I managed to drift over to the riverbank and crawl up onto dry land, dragging my torso above the waterline. It was a Herculean effort, though pathetic. To an onlooker, I’d appear to be a major drama queen. One hand slowly clawing after another. Pulling in slow motion. Gasping.
I’d kill to see anyone out here…of course, I’ve killed the two people I’ve run into so far.
But I was alone, having led myself a million miles away from hope. All I had were wet clothes and unanswered questions. Why Drake Oil? Why my husband? Where’s a phone?
I needed physically proficient help. I needed a cop. Better yet, an FBI task force.
Where to go now? The crags were south. The freeway north.
My husband, in the crags, might need me. I could give him an update on my trials out here in the wild. And he could tell me whatever he might have to tell me. Like, y’know: Miranda, funny thing I should’ve mentioned; here’s why an army of men might try to kill you on your stroll through the western United States.
The possibility of actual help, though, was north. A busy highway. The bigger highway gave me the best chance of finding a good Samaritan, and then law enforcement.
Yet what would I even say? Even if I managed to flag down a speeding motorist by the side of a highway at night, what if he or she didn’t believe me? Even if I managed to find the nearest police force, how would that story go?
“Officer, I need your help,” I said aloud, rehearsing. “I…uh…I…” Talking things out always helps me when I’m overwhelmed; it comes naturally to me. And right now, exhausted, starving, battered, half drowned, I felt half insane. Why not make an imaginary friend while I was at it? Anything to keep me going.
I took a few gradual steps along the higher slope. I would, again, hike to the nearest vista point, so I could make an informed decision.
“Excuse me, Officer,” I repeated to the imaginary cop.
“What seems to be the trouble, miss?” I said back to myself. Slight southern accent.
“Well…you see…Drake Oil.”
“Reckon I don’t follow,” I said, tilting up my imaginary cowboy hat. I decided I had on boots and spurs. A female deputy detective.
“For a bite of your éclair,” I said to her, “I’ll tell you.”
I took a bite out of the phantom detective’s phantom éclair. And noted that my hunger level was starting to get to me.
“He started working for Drake Oil three years ago,” I said.
“Who?” said the detective.
“My husband.”
“I thought you said you were the one in oil.”
“We both—”
“Skip the foo foo,” said the detective. “Tell me facts. Just the facts. Three sentences. Go.”
I was already a mile through the canyon, by my reckoning. The clock was spinning unforgivingly in my head. My imaginary detective had no patience. So I got to the point.
“Once upon a time this really awesome chick with a sharp wit and tendency to say exactly what she thinks met a man named Aaron Cooper, who made her heart glow. Like E.T.’s finger would glow. We both had…have…a love of the great outdoors. I was doing geological survey work for oil drilling and he was doing legal work out in the field. We had noble aspirations to help make the world a better…”
“Ma’am.”
“Sorry. The point is that soon I became a full-time mom. And my husband got promoted at Drake Oil. And I never thought I’d be up against murderers.” I started to lose my train of thought. “What could my husband mean about trust?”
“What?” said the detective.
“Trust. Who I’d trust. What did he mean?”
More important than answers is keeping my family safe. The only assurance of that was to keep the wolves as far away from the front yard as possible.
“You can trust whoever earns it,” said the detective.
As badly as I wanted to go back to Sierra and Aaron, interrogate him about what he’d meant by his cryptic warnings, I decided to steer my enemies in the other direction. If I’d identified the voices correctly, there had to be at least one left. And if he, or they, were following me, tracking me, listening to me, then I was now devoted to keeping them up north.
I turned immediately to march in that direction. I didn’t walk to stay hidden. I walked to move fast. Find the highway. Find the cop. I guessed that it would be three miles, but took shortcuts wherever the topography would allow it. Cutting across the rock face. Occasionally jogging. And with that determination I wound up all the way on the north rim of the canyon.
Daylight was waning. Ugly things were happening all around me and I was pretending I was fine with that. I was pretending I could chitchat with imaginary cops and that I hadn’t killed two people. Most of all, I was pretending I wasn’t terrified out of my mind. The truth was if I let reality hit me, I would crumple.
So I had to lie to myself, had to think that I could make things work out. When darkness had undeniably fallen, I found some scrub that I could sleep in that would hide me well enough. It wouldn’t hide me from the cold, but I was less worried about the cold than the bullets. I was worried about Aaron and Sierra, of course, but I had to assume they were safe in the cave. I didn’t think there was any way that I would sleep—but the events of the day had taken their toll, and I was soon dreaming of food and water and big koala hugs.