Imogen really wanted a drink of water. And a pee. A sliver of her was grateful it was a fairly short walk back to Boucher, ninety minutes or so. But the rest of her rampaged with regret that they hadn’t pushed on the previous night. Gale was right: there were probably people there. He might not have risked going all the way back to Hermit to kidnap them, and even if he had, they might have had a chance to call out for help. But the extra miles hadn’t seemed crucial then: they’d parted with Gale on decent terms, and he hadn’t threatened them in any way.
In the light of day there was a whole new litany of should-haves, sharpened by the mirror of Imogen’s remorse. They hadn’t known why he was lying low or who was after him—and wouldn’t know now if he hadn’t come unglued by his own paranoia. Imogen hated to think that they had that in common.
Gale wasn’t singing anymore, but she wished he weren’t at her back. His eyes felt like hot darts burning all the way through her backpack. What was he thinking? Was it better or worse that he was winging it, making decisions on the fly? He was good at improvising, but his brash actions were dangerous—for all of them. But maybe he didn’t see it that way, or worse, maybe he didn’t care.
To distract herself from the bottomless what-ifs, she concentrated on the rhythm of their three walking sticks. Tap-tap-tap. Lift, lift, lift. Swing forward, forward, forward. Plant again, one by one. Tap-tap-tap. Maybe they could use their sticks for something, defensive or offensive. When they were little, Becky and Imogen liked to sword-fight and joust with them while backpacking in West Virginia. A bamboo walking stick had many applications: it could support your weight as you crossed a creek, or become a tent pole if you jammed it into the ground. At the very least, the sticks could help keep the man and his weapon at a distance.
Or maybe…The Scary Spot was coming up. Tilda would probably hesitate again; they might be able to use her lack of confidence in some way, a stall tactic if nothing else. And if they could keep just the right gap between them…could they—one of them—use a walking stick to push him into the gorge?
It would come with a risk. If Gale grabbed for the stick as it prodded him, its holder would have to let go—fast—lest his momentum drag them both off the edge. But it would be a quick way to end this, and a tidy way to dispose of him. If they could pull it off. And if they were ready to resort to such means to restore their freedom.
Could Beck be thinking something like that too? If only they could exchange even a few words. If he went first could one of them rush forward and stab him with the bamboo pole hard enough so he’d lose his balance? What if he went last? That might work better; he wouldn’t be able to see any of them on the other side of the Promontory. They could surprise him with a quick thrust from the blind side of the rock. She could already imagine him falling, hear his scream diminish as he hurtled toward his death.
I’m not a murderer. But that’s the perfect murder. At least it would be if she were writing a book.
They approached the spot soon enough.
“Stop,” Gale commanded, and Beck, Tilda, and Imogen all came to a halt. He strode past them and surveyed the crossing. The downhill footing from this side would always make it harder, even if they weren’t being shepherded across against their will.
Beck swung her head around and as soon as they made eye contact Imogen took up her stick like a lance and made a quick stabbing motion, hoping her sister understood. Beck nodded. They had only seconds before Gale turned back around, but it was enough to convey a general idea.
“I hate this fucking bitch of a trail,” Gale grumbled. “What kinda people call this fun? Was expecting a desert, lots a rabbits to eat and some big cactus—you can get water from some kinds a cactus, ya know, purer than rain. Not this…fucking cliffs.” He scowled. “Bet you all’d love to see me topple right off that ledge, probly think it’d serve me right.”
No one said anything. He looked at each of them. Imogen hoped her face didn’t display any eagerness, or guilt—about this, at least, Gale was right to be paranoid.
“You go first,” he said to Tilda. “Then I’ll figure out what to do with these two. I’m betting they’re better at it, more experience and not so posh. Probly got yerself a Chihuahua back home, carry it around in a little handbag—a Mexican dog fer a Mexican girl, right?”
Tilda stepped backward. “No. You’re right—what kind of people call this fun? I’m not doing this again.”
Her whole body was rigid, spring-locked, like it had been the evening before as she gripped the pot of boiling water, trying to decide. Imogen didn’t stop her this time. Tilda didn’t have a pack on—with adrenaline and good health on her side, she might be able to outrun Gale to Hermit. Gale started to turn his head away from her, perhaps to order Imogen or Beck across the divide. Tilda bolted.
One second she was there, the next she was gone, replaced by a wake of dust. She was fast.
Beck and Imogen instantly thrust their walking sticks at Gale’s torso, trying to block his pursuit. He tried to defend himself, grabbing for their sticks, but after a couple of jabs in the gut he held up his hands, amused, and sidestepped away. He reached behind his back and untucked his shirt—
It happened in slow motion. It happened in the blink of an eye. But she knew what he was reaching for.
“Oh fuck!” Imogen screeched.
—and pulled a handgun from the waistband of his pants.
Beck spun toward Tilda’s diminishing back. “Tilda! Get down!”
Gale pointed the gun. Aimed. Fired. Fired again.
The sound exploded. Imogen felt it inside her, shredding the soft membranes of her sanity. She gripped her ears and howled in torment.
Tilda sprawled on the trail, a graceless collapse of limbs.
Beck shouted something. Maybe Tilda’s name. Imogen still heard a barrage of bullets, the faint memory of distant screams.
Tilda turned over, looked back at them.
Beck grabbed Imogen, hugged her hard around the neck. “She’s okay! It’s okay!”
Tilda knelt in the dirt, her eyes locked on Gale. He grinned, the black pistol now in his relaxed hand, pointed toward the ground.
“Aimed way over yer head,” he called. “This time. Now get yer dumb ass back here.” He turned to Imogen, whom Beck was still trying to console. “I didn’t shoot yer friend, you can calm down.”
“It’s okay, you’re okay.”
“She’s the scaredy one, huh?”
Tilda watched Gale the whole way back. She made a wide berth around him and huddled with Beck and Imogen.
“You okay?” Beck asked her.
“Now y’all know what’s what, okay?” Gale said. He fiddled with the handgun. “Safety back on. Safety first, second, and always. Got this little souvenir from the cop who pulled me over. He didn’t need it no more.” He tucked it back in his pants. “I never like having to hurt people, goes against my grain. But I wasn’t gonna go back to prison just fer driving across a state line. Now, shall we try this again?”
Beck held a canteen to Imogen’s lips so she could take a sip; her own shaking hands wouldn’t cooperate. Then she handed the water to Tilda. Tilda and Beck shared a complicated look, a silent attempt at communication with pinched eyebrows and angry eyes. Were they mad at Gale, or each other? Imogen’s heart was finding its way back into the center of her chest, done with its stomping around. Should she have shaken her head to stop Tilda? At least they knew now. He had a gun.
Gale had shot a cop. Gale was on parole. Gale had borrowed Doug’s car to drive to…where had he said? Nevada. But why risk his freedom? I am out. Fair and square.
“Guess it don’t matter who goes first now, right?” Gale said. “Better this way. Just do what yer told and it’s all easy.”
“Okay? Everybody ready?” Beck asked them. “Want me to go first?”
“I’ll go,” said Tilda, retrieving her walking stick.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Gale said. “Anything else.”
Tilda glowered at him. “That was really subtle. For someone who wants to lay low. Firing off a gun.” She seethed, skirting around him again.
They watched her cross. Her runner’s legs were more tentative now, taking small steps aided by her bamboo stick. Imogen wondered if it could possibly be true: Could the sound carry far enough? Could anything other than the rocks and the ravens have registered the gunshots? There’d be no SWAT team, but anyone—a lone ranger—would be better than nothing.
“That girl’s got pluck, give her that. But damn, disloyal. Probly thinks she’s too good fer everybody else. Seems more like a big-city girl than Ohio.”
The smirk he gave Beck and Imogen said it all: he knew they weren’t from Ohio. Fucking Gale missed nothing. Perhaps he assumed everything they’d ever uttered was a lie.
Imogen went next, so she wouldn’t have to be alone with Gale. She dreaded what lay ahead: the fear and uncertainty; the terrible possibilities of a forsaken life. She shut off her mind. Ignored the heaviness of the pack, the thirst, the rumbling from her insides that was either hunger or the collapse of the world she’d known.
Beck was only a couple of strides behind her, followed by Gale. They’d really done it. Gotten in the car with the kidnapper, and shut the door.