I am about to call out to him when something makes me freeze. There is a second figure in the shadows behind the cruiser’s headlights. My jaw clenches. My voice dies in my throat. It’s a big, burly man with black hair and a beard. And he’s straddling a motorcycle.
The biker dismounts and swaggers toward the deputy. As he walks in front of the headlights, I see his face—the same man who trashed Jeb’s truck. He slaps the deputy on the shoulder in a friendly way, and the deputy laughs. Then the biker hands him a package. At that moment, I know the package contains one of two things. Money or drugs.
I take a step backward. A twig cracks beneath my foot. The men’s heads turn in my direction.
“Hey!” the deputy shouts. “Hey, you!”
He runs toward me. But I dodge into the woods, keeping close to the side of the road, where there is just enough light to see by. My feet feel light and swift. I duck under branches and deke around trees, past the cruiser, past the motorbike. Then I dart back onto the road, where the ground is smoother. I feel like a track-and-field runner. Fast. Sure-footed. My arms pump. My feet fly over the dirt road. It slopes downward, and I pick up speed. I feel as though nothing can stop me. I round a bend in the road. The forest ends, not far ahead of me. I see the river and the bridge into town.
An engine roars. I leap back into the woods and thrash through the underbrush. Brambles tear at my clothes, but I know it is not far now—not far to the river, to the town and to help.
Who can I ask for help, if the deputy is friends with the bikers’ gang? I don’t know. I just know I have to get there.
I climb a steep rise, panting and choking on my breath. Suddenly the woods open up, and the hiking trail appears again at the edge of a steep drop. Fifteen feet below the river rushes a mass of frothing, churning white water.
I grab a tree branch to stop myself from pitching forward. The ground is muddy from the river spray and the rain. Across the river, the lights of Mount Judea shine, and the full moon rises, at last, above the trees. On my right, only fifty feet downriver, is the bridge.
There is no time to waste. The deputy is thrashing through the woods behind me. I turn and run, my feet slipping and sliding in the mud. But as I approach the bridge, I see the form of a man straddling a motorcycle. The biker is blocking the way across.
I spin around. My foot catches on a root in the mud. I fall headfirst, pitching over the embankment. My hands grapple for a hold and find a thick tree root. Sobbing and panting, I cling to it. My cheek presses against the ravine. White water sprays against my legs.
Above me, I hear the deputy shout, “Hey, you! Hey, kid! C’mon out here!”
It’s time to give up, Vanisha. It’s time to beg for help. How long can I hold on to this root? And even if I can hold on until he leaves, will I be able to pull myself back up?
The deputy will save me, won’t he? He’s a law-enforcement officer. I’ll promise not to rat him out. I’ll say I didn’t see anything. I’ll promise…but what about Jeb? If I tell the deputy where Jeb is, how do I know he won’t tell the bikers? How do I know he won’t let them have their revenge? No, I can’t risk trusting the deputy.
Below, the river froths and boils. To my left, a gnarly shrub grows at the base of the ravine, near the water’s edge. It’s not far. A couple of good bouldering moves would take me there. If only I could find a foothold.
I probe with my feet along the rock face. There’s a pocket to shove my right foot into, and a solid ledge for my left. I ease my weight onto my legs and feel the relief in my arms. My target is in sight.
A large rock sticks out of the cliff to my left. I try it as a handhold. It’s damp but solid. Letting go of my trusty root, I match hands, match feet, and slide myself sideways across the rock face. So far, so good.
I slink my left hand along the rock wall, searching for another hold. A rock juts from the cliff face, but it is smooth and wet, too slippery to hold. Above it, my fingers dig into a deep rock pocket. I tug down. It’s good and solid. Now for the next foothold.
Ignore the rushing river. Focus on finding a hold. A rock sticks out like a steppingstone. I pose my left foot on it, gently. It seems solid. I begin to shift my weight. But the rock breaks off beneath my foot. My leg flails in the air. I grip the cliff face tighter and hug my body against it.
My heart pounds. My pulse throbs in my throat. I breathe deeply. Get control.Everything’s okay. My left foot taps along the rock face until it finds another place to stand. A smaller foothold, but solid. Gradually, I shift my weight onto it. It holds. I take a deep breath, refocus, match hands, match feet. One more lateral move takes me directly above the gnarly shrub.
I crouch and reach one leg down into the basket formed by the shrub’s thick, tough branches. I set my foot on the base of the trunk that grows out of the rock. Bombproof, as Jeb would say.
Jeb.
I reach the other foot down. The trunk holds. My stance is steady. I lower my body into the shelter of the branches. Tucked into a ball, at last I feel safe.
The white noise of the river rushes below. But from above come the voices of the deputy and the biker.
“You see where she went?” asks the deputy.
“Must’ve run off in the woods somewheres.”
“You catch a good look at her face?”
“Couldn’t see. Too dark.”
“Looked like a high school kid.”
“Yeah. Prob’ly a bush party. Underage drinkin’.”
“Makin’ out with her boyfriend.”
Laughter.
“How much d’you reckon she saw?” says the deputy.
“Nothin’ that’d hold up in court. Like I said, too dark.”
A flashlight casts a search beam down the ravine.
“I sure hope she didn’t go over.”
“That’s one way to get rid of a witness, deputy,” says the biker and laughs.
“Don’t even joke about that.”
“That’s three miles of white water right there. If she fell into that, she ain’t comin’ out alive.”
The flashlight’s beam sweeps over the water again.
“Nah. She’s run off into the woods,” says the deputy.
“A course she did, deputy.”
“She’ll find her friends and be safe ’n’ sound back in town by tomorrow morning.”
“A course she will.”
“Been a long night.”
“C’mon up to my campsite, deputy. I got somethin’ that’ll make you forget your troubles.”
The flashlight beam sweeps down the ravine one more time, then disappears along with the voices. I am alone and shaking with exhaustion and betrayal. How can an officer of the law leave a kid lost and alone in the woods? What if I had fallen into the river and died?
It takes a few minutes to steady myself before I can confront my next problem. How am I going to get out of here?