“She’s doing something, and I don’t like it,” Randall says. He lowers the gun. I let out a huge breath. Vandermill then walks up to Becky. I don’t think anyone but Sean and me heard her mention Miranda.
“I am curious, Miss Price. What are you doing?”
“I want my backpack. I’m bored.”
He puts his hand on her cheek and runs it down to her shoulder. “You’re bored.”
My fists clench with the tightening of her jaw.
“You’re a regular spitfire. Do you know that?”
She doesn’t move an inch, though the reflection from the torches creates the illusion that lightning bolts are bursting from her eyes. I try to reach her again, to tell her to stay calm, and to not say or do anything crazy, but she still has me completely locked out.
“No!” Tanya suddenly screams. “Leave her alone!”
With that, Becky’s head snaps around and her blazing eyes seem to drive her mother back. She is suddenly in my head. Chill, Dad. He’s not going to do anything to me.
I don’t like it, I say. Her eyes are pleading at me. How do you know? I add.
I know, Dad. She shuts me off and then turns her attention back to Vandermill. “Can I have my backpack now?”
Vandermill pulls his hand away and turns to address Tanya and me, walking toward us. “This is why I’ve never had children, especially female children. I hear stories about how cute they are in the first ten or twelve years, and then all hell breaks loose.” He points at her. “How do you put up with her? How do you survive? Even if you could point guns at her, threaten her, it obviously doesn’t do any good. Hell! If I had to live with her every day, I’d have to not carry my gun for fear that I’d shoot her out of frustration, or myself. And you’ve got another one. I feel sorry for you two.”
There is a long silence as he looks between Tanya and Becky. He then says, “No. I’ve got it wrong. It’s you I feel sorry for Zach. It’s not just teenage women. It’s all women in general. That’s the downfall of man. We wouldn’t be here . . . none of us would be here this moment, in this place ready to kill each other, if not for women.”
He stares me in the eye for a long time. “Am I right or am I right?”
I shrug and raise my eyebrows. I don’t want to agree with him, but to disagree . . . I don’t feel that’d be healthy.
“What would you have if you took all the women out of the mix right now?” He points to Tanya. “Your wife.” He points to Becky. “Your daughter.” And then he points toward the outside. “Aileen Bravelli. Take them all away and what do you have?” I don’t say anything. “You have a bunch of men sitting around, chewing the fat, telling lies and being friends. That’s what you’d have. They’ve screwed everything up. They always screw everything up.” He looks about for a bit, catching our eyes one by one. “Ask any of my men what is the lowest point in their lives. I’ll lay money on the table,” he brings one hand down flat like he is slapping a table, “that their answers will in every case involve women.
“Am I right or am I right?’ He looks at Randall and then at Sean.
“You’re right as shit, Mister V,” says Nick, apparently giving up on extracting his dog. Randall is nodding his head vigorously. Sean is saying nothing, revealing nothing.
“And you want to know the craziest part about this whole women thing?” Vandermill continues. “We, the men of this world, bring it upon ourselves. Why in the hell do I care a damn about Aileen?” He pauses as though waiting for an answer from someone. “That’s a rhetorical question because I have no fuckn’ idea.
“Pardon my French ladies.” He suddenly stops and looks directly at me again. “Did you hear that, Zach? It came right out of my mouth, so automatic I didn’t realize it until it was gone. Not only do they drive us to do crazy things, but then we have to apologize for our language. We have to apologize for the way we dress. We have to apologize for the way we eat. We have to apologize for our natural bodily functions.
“Hell! We have to apologize for being men. If we were really smart we’d all get on that bird out there and fly out of here; dump these split tails from our lives. What about it, Zach? You ready to get on board? I’ve got an island in the South Pacific—just picked it up for a bargain—men only. Yeah, I know. The problem is men get horny. There’s a nearby island I could probably get a decent price on as well. We could drop the women there. Whenever we feel the need we’ll motorboat over, knock off a few pieces, and motorboat back where we can sit around, bragging around our cigars.”
“I like it,” Nick says.
Vandermill raises his arms and his eyes toward the ceiling. “There I go. I’m doing it again.” His arms drop and his eyes come back to me. “I figure out a way to get rid of the women in our lives and then I immediately figure out a way to get them back. What is wrong with us, Zach? Maybe we just need the hormones sucked out of us.” He pauses for a few seconds as though shocked by his own words. “Now that’s an idea we’d better not bring up in front of a group of Amazon research scientists.”
Nick and Randall laugh.
“So, Miss Price. What is so important that you have to have that pack of yours, even at the threat of death?”
“Ah.”
“Ah, what? You didn’t do well as a thespian in high school, did you?”
She shakes her head.
“Or debate; or speech.”
She says nothing; her jaws locked; her eyes glaring.
“Bring it to me.”
Becky doesn’t move. She’s purposely being obstinate.
“Miss Price. Go get your backpack . . . Now!”
Her movement over to her pack screams of anger and defiance. She snaps it up, stomps back to him and holds it out.
“No. I don’t want it. You want it. But first, you’ll dump all the contents onto the ground. I want to see what is so important.”
Again she doesn’t move. She glares her continued defiance. She’s determined to make it as hard for him as possible, and there’s nothing I can do to stop her. Tanya is hanging on me and shaking. I put my good arm around her.
“Now!” Vandermill commands. Becky kneels down and begins opening various compartments on the pack. “Is now the only word she responds to?” he says to no one in particular.
Her laptop computer comes out first. I immediately think about the argument we had over her wanting that backpack. That was only three months ago. It seems like years, and it feels like we’ve been on the run for weeks.
She lays the computer down carefully and then turns the pack upside down. A paperback book—I can see the name, King—and two magazines throw up dust. A multicolor bookmark with a huge purple tassel hangs from the paperback by a corner. A variety of other items fall around the books. I identify a nail clipper, lip balm, sun glasses, two pens, two sheets of paper folded a number of times, several empty energy bar wrappers, a nail file, and three tampons. I feel embarrassed for her. Out of a pocket she extracts her iPod and ear phones—packed in a clear plastic case the size of a deck of cards—plus another paperback book. I recognize it from the day she returned from Cancun. What Color is My Aura? From another pocket comes a pile of tissue and two bottles of nail polish, a bottle of polish remover, and another female facial or body product I can’t identify; maybe a blush, which is about all I’ve ever seen her wear outside of the nail polish, which usually goes on her toes. I’m surprised she only has two bottles with her. Her collection is mind-boggling.
“Is that it?” Vandermill says. “Do you maybe have the solutions to the mysteries of the universe on that computer? Or are you taking after your old man, writing a story about your adventures with Victor Vandermill and his sabre-toothed cats. Maybe I’ll do for you what I did for him.”
What the hell does he think he did for me?
He looks at me. “You’d probably like to know what that is, wouldn’t you Zach? It kicked your otherwise humdrum at best career off the ground.”
If I had my voice box I’d tell him he did nothing bu
t screw up my life.
“I like that look on your face. I shouldn’t leave you in suspenseful ignorance any longer. How did you think you got nominated for that Pulitzer?”
He laughs, I’m sure, at the shocked look on my face.
“I have influences in some very high places along those lines. But,” he holds his hands out, as though to ward me off, “don’t jump up and pour all your gratitude upon me. It wasn’t my idea. I wasn’t even for it at first. Miss Bravelli was persistent, and since I was trying to get back into her good graces, I figured, why not? It could be fun.”
Something inside me rolls over and dies. There is no chance of being at all grateful, even if we were sitting in a bar in Dallas talking about old times like old buddies, or in the case of Aileen, old lovers. Being nominated for the Pulitzer gave me an impression that my writing had merit. Now I find out that the nomination was false, based on nothing but . . . what? Guilt?
“So I made some calls and watched. You disappointed me, Zach. I had no illusions that you would actually be awarded the Pulitzer, but I did think you’d have made better use of the notoriety that comes with the nomination. Look at you. Still takes two incomes to make ends meet. You struggle from one word to the next. Your wife struggles from one tooth to the next.” He looks back and forth between Tanya and me. “Such a waste. Such a terrible waste of talent.”
My shocked look is now a glare. I know Tanya is giving him the look that she is famous for. He doesn’t seem to notice, or care. He grins for a time and then lets it fall.
“What really pissed me off when Aileen did her disappearing act is what I did for her, you, and your wife. I did a lot more than start the process to nurse your wife back to health. That was just the beginning. I know you thought the government was footing the medical bills. How naïve you people are, to think your government has such a budget. Only in movies. They’d rather throw your tax money at some ridiculous overseas program than help its own people.”
My glare turns to shock again.
“I’ve been with you every step of the way, Zach. As a matter of fact I’ve been watching you even closer since Aileen took off because I knew there was a good chance she’d contact you. What I didn’t know is that I should have been watching this little spitfire of a girl of yours.”
Becky turns her glare upon him.
“But we were on you, Zach. I actually had someone waiting for you when you landed in Kalispell. I know all your secrets, even those little talents of yours, how you seem to be able to know when things are about to happen, how you can read people, and how many times you make love to your wife. I’ve been watching you real close, have even seen the aftermath of many of your nightmares.”
If I wasn’t already speechless, I would be.
“What!” Tanya’s not speechless. “You’ve been . . . peeping!”
“No, no, Mrs. Price. Just listening. Generally not all that much, really. I exaggerated a little about knowing how often you make love. That was just to get your attention. That is not my thing. I listened to you for only a couple of reasons, one of them being as to whether Aileen made contact with you. I have very sophisticated equipment, so I don’t have to have someone listening all the time, or someone to review the electronic files. My software listens for key words, like ‘Aileen’ and ‘Bravelli’ as well as ‘FBI’ and my name and names of the people who were at Sans Sanssabre, and sabre-toothed cat, and Smilodon. There are thirty-four such words. When one pops up, I’m notified by email. It’s a beautiful little system; much better than what I had deployed at Sans Sanssabre. Once it is installed there is virtually no man labor, thus no possible leaks or loose tongues, so you don’t have to worry that a bunch of men have been listening to your private moments. Only me, and only when you say the right words.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“That’s up to you. Makes no difference to me.” He turns his attention back to Becky. “What is that little thing there. Looks like it might be a secret spy device.”
“Have you been spying on me, too?”
He laughs. “No. It never occurred to me to be listening to the children directly, so I left your bedrooms alone. However, your running off to Montana certainly did get my attention. I thank you for that. What is that thing?”
“My iPod,” she says, rolling her eyes with great exaggeration.
“Of course. I’ve never really seen one up close.”
She rolls her eyes again.
“What were you after that you wanted your backpack so bad?”
She picks up the two magazines and holds them where he can see them. Seventeen and Teen Voice.
“That’s what you were ready to take a bullet for?”
“I didn’t know I might get killed for wanting my magazines.”
“Mister V!” It’s the bald guy yelling down to Vandermill.”
Vandermill pulls his attention away from Becky. “Yes, Sammy.”
“Ace is gone.”
Chapter 66
Reba
I immediately understand the total meaning of Baldy’s announcement that Ace is gone.
Vandermill says, “Nick, come with me. Sean, you stay here with Randall and keep a watch on them. Whatever you do, don’t kill Zach. We may need him.”
Sean is still standing where he was when I mentioned his daughter, his gun hanging from his fingers. He pulls his mind from thoughts of his Miranda, acknowledges Vandermill’s order with a nod and then watches as the two of them rush up and out of the cavern. I bend down to gather my stuff back into my backpack.
“What the fuck you doin’?” Randall says.
“He saw it all,” I say without stopping. “There’s nothing here that’s dangerous.” I pick up the nail file and the IPod.
“Nothin’ you say? Mister V might think you’re a young lady, but to me you’re still a bitch. Bring that here.”
“What?” I ask. I was hoping to slip the nail file into a pocket. It’s about eight inches long with a plastic handle; a nice little weapon. Shit! Now he’s going to take it away from me.
“That music player thing. Bring it here.”
Oh. I try my best to palm the file as I walk toward him. I hold out the case holding the IPod. He reaches but instead of taking it he grabs my wrist and yanks me toward him. “I like pretty little bitches.”
“Let go of me!” I demand as I try to yank my arm away, but I’m no match for his strength. In a flash he has me pulled in tight against him, one hand clamped onto the back of my neck, the other on my ass and he’s trying to ram his tongue down my throat. I squirm and fight but it’s like I’m caught in a vice. The taste of chewing tobacco starts to make me sick. I have a brief glimpse of throwing up and wonder if it would turn him off, or would he get mad and kill me, or beat me up. His scratchy beard drags against my chin. I smell his sweat, and Mom screams.
With her scream comes a tightness in my chest, which signals the vision, the foretelling of death. As the future in the next minute plays in my head, I relax, knowing I will do nothing to stop it this time. I feel no remorse, no sadness, no regret at the instant decision. As I relax, his tongue probes deeper, pokes against my cheeks, runs along my teeth, and then plays tag with my tongue. His hand goes from my ass to between my legs. I let him do what he wants, knowing it’ll be one of the last things he ever does. When I suddenly sense at the corner of my eye that Dad is on his feet, I slam my teeth closed onto his tongue and drive the nail file into his gut.
It seems like it’s his scream that throws me in the air. I land flat on my back, my head striking hard. For a few seconds I only see black, and then red and yellow spots, until gradually things come back into fuzzy focus. Randall is still screaming but his words are unintelligible. I come to a sitting position and then rise to my feet. He yanks the nail file from his gut.
“You uckin itch!” he says, blood foaming from his mouth like a rabid dog, and from his belly like a stuck pig. He throws the file down and fumbles for his gun. When he gets
it in his hand he points it at me, says, “You onna eye,” and squeezes the trigger. Nothing happens.
Mom is screaming and running at him. I grab her, throw my arms around her and drag her back. No Dad, I scream in my head.
“No, Mom,” I say gently. “It’s okay.”
“What . . .?”
“uckin itch!” Randall sputters. I turn my back to him, taking Mom with me. She doesn’t need to see him find the safety and flip it off, and then bring it up to bear on us again. She doesn’t need to see what happens next. I’ve already seen it for both of us.
The gun explosions are rapid; four or maybe five rounds sending deafening shock waves bouncing off the walls of the cavern. By the time there is only ringing in my ears, Mom has stopped jumping; she is still shaking. “It’s okay, Mom. It’s over now.”
Her head rotates toward me, and then peers over my shoulder. “Oh, God,” she says. She steps away and drops to her hands and knees. Sean’s weapon is still pointing where Randall was standing; smoke lazily drifts from the barrel. Mom retches. I taste blood and chewing tobacco, and then see the bloody remains of Randall’s bullet riddled body. I join Mom.
A blanket hides Randall from our view, thanks to Sean. The three of us have gathered together on the ground, the rock wall to our backs. Mom is on Dad’s good side. I try not to touch his arm, but I want as much of him as I can get. I want my daddy. After a time I lie down with my head in his lap. His bad arm rests on my shoulder. Mom runs her fingers through my hair.
And so we wait . . .
. . . for death.
I wonder if I’ll have visions before it happens. I hope not. I don’t want to see my death, or Mom and Dad’s death coming and not be able to do anything about it. That would be gut-wrenching horrible. How will he do it? Will he line us up, give us blind folds, and kill us all at one time; or will he simply shoot us each in the head right where we sit, the last one being forced to watch the death of first two.
Except he won’t kill Dad. Ace has become a Smilodon dinner. Vandermill knows that Dad used to be a pilot, and has flown helicopters. So Dad will be forced to watch me and Mom die, and then help our murders escape. I feel really sorry for him.
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