
“That’s pretty good.” Tori silently thanked God he was a runner too. She wouldn’t have to kill herself now.
King stood up, looked back the way they had come. “Maybe this isn’t the time to stroll down memory lane. You hear that?”
Tori cocked her head. A rustling? Voices? She couldn’t be sure.
“Those hillbillies don’t look like they can move too swiftly,” King said. “But they’ve got a gun.” He turned to Tori. “Can you run some more?”
Tori nodded.
“Okay. Follow me.”
King led Tori to the south, away from the mountain, heading downhill. The landscape dropped gently but consistently. King jogged this way and that through the thin pines, trying to save his knees, before he finally found what he was looking for: a path that weaved down the mountain, one hairpin turn spinning into another, like a packed-dirt version of San Francisco’s Lombard Street. He knew it would eventually flatten out and connect with a paved path that stretched past the Krendel orchard, crossed a stream, and circled downtown Mammoth View before continuing on to Kingsburg.
Kristi Sasaki had told him about her mountain jogging route, and he’d gone out to the path a couple of times in hopes of running into her so he could impress her with his health-consciousness and see where that led. He heard Tori bounding down the path after him, her breath bouncing with the angle of the slope. He gazed at the treetops rolling out below them. If memory served, it was about two miles into town. He slowed, pacing himself, confident the hillbillies were far away and would never find them. The two of them ran in silence for a while before the forest opened up and spat out a subdivision.
King came out on a narrow private road that fronted one and two-car garages. Turning a corner onto a residential street, he and Tori hustled past dark, featureless adobe houses. The night air had the unmistakable feel of moisture in it, cool and heavy. He guessed they were about a mile from his house, maybe a little more. Tori came up beside him. The girl was the real deal, King could tell. He watched her pass him. She’d been holding herself back all the way into the town but she couldn’t do it anymore. At the end of the next block, King had to guide her by grunting for her attention and pointing. King wanted to take the lead again, to be the man, but by this time he was straining, wiped out.
He ignored the dark houses on each side of the road, the curtained windows and the emptiness beyond them. The town was still vacant, a ghost town. He tried not to think about it. He needed to focus his mind only on the task before him, on the process and mechanics of running.
He zeroed in on the soles of the girl’s shoes kicking up at him. She was a machine, he thought. This was how an android would run. Her buttocks rolled like an axial ball bearing, tilting into turns and then righting themselves into perfect alignment. King was transfixed—he could admit it, even if she was a teenager—but his physical limitations, his straining lungs and pounding heart, kept him from truly appreciating the sight. He now decided that the girl wasn’t a piece of machinery. That was too cold, too analytical. No, she was a magical creature, a griffin or something, her feet barely touching the ground. A sudden pain jolted through his body. He stumbled, and his arms flew up, cartwheeling wildly.
“Hey,” he croaked. “Hey—stop.” Falling into an awkward, peacock-like stroll, he put his hands on his hips and gulped air. Sweat streamed down his face.
Tori jogged back to him, her breathing even and calm. She didn’t seem to notice his distress.
King hunched over, leaned his elbows against his knees. He looked up at her, embarrassed by his huffing. What he found surprised him. The girl’s face was starting to break apart right in front of him. She was going to cry.
King stood up, took a deep breath, and let the air whistle up through his windpipe. This was his chance to impress her, he thought, and then he immediately shook the thought away. A wave of shame rolled over him, the fear that he was a perv. He had to save this girl. That’s what he was feeling, right?
He decided it was. They wouldn’t go back to his house. And he wouldn’t ditch her and get out of town, either. “I just realized there’s a better way,” he said. “Follow me.” He crossed the street, trotted to the end of the block, and headed east at a slow pace. After putting a few more rural-suburban blocks behind him, he reached the still-empty Route 23. He jogged across it, Tori a step behind. He paused at East Hills Road, crouching at a row of hedges, and looked across at Second Avenue.
“What do you see?” the girl said, her voice low and anxious.
“The police are open for business,” King said. “So all order hasn’t collapsed.”
Tori peered over the hedges. The lights blazed inside the squat building, the little downtown rising behind it. A man appeared in the front window. The badge on his chest glimmered.
King looked into Tori’s face. “You okay?”
Tori nodded. “Yes.”
“They’ll be able to reach your father for you.”
Tori nodded again. King rose and started across the street, Tori following.
They stepped into the police station, looked around. A man wearing a trooper hat and a beige uniform listened to the phone. Another in army fatigues stared at a map on the desk. King smirked to himself. Reinforcements had arrived, better late than never.
“Excuse me,” King said.
The army man looked up. “Yes?”
“This girl. She’s lost. She needs help finding her father.”
The army man moved around the desk, levered a smile onto his face. “What’s your name, sweetie?”
“Tori,” she said. “Victoria Lane.”
“Come on over here and have a seat. You want some pop?”
“Yes, thank you,” Tori said, sitting where he’d indicated.
The soldier, heading for the soda machine, stopped in front of King. “Where’d you find her?”
“Uh, Dawes Street. She was . . . upset.”
“Of course. Thanks for bringing her in. We’re asking citizens to stay indoors for the time being. You live nearby?”
“Just a few blocks.”
“Okay, good.” He continued across the room.
King almost made it out of the building, but a voice—“Hey!”—stopped him. King recognized the voice, thought about bolting, turned instead.
Sheriff Davis had come out from the back. “You’re the disc jockey,” he said.
“Sorry?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, son.”
King let his head drop in defeat. “Yes, sir,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Billy gripped the phone so hard his hand cramped.
“Sir,” the voice said over the line. “Would you like me to repeat that?”
Billy replaced the phone in its cradle. The only message was from the Mammoth View Police. They had his daughter, Victoria, and he should call and ask for Officer Barea. Billy’s hands were clammy, and he wiped them on his pants. He wondered what she did. Jesus, would she pick this day of all days to shoplift a record? His mind raced: who could go up there for him and bail her out? Who did he know that he could trust? Then it hit him. He called the service back and asked the woman to read him the message again. They had Victoria, that was all, no mention of charges. He shook out his hands and cracked his neck in an attempt to relax. They might have her for safekeeping, he realized. It was chaos in that little town. God only knew what was going on up the
re. He thought back to Spritle’s Racers. Maybe he hadn’t seen her because she wasn’t there. She could have walked away from the camp. That would be just like her, he thought. Doing things her own way, looking for her own solutions, refusing to do what the authorities told her to do. He smiled to himself. She was her father’s daughter. He took down the police department’s phone number and hung up.
He flipped through the yellow pages on the table next to the bed. He called the Hilton, asked about rates and room security. He disconnected the line and started dialing again. He stopped when he noticed the waste bin. It was right next to the bed. Red, stringy flecks hung from the lip. He peered inside. A blob of vomit sat dully at the bottom of the can. Jesus. He’d woken up, puked, and fallen right back to sleep. Didn’t remember any of it. He started dialing, and when the ringing cut out, he asked for Officer Barea. After a short conversation, he hung up and went into the bathroom to throw back some mouthwash. He checked out of the motel and drove to the Hilton.
The man at the desk, the same one he’d spoken to on the phone, had a thin, pencil-eraser face cut in two by a fat mustache. His eyes turned angry when he smiled. Billy was carrying the bag full of money, folded in half, but he still managed to look quasi-respectable. He asked for a room high up. He requested that the room receive no cleaning or turndown service. He paid for three nights upfront, cash.
Taking the key, he turned and surveyed the lobby. The overheard lights were all on, even at this late hour, which only highlighted the emptiness. Thick green carpeting rolled around faux-marble columns. Down two shallow steps lay a sitting room; a couch and two leather chairs wavered at the far end of his focus. He crossed to the elevators and punched the button, which caused the nearest set of doors to spasm open. The car stopped on the third floor, and a barefooted woman in a purple polka-dot chemise and black pajama bottoms stepped on, yawned extravagantly, and pressed the button for the fourth floor. She flinched at the sight of Billy, then quickly collected herself. She threw her shoulders back and smiled at him. “The icemaker on my floor isn’t working,” she said. It was a throaty, metallic voice, sexy but as false as her heavily made-up face. Billy noted that she wasn’t carrying an ice bucket.
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