by Cate Clarke
She ripped the T-shirt again until she had eight strips of uneven fabric. There was no tape. Kennedy grumbled to herself as she slowly rotated her legs so they were in front of her and began to wrap one piece of cloth, the longest piece, under her sprained ankle and up her calf. Holding that in place with one hand, she used three more pieces of T-shirt to wrap around her leg, turning and holding the pieces tight with a systematic dance between her ankle, her hands and her teeth. She shoved the rest of the cloth into the pocket of her sweater.
Kennedy was sweating, wishing for a breeze.
As she finished the knot, just under her knee, Kennedy leaned back, admiring her handiwork. Mr. Steedman would’ve likely pointed out that her knot wasn’t tight enough or that she could have used more materials from her surrounding environment, but Kennedy was able to get to her feet and limp around with the pain minimized. That was a win, no matter what Steedman said.
With the sun at her back and her sweater tied around her waist, Kennedy limped through the woods. Slow, dragging steps that frustrated her more and more as the channel between the ledge and the stone seemed to never end. The sound of water trickled in the distance. It didn’t matter to her right now if she was heading away from where she’d been lost. Perhaps, she was going in an entirely different direction than the search party that would no doubt be out looking for her. If she didn’t find water soon, they would eventually find her in that pine needle spot, but she'd be dead.
Finally, the channel widened, giving way to more evergreens but also birch and elm trees. Thinking back to her scout books, she identified what she could along the way. The land was running up on either side of her, seemingly running up to the mountains no matter which direction she chose.
The water was getting closer.
Kennedy hobbled quicker, weaving her way through the thicker foliage, scaring away any small animals that were preparing for springtime. The smell of pine here was almost acidic. The trees were so thick she could hardly see ten feet in front of her.
Her good foot slipped.
She slammed to the ground, her leg suddenly dangling off an edge and surrounded by wind. A small scream escaped from her mouth as she realized that she was on the brink of a cliff.
“Holy crap,” she whispered, peering forwards. Her U-splint was still intact, and on the verge of teetering over the rocks while her other leg hung over, dangling in the open air. Whips of wind and splashes of water spattered Kennedy’s face as she pulled her leg back onto solid ground. She could have walked right off. Her cheeks still stained with tears and sweat, and the corners of her mouth with bile, she wiped at her face with her sweater and took two deep breaths.
The sound of the rushing water was a waterfall—thirty feet away from where Kennedy stood, filtering down and splashing against a rocky hillside.
There was no way she could reach it.
She followed the waterfall down with her eyes, the thin stream of water dumping into the lake far below. Too far to jump especially with her ankle in its current state. At least she’d found water, lots of it, but it was all out of reach.
From her knees, she could feel the dampness of the cliffside’s soil underneath the pads of her fingers. Kennedy reached for the closest and sturdiest branch, and moved herself in between the trees. In one movement, she snapped the branch from the tree above her and began to dig with it, flinging the soil in every direction and burrowing down toward the earth.
Considering the mountainous environment, Kennedy knew she would likely hit rock, but the hope was that she would hit water before that.
She dug for at least an hour. The sun waving by overhead, another day lost, another day alone in these woods which meant another night asleep on the hard ground with the skittering animals. Piles of black soil collected on either side of Kennedy as she breathed down into the hole, measuring its depth with her arm, just past her elbow. Finally, with one great swing of her shovel branch, a stream spurted out from the side of the hole, filling the bottom with a black sludge of fresh water. Cupping her hands, Kennedy fished out the water, spilling it into her mouth and coughing it back up.
It tasted like dirty pennies and potatoes. She swallowed back the urge to vomit again.
“Come on,” she mustered, forcing herself to take another scoop, holding it in her mouth until she could ingest it. Then, another. And a third.
Kennedy lay back in the soil, the cliff on one side of her and the forest on her other. She turned her head to look out over the rocky edge, staring out into the mass of woods for them to search and for them to not find her. The chances of her survival would be higher if she stayed where she was.
Her stomach gave a painful lurch.
She turned over, pulling herself into a ball, her knees into her chest and her sweater underneath her head. The panic subsided, but the fear was still pushing down on her, into her mouth, onto her tongue like the smell of pine and like the soiled water.
Chapter 3
Diana Weick
Seattle, Washington
The dispenser clicked, stretching out the tape and ripping along the metal teeth. A row of rectangular pieces of tape lined the edge of the table, fluttering in the light breeze that filtered through the open garage door.
Diana placed the fourth piece of the Wenatchee National Park map onto the cement wall and gathered the rectangles of tape from her row, sticking down each corner. She’d had to print each section of the map in individual pages to get it to a size that allowed her to properly see all of the trail routes. Next to her makeshift map was another large map—one of the United States that Rex had put up when they first bought this house to help plan their family vacations in the camper they never bought.
After placing three more pieces of printed-out map, Diana had a complete overview of Wenatchee. She took a step back to admire her handiwork.
They were already calling her “obsessive” in the papers, so what was the point in resisting it? Diana could feel herself slipping into that familiar one-track mind that had made her successful as a frogman—ultimate fixation on one thing and one thing only. In the past, it had been to become a Navy SEAL, to take down Kushnir Republics and then to raise her children.
It was dark outside. Diana hadn’t checked the time in hours.
The door opened behind her and she knew from the sound of his shuffling socks that it was Wesley.
He rubbed at his eyes and asked, “Mom, are you coming inside?”
“Yeah. I’m all done here.”
Wesley walked across the garage, looking to the taped-up map and to her, his eyebrows furrowed together.
“That’s the park,” he pointed out, and Diana nodded, placing a hand on his shoulder. Wesley was still growing; though they were now equals in height, she was sure he would pass her before grad night.
“Do you think we’re going to find her, Mom?” Wesley asked, his voice low and hoarse. Diana turned to her son—his blue eyes were tired and bloodshot. The bottom of his face was covered with raised pimples that he’d clearly been scratching at.
“Let me tell you something, Wes,” Diana started. “When you were nine years old, you played baseball. Your team was good that year, and you guys made it to the state finals. In the round robin, you guys got skunked by a couple of bad calls by an ump. He called every strike you threw a ball—it was ridiculous. Every single parent in that crowd was mad. All of you on the field were just kids, but even y’all knew that the game was unwinnable. So I went to the tournament organizer, dragged him out of his little white booth and put him in the front row of the bleachers. After watching the ump for half an inning, he called the whole game, fired the ump and gave you guys the win. Turns out, the ump was actually being paid off by the other team, and they were planning to rig the whole damn thing.”
Wesley blinked and nodded. “Yeah, I remember that. We came second in the final.”
“Point is—I’m your mom. It’s my job to protect you. Whether it be from a corrupt umpire or the woods of Wenatchee,”
Diana said, waving to the map in front of them, “I’m going to find her.”
“But—”
“Wes.” Diana leaned down. “I will. I swear.”
Wesley cast his eyes to the floor. He brought a hand up to his face, about to scratch at his acne, but Diana grabbed his fingers, holding them tight. Letting out a large sigh, Wesley brought his gaze to hers and said, “Mom, I—”
“Ms. Weick.”
Diana turned to Detective Merino standing in the open garage, the lanterns on either side of the door lighting his face and stretching his shadow down the driveway in an X. She moved herself in front of her son and gave him an intentional look. Wesley turned on his heel, heading back inside and away from the teetering edge of conversation.
“Detective.” Diana nodded.
Boots clomping against the cement, Merino entered the garage, taking a moment to scrutinize her maps, and the piled-up cardboard boxes of Christmas decorations and Rex’s old clothes. He did a full circle before landing himself where Wesley had been, looking up at Diana with hesitation across his face.
“What is it?” Diana asked, crossing her arms.
“We found—” He looked over his shoulder.
“Spit it out, Merino.”
The detective sighed and reached into the pocket of his denim jacket. His unshaven stubble had grown into an almost-beard, covering the bottom half of his square jaw. In four quick steps, he crossed around her, over to the table where she’d had her row of tape, and put something down onto the surface.
Diana stretched her neck to both sides, bracing herself for a severed body part or something covered in blood, but when she got to the table, it was only relief sitting against the wood: Kennedy’s ponytail.
“Caught on a tree—just off the trail’s last vista point,” Merino said, turning the ponytail so it was better illuminated under the stale yellow of the garage light. “Is it hers?”
Honey-brown hairs were still wrapped around the purple elastic. Diana thought back to the boat that they’d rented on the way to the trail, watching Kennedy try to stick a hair back into her bun.
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
Diana flashed her eyes toward him, narrowing them.
“Got it,” Merino said, clearing his throat. “This is good, Diana. This gives us some direction. We can narrow down the search.”
Gently, Diana moved to pick up the ponytail but Merino grabbed her wrist, stopping her.
“No—it’s evidence,” Merino said.
She pressed her lips together and replied, “Merino, it’s the only thing I have. What evidence are you going to find on here that you don’t already know?”
“We can’t rule out foul play.”
“What?” Diana felt her voice rise and her face flush. She yanked her hand out of his grip.
“You know, Diana. You know why. Think about who you are.”
“I know who I am, Merino.”
“Then you know that there are dozens if not hundreds of people out there who have threatened you and your family.”
“That’s on me for not having a penis,” Diana snapped, thinking back to several years ago when she’d received anonymous letters in the mail detailing what the writers would do to her headless body. A sharp breath made its way through her teeth and out her nose.
Diana moved to pick up the ponytail again, and this time Merino didn’t stop her. Holding it in her cupped palm, Kennedy’s remaining hairs brushed against her skin. A tear pushed its way out of the side of her eye, cutting through the sweat and grime of not showering for the past three days.
“You have someone staying with you, Ms. Weick?” Merino asked as she placed the ponytail back on the table. He picked it up with an inverted plastic bag and shoved it into his pocket.
“My son.”
“I mean, someone other than him…to help out with things.” He gave her that up and down look—that sympathetic you’re-not-taking-care-of-yourself type of look.
“We’re fine.”
Turning back to her taped-up map and wiping at the tear that had made its way to her chin, Diana put her back to the detective.
“Well, my phone number’s here,” Merino said, but she didn’t turn around to look at his pitiful business card that he’d already given her two days ago. “You call if you need anything.”
Diana glanced over her shoulder, watching the detective move toward the outside and hesitating at the garage door. One of the corners of her map came untaped, bending forwards in a sad half-bow, looking down at her. Picking up a finishing nail between her fingers because it was all she had, she hammered it into the wall where Kennedy had been lost. She tried first with her fist and then reached underneath the table for the toolbox, using an actual hammer instead when she punctured the side of her hand. The detective still behind her, blood pouring down the side of her arm, she said, “Right back at you.”
Chapter 4
Taras Kushkin
Kherson Oblast, Ukraine
The black sea was calm, a flat surface of navy stretching out from rocky shores and overgrown trees. The tea was the same. Flat and stretched, a gray-brown circle that he was leaning over. Slippers balanced against the white cushioned footstool and back flat against the lounger, he took a single sip.
“Sir-” The new blonde housekeeper stepped forward, keeping her head down as she approached as she’d been instructed. “More tea, Mr. Taras?”
Taras looked down at the full cup in front of him and then up at the cascade of long blonde hair to his left.
“More tea—she asks,” he muttered, spat in Russian. “What is your name, lovely?”
“Larysa, sir.”
“Larysa, do you see my cup?”
With a flick of her head and a frightened look from her eyes, she nodded.
“Do you see that it's filled to the brim?”
A hard pit appeared at her throat as she swallowed and nodded again.
Taras clutched the teacup in his palm and tossed it at her feet. The cup smashed. Small pieces of ceramic and milky liquid spread out over the deck, chasing her shoes in brown trails as she shuffled back.
“Yes,” Taras said. “I’d like another cup. Thank you, Larysa.”
Larysa bowed her head low again, her hair covering her face and the tears that he saw drop from her round cheeks. She skittered back inside, gathering other housekeeps to help her with the cleanup. Turning back to the sea, Taras waited. He was patient. He often heard them muttering inside about his short temper, about his eagerness to take advantage of any opportunity to hurt them. But he had never laid a hand on any of them. That was not his position.
“Taras,” a more familiar voice called to him from across the deck. His brother, Andriy, made his way to him, loafers clicking against the stone balcony, his tan suede trench coat pulled around his frame. He stepped around the smashed cup, shook his head and clicked his teeth. “Why do you torture those poor girls?”
“Why do you torture me with your presence?” Taras mumbled, sinking into his chair. Andriy flopped down on the lounger next to him, clamping a meaty hand onto his shoulder.
“Oh come on,” Andriy laughed. “I’ve got good news. Really good news.”
“Tell me then, and let me enjoy my breakfast.”
Looking to the empty marble table between them, Andriy scoffed.
“You really should eat something proper—”
“Andriy,” Taras cut him off. “Spit it out.”
“Now, Taras, hasty climbers have sudden falls.”
“Don’t use Father’s proverbs at me,” Taras snapped. “You certainly don’t even understand what he meant by it, you absolute idiot.”
A group of ducks called from the sea, waiting for drops of bread or cake from the white stone balcony above. Taras stood up from his chair, circling to his chest where he kept his freshly baked sourdough. Taking it in his large hands, he ripped off one of the corners, breaking it into manageable chunks and sprinkling it over the sides. A cho
rus of thankful quacks ran out as he heard Andriy sigh behind him.
“They’re hungry in spring,” Taras said, eating a piece of the bread himself and then spitting it out over the edge. The ducks tore into his half-chewed food, snapping at one another and ripping it into soggy chunks that could slide down their throats with ease.
Two housekeepers returned, Mrs. Babich and the one with the red hair, Katy. They were quick to clean up the glass and the spilled tea, nodding to the brothers as they did so, Taras circling them, watching.
Katy was beautiful. Mrs. Babich, he trusted with his entire livelihood.
“Where is Miss Larysa?” Taras asked as Mrs. Babich did one final wipe with a mop.
“Inside, sir,” she said in her low voice, tucking a blonde-gray curl behind her ear. “Resting.”
Taras nodded, sucking on the inside of his cheek.
“Let her rest, sir,” Mrs. Babich said, sensing his mood. “She needs no more strife today.”
“Strife?” Taras scoffed. “What does that girl know of strife?”
Mrs. Babich looked at him, pursing her lips, age finally showing on her face after more than twenty-five years of serving his family. Her thin eyebrows curled upwards, and she gestured for him to move out of her way. He did.
Katy returned a few moments later with more tea, one for Andriy as well, and a plate of raisin scones. Grabbing at her before she could move away, Andriy pulled Katy into his lap, burrowing his face into her hair.
“Andriy,” Taras said, reaching for a scone. “Your news, brother.”
“Ah, right,” Andriy replied, moving Katy to one knee and stroking her waist. “The good news!”
With a slight chuckle, Taras's brother reached for his own scone, giving one bite to himself and then a bite to Katy, her lipstick rubbing off on the crumbly edge.