Out
Page 17
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” I slam the door. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
I feel him watching me, but I don’t look at him. He puts the car into drive, pulls forward slowly. “I’ll watch the ruts,” he offers. I keep my eyes glued to the backpack at my feet.
After driving for about ten minutes, the road ends, and we’re at Deer Creek. The cabin’s dark, so he flicks the flashlight on. “Stay here. I’ll unlock the door and get the lights on.” I watch through the curtain of rain as he dashes up the steps. I check on the red wallet: still there.
A flickering lamp illuminates from inside. In the doorway, McFarland waves for me to come in.
No going back now.
After fifteen minutes in the small, rustic bathroom, I finally come out. McFarland sits on the overstuffed green sofa, staring at a semi-successful blaze he’s made in the fireplace. “Hey. How’re you feeling?” He glances at me, grinning. “Sorry about that.”
Like it’s his fault. It’s my fault. It’s what I’m about to do. But I can’t think about that. I just have to get to midnight. “Thanks,” is all I say.
“I’ll get you some tea.” I sit as he goes to the kitchen, pours, stirs, brings back a steaming stoneware mug and hands it to me. “This’ll help. Peppermint. Good for the stomach.”
I clutch the cup, breathe in the curls of steam. “I’ll be better soon.”
“Hmmm.” He takes a sip from his own mug, scoots a bit closer to me. Shit. Dread fills my gut, threatening to bring on another bout of retching. I move away, just an inch, but he gets the hint. “Okay. As I said, we can take this slow.”
Maybe if I can get him talking about something unrelated to any of this, it will eat up the time a little. “Do you like board games?”
“Board games?” He sounds surprised. Guess he didn’t count on this being a traditional eighth-grade sleepover.
“Yeah.” I take another sip of tea to stall. “You know…checkers, or chess. You like chess?”
“I…I guess so.”
“I bet there’s a chess board somewhere in here. Or they have a board at the office. These places usually do.” I set the tea down, hop up on my new mission.
I haven’t stayed in this cabin before, but it looks like most of the others, so I know there’s a closet near the door that usually has extra cords of firewood, blankets, surplus toilet paper, a spare flashlight. Yep. There’s the chess game. I pull the battered box off the top shelf. “We’re in luck!”
McFarland grunts darkly. Guess he doesn’t think it’s so lucky.
I check my watch. Seven-fifteen. Almost time.
“Here we go.” I set the board on the coffee table in front of the couch, carefully set up the black players on his side, the white on mine.
He picks up the black king and examines it. “I’m not very good at this game.” He waves the piece and sets it down in the middle of the board. “Here you go. I’ll make it easy. Just jump me right now.”
Oh boy. “That’s not fair.” I smile, try to sound flirty and charming without promising anything. “We have to play the game out till one of us wins. Fairly.”
“Do we?” The tone in his voice is different. It’s more like the voice of the guy who grabbed me in the kitchen.
My heart starts to beat faster, breathing gets rapid. I start to sweat.
“Yeah,” I manage to say without looking at him. “Wow. I’m starting to feel…kind of woozy again. Can you finish setting up the pieces?” I head toward the bathroom without looking at him.
For an older guy, he’s fast. He’s in front of the bathroom door before I get there. “What game are we really playing?”
“Jim, seriously, feel my forehead. I’ve got cold chills.” I look into his eyes. Shark eyes. No more mister nice guy.
He grabs my wrist, twists it back, steps toward me. “Right. I know you’re up to something— “
I twist my hand free and stumble back. “I just need to wash my face,” I blurt, and dodge into the bathroom and turn on the water.
He follows me. “What is wrong with you?” He sounds angry. “Are you that pure and virginal that you can’t even stand a man touching your hand?”
I say nothing.
“Answer me!”
I’m still hunched with my face over the basin. There’s just breathing, mine, his. Creaky bathroom floor, steps come toward me. I see his socks to my left. One has a hole in the toe, and this makes me incredibly sad.
“I’m sorry.” I put my head in my hands. I could probably cry, but I don’t know what effect that would have on him.
“Hmm.” His socks line up next to my feet. “Me too. Sorry to be…anxious.”
“Sure.” I wipe my forehead, check my watch. 7:28. I say my line. “Hey, I need a bag from the front seat. Can you go get it for me?” He sighs heavily, as if it’s a huge burden, but grabs his coat, heads out into the steady rain.
I dry my face, but he’s still not back from the car. I wait, but nothing. He’s left the door open, so I hear the rain falling harder on the porch. I sit with the chess pieces, stare at the black king in the center of the board.
He never comes back.
Chapter 13
Two hours pass. They must have picked him up already, but I’m afraid to look outside.
The open door gapes behind me, a yawning mouth. I have to see. I have to know, right? Suck it up. Just go look.
I amble over to the porch, peer outside past the glare of the security light. Beyond it, there’s just the silhouette of the car, dark and empty behind the veil of rain. No sign of anybody there. Was there blood? How did they do it?
I quickly shut the door, scuttle back to the couch.
What was I supposed to do? I thought they were taking him at midnight...no. They’re coming for me at midnight. Of course they’d take him earlier. I’m supposed to be hanging out, waiting.
Maybe he went for a walk.
In the rain?
We had a fight. Nine o’clock. Not sure, officer, not sure where he went. We had a fight.
I strip off my clothes, leave them in a pile on the couch, and head for the shower. The hot water cascades down my back, rinsing road grime, diner stink, puke stink, McFarland— what if he’s dead?
I force that thought out. I wash it down the drain. No soap. That’s okay. I just want the warmth of the water, scalding, hot, burning out impurities and weakness. I guess I’m pretty weak. I shouldn’t feel bad about what happened to him. He deserved it, didn’t he?
The white towel scratches, smells of bleach. I don’t have a change of clothes, I realize. All my stuff’s still in the car. I pull on the dirty jeans, t-shirt, flannel. I suppose it won’t be the last time I’ll be wearing unwashed clothes. At least I feel better.
I still have three hours to kill. To wait. I lie on the couch, staring out the window, watching rain drip down the old wavy glass.
When I wake up, it’s freezing. Ten-twenty three. The fire’s out; the wind howls through the chinks in the cabin. My coat’s on the chair by the door, so I grab it, shrug into it. Glance out the window. The car’s still there, like nothing’s happened.
I just have to see. I pull on my boots, look both ways as if crossing a busy street, then will my feet forward, pretending I make no noise. Nothing but drizzle now, dripping from tree limbs and the porch roof. Behind the SUV, footprints and drag marks scar the road, mangled in mud and water.
The car’s unlocked. I get my bag from the backseat, scurry back to the cabin. At least I’ll have some of my stuff. Nothing to do but wait. And wait some more.
At twelve past midnight, my heart threatens to quit. Nobody has come. Nobody’s coming. Something has happened.
How long should I wait? Should I go back home? What was the plan? That’s why I have the red wallet, right? If something goes wrong, I read the map, go to the river, wait. Maybe I should see if anyone comes, though. It’s only…twenty minutes after. Wouldn’t they be on time? I always thought stuff like this ran on time.
I can’t leave her alone. I have to find her.
I dig out the red wallet, find the map, read it.
Alright. I spread the map on the table. Smooth the edges. Focus. Where am I now? I find the spot, Indian Lake. We’re on the west side…here are the cabins. I run my finger across the blue line of Indian Creek, which is only an inch away from the cabin on the map. Of course, in real life, that’s a mile or so through the woods in the dark. I can do it, though. I can do it.
I fold the map, put it back in the pack, and get ready. Should I leave the lights on? I guess I will. No umbrella. I should’ve thought of that. But there is an extra blanket on the top shelf, so I grab it, throw it over my head. An extra blanket might come in handy out there.
I glance at the cabin one last time. It’s my last American building, maybe…not going to think about that. I’m going to think about Carmen, and our brown brick house with the purple flowers. As I pick my way across dead branches and puddles, grabbing rough-bark tree trunks for support, I’m thinking violets.
I walk for thirty, forty steps. Stop. Wait. Listen. A night bird chatters, punctuates the slow drip of rain. Otherwise, silence. The moon comes out from behind a cloud, making everything blue-white and dead-looking. I walk on. Thirty steps, forty, fifty more. I should be at the river pretty soon. How many steps in a mile? I should’ve figured that out before I left.
Something crashes away to my right. Sounds like something heavy falling through brush…breaking twigs, cracking branches. It comes closer, then I hear the single piercing echo of a gunshot.
I feel my chest tighten in panic. Breathe. Breathe. Wait. Wait or go? Which is safer? A dog barks in the distance, far away. A howl. Then more crashing, coming toward me fast.
I run away from the noise, blindly, my feet tripping over exposed roots, wet whips of thin branches slapping my face.
It happens so fast I can’t even change direction. Something black and noisy careens out of the trees, runs toward me as I run away, and then it’s on me, tackling me. I fight it off, try to roll it over, something wet and sticky comes off on my hand.
I kick at the thing, scoot away from it like a crab crawling on sand, but it doesn’t move. It’s a person, a guy on his stomach. I wait, to see if he’ll move. He doesn’t.
With the toe of my shoe, I nudge him. Nothing. I roll him over to see his face.
It’s Matt. The cocky guy from the bar, the rebel hero from Canada. Most of his cheek is gone, right below the eye. In the bare light, it shines like lacquer. Bubbles form at his lips. He tries to talk.
“Matt?” I grab his gloved hand. A big piece of his arm is gone too, gaping through the down of his ski jacket. He doesn’t see me, not really. He’s going to die.
A dogs howl again, closer. “Matt. I have to go. I’m sorry.”
He clutches my hand, won’t release it.
“I can’t help you.” I try to pry his hand off mine, but it’s like steel. “I have to go!”
He whispers something, but I can’t make it out. I lean closer. He says, “Go back.” Then I see the life go out of his eyes, like a light turning off. Just that fast.
Rain starts to pound harder, bouncing off his ski jacket. Should I cover him up with the blanket? Should I try and take him with me? No. I can’t. I have to go. Where? Go back…I can’t go back.
Panic wells up in my gut, threatening to spill out onto the forest floor, but I tamp it down. I give myself to the count of five to feel it, to let the wild rage of fear eat at my belly, but then I smack it down.
Where would they be? At the river. So that’s the way I go. I leave without looking back at Matt’s body, head down, trying to feel the exposed tree limbs with the toe of my shoe as I go. Another canine howl sounds in the distance, but closer this time. Have to get to the river.
Mud sucks at my feet, making each step sound like a plunger unclogging a drain. Everybody must hear it. How could they not? I slog on, concentrating on my feet, one step, then another.
I stop when I hit rushing water. It comes up unexpectedly, like someone just dropped it there, no sign or marking on a trail. The river. So, now I’m here. This was my goal, and now…what? I’ve made it. I pull the dripping blanket so it covers my head a little bit better, but that just makes rivulets of rain pour onto my shoes. Should I wade through the water? Follow the line of the river?
I keep seeing Matt’s face. That’s what they’ll do to me if they find me. Maybe they’ve already done that to Carmen. She might be dead. What if she is? I’m risking everything I used to know for this, for a girl who might be dead. Rain beats down on my head, and it’s coming through the blanket now, saturating me with cold and wet.
A light flashes from the other side. Was that a trick? I fix my eyes on the spot where I think it happened…no, there it is again. Definitely a light, quick, bright, then extinguished, inside the trees. It must be them. I wave, trying to tell them that I’m over here. Should I yell? Probably not. They must know I’m here, that’s why they signaled.
The flash again. A spark of gold, hope. How fast is the river flowing? Can I make it across? God, I wish my dad had taken me camping more often. I don’t know anything. A pistol shot behind me decides it. I sprint forward with my soggy shoes into the river, until I'm ankle deep in cold water.
I feel the river bottom with my feet, trying to navigate the slippery rocks. If I fall in, I might be washed downstream, I might drown…who would know where to look? They’d leave me, the same way I left Matt. They should. So I have to be careful. Two steps, three...the water is getting faster, harder to fight. How far to get across? Looks like only ten feet or so, not that far. I can make it. I will make it.
Another step, another. My foot snags on a root from some massive tree, and I almost fall, but I don’t. Now the water it up to my mid-calf, and freezing. I hope they have some coffee. One more step, balance, try not to fall.
From the bank behind me, someone calls my name.
If I turn to see who it is, I might fall, or they might shoot me. Would they shoot me if my back is to them? Not sure. I keep going. One more step. Water to the knee. One more. Hard to stand.
“Chris!” The voice is clearer, familiar. I balance with my arms stretched out, a tightrope walker, and the soggy blanket falls into the water, carried away in the dark. I turn three-quarters of the way around, and on the bank behind me is Magnus.
But then it’s too late. A weighted net knocks me into the river and I go under, try to hold my breath, but the shock of hitting the cold water forces the breath from my lungs. Which way is up? Where is the air? Choking, I gasp and grasp for the surface, but I don’t know where it is. Something drags at the net, and I feel myself being pulled further into the water, and I can’t breathe. Can’t breathe! The grid of rope pushes my face down, digs into my skin as the net is pulled, and I grasp at it with my icy fingers, try to break it, but it’s too strong. Can’t breathe! Please! I thrash with deadened arms against the tightening cords, and I try to shout, but water fills my mouth.
And then suddenly I feel warm. Light fills my eyes, and my body relaxes. I smell violets.
Pain.
It starts as a small red fish swimming in my leg, pulling against a hook, trying to get free, but then it moves up the leg, into the hip, becomes a shark, moves into my lungs, becomes a monster, moves into my head, throbsthrobsthrobs, wants to get out, can’t get out.
I’m in a white room. White tiles, white floor, white fluorescent light buzzing overhead. I move my head a quarter inch to the right, and searing hot stabs of pain spear my cheek. Swallow. My throat is dry, so dry, and feels bruised, like if I tried to talk nothing would come out but a puff of dust. My hands and feet are bound to the chair with zip ties. My pants are wet,
not from the river, but from pissing myself. I can smell it.
A whir in the corner of the room draws my attention, though focusing my eyes brings on a pounding in my forehead. A camera, black, unblinking. Its lens telescopes toward me.
A rush of adrenaline hits my system. Carmen! Where is she? Did they get her? The memory of the night floods back—Magnus’s ghost-white face in the trees, the drag of the net, the icy grip of the water… How will I find her in this…place? Wherever it is.
The door swings open, and a man in a white coat enters. A doctor? Could I be lucky enough to be in a hospital? But they don’t zip tie you at a hospital, do they?
The man consults a clipboard. “Christopher Bryant. Is that your name?” He’s very efficient. He stays by the door.
I try to answer, but a croak comes out.
“Please speak up. Is Christopher Bryant your name or not?”
I nod.
He checks a box. “Good. Someone will be in with water and a change of clothes.” He clips his pen to his pocket, and I try to ask him a question, but he leaves before I can get the words out. The promise of water gives me hope. If they were really bad people, they wouldn’t give me water, right? Maybe I was rescued and they just wanted to be sure I didn’t walk away while I was delirious or something. They probably have Carmen in another room, probably making sure she’s okay. Maybe they’re with the resistance too. Maybe it’s a secret facility that they use when things don’t go right.
Minutes pass. I spend the time trying to wiggle my fingers, which are numb from being strapped to the arms of the metal chair. The door opens again, and this time a heavyset blond woman in a khaki uniform comes in. She has a jug of water in one hand and a bright orange prison jumpsuit in the other.
“I’m going to cut the ties.” She places the jug and clothes on a table, and takes a utility knife out of her pocket. “There are armed guards outside the door. Please don’t run. They’ll shoot you.” She leans over, quickly cuts the zip ties on my arms, and hands me the water, which I gulp down greedily. “Slow down or you’ll get sick.”