“Yes, I understand.” To Dad I say, I agree. This is a waste of time.
“I have no compulsion,” Vandermill adds, “to shoot all three of you and just walk out of here. Is that understood?”
Bullshit! You don’t have the dress, the physique, or the mentality to make it out of here alive, and you know it. You’re a scared, angry little boy.
Reba!
Sorry, Dad. I got a glimpse of his inner workings. That’s what he is.
Dad smiles.
“Yes,” I say to Vandermill. “I understand. I’ll sit like a good girl and smell the flowers until she appears, if she appears, and then throw the flowers her direction as a signal to you where she is.” I make a face at him and put on my whiney voice. “Can I go now?”
“Don’t you get smart with me . . . young lady.”
I have to stifle another laugh. I’m sure he wanted to say, bitch. I consider egging him on a little more to see if I can make him say it, but then I notice he has his little gun in his hand. “Yes, Sir.” I coat my voice with a double layer of sincerity.
He grabs my shoulders, turns me around, and gives me a shove. “You do anything stupid, I’ll put your mother out of her misery.”
There’s no doubt in my mind that he would, and suddenly all my wise-ass attitude deflates. “Yes, Sir.” I step out into the early morning sun and begin walking slowly toward the flying machine. A feeling of doom settles into my core.
Chapter 69
Reba
The field is loaded with purple flowers, sprinkled here and there with splashes of yellow and red. The red ones are Texas Paint Brush. Maybe they’re called something else when not in Texas, but I don’t know what. I snap a few from their roots, and sit down facing the way I came. I’m maybe a hundred feet away. The helicopter is about fifty feet behind me. I pull my knees up to my chest, rest my chin and look up at the mountain which rises to the sky another five hundred or a thousand feet. It is primarily tree covered with a few bare spots and rock outcroppings. I scan everything from far left to far right, from top to bottom. There is no life, not even a glimpse of the men hiding. I’m sure they see me. I wonder how long Vandermill will wait before he gives up. I have my doubts he’ll want to spend the night here.
I wish I had my backpack and my books. I am bored to death. There is something on my leg. I look down. There are ants all over my socks.
“Shit to hell!” I scream and jump to my feet, stomping and beating at myself. I stop and look. There are still more on my shoe. I go nuts even more, flailing like a lunatic. I force myself to stop and look again. I pull up my pant leg—actually consider taking my pants off before common sense takes over—scratch, rub and slap to the point that my leg is bleeding. Not until I’m sure they’re all dead or gone do I relax.
I walk in circles for a few minutes, looking for a clean, ant-free place to sit—I feel like a dog getting ready to lie down—and then carefully settle myself to the ground. The flowers are a wreck, having not left my hand the entire time I was slapping at the ants. I toss them away and then immediately realize what I just did.
Shit to hell again! I look toward where Vandermill is watching, shake my head, and then crawl over to the dilapidated Texas Paint Brushes and retrieve them. “I take it back!” I want to yell, but dare not. Instead I sit back with the mess of stems in my hand until I’m sure he sees I have them, and then carefully lay them down behind me. I have to get up to pick some new flowers—purple ones this time. There are no more Paint Brushes close by. I analyze the ground around where I was sitting once more, and then sit back down.
I don’t like ants. Mom and Dad say it’s because I stepped in a fire ant hill when I was little. I don’t remember it. I do freak if there is an ant on me, even if they aren’t fire ants, which I’m sure these weren’t. I wrap my arms around my knees, and rest my head. I consider closing my eyes and going to sleep. There’s an itch on my ankle. I look, expecting more ants, my body tensed to run and slap again. There is nothing. I rub at the ankle and all around, just in case, and then settle my head again. More itch. I try to ignore it, can’t, fiddle with more rubbing and scratching; blood seeps from where I’ve broken the skin. I curse and then try to relax once more.
More itching . . . Shit to hell! I don’t want to sit here anymore.
I look up. A sabre-toothed cat looks down at me.
No! I yell to him. He is on the rocks above Vandermill, and he is looking directly at me. No! Don’t come down. I have no idea if he hears me like Simon did; or if he does, if he understands. Of course he doesn’t understand. I had to do pictures with Simon. Danger! How do I form a picture of danger? He may be too far away. I have no idea what my range is.
A second one appears from behind the first. Vandermill only said to signal about Sam, not about the cats. What will I do if I see Sam? I have to give her up or he’ll kill Mom. This is totally unfair. Shit to hell all over and up and down.
The cats split up. One goes right; the other left. They both disappear into the trees. I try to watch both sides without moving my head and signaling to Vandermill that I’m looking at something in particular. Then I think that I should be moving my head and looking all over. That’s what he’d be expecting me to do. How else am I going to see Sam if I don’t look everywhere? I casually move my head back and forth.
I see nothing. I stretch out my legs and lean back on my elbows. There is still nothing to see except trees, rocks, flowers, grass and the tail of the helicopter off my left shoulder. I wonder how the sabre-toothed cats got the pilot. Where did they take him? Did they haul him into the woods and dump him for later, or did they eat him right away?
A big bird swoops from the top of the mountain. Maybe it’s an eagle. He drops fast, wings spread wide, gliding along the treetops, coming right toward me. At the top of the outcropping of rocks where the cats appeared, he catches an air current and suddenly rises high. For a long time he seems to be suspended and then he flaps his wings a few times before gliding along the tree line to my right until he passes behind me and out of my line of vision.
Wow! Maybe he was heading for this field to do a little mouse or gopher hunting for breakfast. Maybe he’s got some baby eagles somewhere to feed. Or is it mama who does the hunting? Maybe that was mama. I wish I knew more about eagles.
My mind returns to the life or death problem I should be thinking about. Will what I do when, or if, I see Sam make any difference in the outcome? If I give her away, and we all die, will I go to heaven or hell? If I don’t give her away, and we all die, at least I won’t feel bad about myself, I can go to heaven or hell with honor. Is there a heaven or hell? Is there a God who will judge me on my actions? Can one go to hell with honor? I’ll probably go to hell and my honor, if I have any, will be stripped away.
I scan across my entire range of vision and see no life. I close my eyes and try to dump my thoughts of death.
Reba.
I suddenly come upright. Sam?
What’re you doing?
Don’t tell me where you are! Don’t let me see you! Even as I send those thoughts my eyes are looking everywhere. I do and don’t want to see her. I need to see her just to be assured that I’m not alone out here, that there is still hope.
Okay. What’s going on? Why are you lying in the middle of the field?
It’s a trap for you. I’m supposed attract your attention, and then signal when I see you. Don’t let me see you.
I said I won’t. My cats are watching four of them. Where are the others?
There is only Vandermill, and he is inside the cave entrance with Mom and Dad, watching. Dad is hurt. Mom’s in a bad way. If I don’t do what he says, he’s going to kill Mom.
There’s a long silence.
Sam?
Still a silence. I’m looking everywhere now, starting to panic.
Sam!
Just hold on, Reba. I’ve got to do some thinking. I’ll be back.
I bring my knees up again and rest my head. Sam?
What? I have to h
ave silence to think this out.
Simon’s dead. They killed him.
It’s like I can hear her breathing. Sad feelings seem to rise around the picture of her I see in my head. Then, maybe, it’s my own breathing and my own sad thoughts.
He went out fighting, I add.
Thank you, Reba. Now silence, please.
I give her silence, and then cry for Simon as I think about how he saved my life from the grizzly, and then maybe again from Baldy and Black Beard, and Baldy’s dog.
Sam!
Damn it, Reba. I’m going to have to shut you out.
Just one more thing, and then I’ll be quiet.
What?
Don’t let them hurt Sean.
Which one’s Sean, and why?
The two to my right. He’s the smaller guy. The big one is Nick.
Okay. Why?
I think Sean is on our side. He killed one of Vandermill’s men to keep me from being raped. I got into his mind. I think he will turn if given an opportunity.
How did he get away with killing him?
Vandermill thinks that I’m the one who killed him, that I got his gun away from him.
That’s good to know. I’ll keep it in mind.
I sit and wait. I feel better now. I think about God again and wonder why Mom stopped taking us to church. I remember hearing her and Dad talk one time about how they didn’t like the way the church always preached money, and that they would look for a different church. It must have died after that. I remember not caring, actually being kind of happy that I didn’t have to get up on Sunday mornings anymore. There were some friends I had made at church, who I missed, but I had my friends on the swim team and at school, so it wasn’t all that big a deal. Now that I’m old enough to go to church on my own, maybe I’ll try it by myself, or take Christi.
I look up at the sky. Dear God. If I get out of this alive I promise I’ll go to church. Now I feel guilty, like I’ve told God I’ll believe in Him if He saves me, otherwise forget it. Please, God, don’t worry about me if I’m not worthy. Take care of Mom and Dad. It’s because of me that they are hurt and in trouble. That feels better.
I will go to church anyway, no matter what. I promise.
I close my eyes and take a deep, relaxing breath.
Thank you . . . Amen.
Chapter 70
Zach
Tanya is asleep, curled on her side with her head in my lap.
Vandermill has settled down. Becky did something that got him excited, and then he yelled, “What the hell is she doing?”
I tried finding a hole in the foliage to see through, but got nothing. Then Vandermill moved a branch and for about two seconds I could see her beating at her legs with a handful of flowers. The branch moved back and then there was nothing again. It was obvious to me that she was doing the Fire Ant Dance.
When Becky was two years old she fell into a fire ant hill. She wasn’t doing the Fire Ant Dance then, but she was screaming, and Tanya and I were doing the Fire Ant Slap and the quick strip of our two-year old in the middle of the backyard. There were rumors that fire ants can kill a child. We took those rumors seriously. We were in the emergency room for four hours while they bathed her in a solution of bleach and water, gave her anti-histamine, and then coated her with hydrocortisone cream. Her conscious self doesn’t remember it, but her subconscious does. Her phobia for ants is nearly as bad as mine is for heights.
Vandermill jumps again. “What the hell? What’s with her?”
“Ants,” I say. I don’t think he hears me. I attempt to clear my throat, then say louder, “Ants!”
“What?” He walks toward me.
“Ants.”
“Unts?”
I push dead leaves aside and write in the dirt. “Ants.”
“Ants? You say she had ants on her?”
I nod.
“How do you know?”
I point to my eye and then out toward her. I write, “Phobia.”
Vandermill laughs and returns to his post.
You wouldn’t think it was funny if you had a few hundred crawling and biting all over you, injecting their painful and itching venom. Are there fire ants in Montana? I don’t think so. Becky could have gone nuts at the sight of only a couple of regular, non-biting ants.
Tanya stirs and settles.
I’m not feeling too bad. The Tylenol has helped considerably, and I think the food did me some good as well, but I’m far from considering hand-to-hand combat with any of these guys. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to fly, even if I can remember. The last time was eight years ago when I crashed landed one of Vandermill’s helicopters in Sans Sanssabre’s backyard. The crash wasn’t my error. I was shot down by one of his guards. I haven’t been near anything smaller than large commercial airliners since. Two crashes in my life—the other being a Cherokee I flipped upside down back in ‘93—has made me leery of flying in anything that I couldn’t get up and stroll around in.
Vandermill moves some branches and they stay in place, so I get a good look at Becky. She’s lying back on her elbows, looking around, no longer doing the fire ant dance. I’m amazed at how she’s held up in all of this. She’s tough, like her mother. I brush Tanya’s hair and realize that she’s not so tough anymore. She’s run the gauntlet, and the gauntlet has beaten her. If we get out of this alive, will she recover? She will physically, but what about mentally? I’ve seen sides of her in the last thirty-six hours that I would never have imagined. All three of us are going to need some counseling.
Becky suddenly sits up. She’s not looking anywhere in particular; her head is moving back and forth, seemingly frantic. Maybe not. She relaxes.
Vandermill becomes agitated again. “What now?”
I shrug my shoulders and try to say, “I don’t know.”
She pulls her legs up and hugs them with her arms. Up until when we came up here, Vandermill seemed to have great patience. Now he is losing it. He was expecting that this was the answer and is irritated that he doesn’t have Aileen in his claws yet.
“She’s seen her!” he declares and pulls his pistol from the holster. “She’s screwing with me!” He walks toward me and Tanya, the gun pointed at her head.
“No!” I try to scream, but whatever comes out rips viciously at my throat. I bend forward to cover her. She comes awake and starts struggling. While smothering her I wait for the bullet that will have to pass through me to get to her. I know it’s stupid to believe that I’m actually protecting her, knowing that he could empty his gun into her without touching me. All I cover is her head. “You kill her and I won’t fly you out of here!” I declare. I don’t know if he understands me. I don’t understand me. Tanya is struggling harder, still not knowing what’s going on.
“No fly! No fly!” My throat is nearly closed up. I’m wheezing, trying to get air. I need to straighten up, spread my arms, and open my lungs. I dare not uncover Tanya. He hasn’t pulled the trigger yet. Maybe he’s reconsidering. I want to look up, see what he’s doing. All I can see of him are his boots. He needs me. He knows he needs me. “No fly,” I say once more. Since I don’t yell this time, don’t strain, it comes out clearer. “No fly,” I say again.
And then the gun goes off. The explosion rings inside my head. Tanya jumps; I jump with her. I don’t feel pain, at least no more than I’ve been feeling. I keep trying to protect her, but she’s not having anything of it.
“What! What!” She screams and rolls from me, trying to crawl away on her hands and knees. I catch her arm. She looks at me, confused.
Ignoring Vandermill, who is still standing there with his gun in hand, I help Tanya sit and then put my arm around her. “It’s okay.” My mouth scrambles the words. I think Tanya gets the idea anyway. She gradually slumps against me. “It’s okay,” I say again.
Suddenly Becky bursts through the foliage. She stops and sees Vandermill standing over us with his smoking gun—it’s not really smoking, but I can see the look in Becky’s face—and she screa
ms, “Shit to hell what did you do? We had a deal!”
I try to wave my hand at her but it’s attached to my damaged arm. I shake my head instead. “It’s okay. He didn’t shoot her.” I wonder if he has ever shot anyone, or if he only fires warning shots, and lets someone else do the dirty work, or did he realize at the last second that if he killed Tanya, he wouldn’t be flying out of here?
Becky is not hearing me, not noticing me; her eyes are locked on Vandermill’s.
Chapter 71
Reba
There’s a gunshot. Oh God! I jump to my feet and race to the cave entrance. When I burst in, Dad and Mom are on the ground, Dad’s arm around Mom. Vandermill is standing over them with his gun. “Shit to hell what did you do?” I scream. “We had a deal!” Dad says something but I can’t understand a word.
Vandermill turns his head to me and gives me a long look. The seconds tick by. He says nothing, but the look on his face is like I just told him he had a fat ass. I glance down at Mom long enough to see that she is shaking scared, but not hurt. It’s in that second that Vandermill takes three steps toward me, grabs my hair and sticks the gun to my head.
“You bet your mama’s life we had a deal. You saw something and then you hid it.”
“No! No! I didn’t see her! Honest! I didn’t see her. I thought I would but I didn’t.”
He shakes my head. “Bullshit!”
For a second I see red. It feels like he’s ripping out every hair by its roots. “What the hell did you see?”
“I saw cats . . . sabre-toothed cats.” God it hurts! “She wasn’t with them.”
“Cats.” He eases up
“Yes. You didn’t say anything about signaling about cats.”
“What were you doing dancing around out there?”
“I . . . I had ants crawling all over me.”
“Shit!” he says and pushes me away. I stumble and fall hard on my butt. I don’t move. I exchange looks with Mom and Dad. They look sick. Vandermill paces a few times, and then walks to the entrance. “Nick! Sean! Sammy! Lester! Get in here!”
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