65

“Please help me,” she said. Her voice was cracked and strained with pain and fear and something else, something I believed was indignation. It was as if she couldn’t fathom how all of this had happened. There would be no remorse, no regret from her, I reminded myself.

“I want to help you,” I said, “but first you have to tell me the truth.”

“I’ll tell you anything.”

“Where’s Rufus?”

“I don’t know. God, he escaped, okay?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Fuck you. It’s true. Please, you’re not a killer.”

“I’ve been reborn,” I said. “I can be whatever I want to be.”

“Be a savior,” she said.

“I’ve already done that.”

She whimpered. “It hurts so bad.”

“Tell me where Rufus is.”

“I don’t know. The day before the shootout, he escaped. My boys chased him. He fell off the ridge. He’s probably dead. But I don’t have him.”

“Which ridge?”

“Right by the door. He rolled down the hill, stood up, and walked off the ridge. He’s dead.”

I believed her. “What about Jeb Walsh? I need to know if he killed that kid.”

“What kid?”

“The one who jumped at the falls.”

“He had him killed.”

“Who did it? Who pushed him?”

“It was one of his thugs.”

“I don’t believe that. I’m getting tired of holding you. All I need is to think you’re lying one time, and you get to take the fall.”

“Okay, I pushed him. It was me. But I only did it because he made me.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Reach up and grab my wrist with both hands.” She did as I told her, and I let go of her hair.

She groaned. “Thank you.”

“Now, how does the dead boy fit in? The one in my yard? What’s Joe’s connection?”

Somehow, against all odds, she laughed. “Joe? You mean the queer? I had a good time talking to his boyfriend. You should talk to him.”

“I want to hear it from you, or I’m going to drop you.” I pulled my arm up, causing her hands to slip down my wrist toward my hand.

“Please,” she said. “Don’t let me fall.”

“You’d better talk quick, then.”

“He went to the Harden School. He wanted to hire you to help him find me. I guess he got his wish after all.”

“Who killed him?”

“You really don’t know?”

“Your boys?”

She grimaced. “Yeah. Pull me up, okay?”

“Who told them to do it?”

“Me,” she said. “Blevins didn’t like it, but he’s a queer too. I tried to tell Randy not to hire him. Pull me up and I’ll tell you everything.”

“You can tell me as you fall,” I said, and tried again to pull my arm away from her, but she was too strong. She held on, even reaching for my elbow with one clawlike hand. Her other hand followed, and then she was squeezing my bicep and reaching for my shoulder. I used my now free hand to reach for her face. I placed my palm over her eyes and slid it down against her nose, smashing it nearly flat. There was a crack of cartilage, maybe bone, and then she screamed. But she didn’t let go. I pushed her head back, bending her neck unnaturally.

“If you let me up,” she gasped, “I’ll tell you how to bring down Jeb. I know … all … his … secrets.”

One of her hands slipped and I shrugged her other hand off my shoulder, and for a moment I was free of her weight. But only for a moment. I felt her grab my shirt now. The fabric tore, a loud hissing sound that filled the gap. Her hands scrambled for my belt, and she dug her fingers underneath it.

Before I had time to follow up on what she’d said about Jeb’s secrets, the moon reemerged from the silk clouds and I saw a man standing on the other side of the gap, holding a rifle. He was tall and lean and still. The rifle bucked in his hands and the night shook. The suspension bridge exploded into bits of rotted wood and fibers of rope. The knuckles on my right hand felt hot and then hotter. Finally, the pain came. I let go, keeping only my left hand on the rope.

I was only dimly aware of Savanna as she climbed up me again and shouted for her one remaining son to kill me.