As soon as they were at camp Gale ordered them to sit. Beck and Tilda, though attached, kept their backs turned to each other. Before Gale could tie her up or stop her, Imogen dug out a washcloth, and doused it with the water from her canteen. She dabbed at the blood on Beck’s lip and chin.
“You okay?” She’d never seen her sister injured before, nor had she ever seen the fresh wounds made by another person’s fists. Beck’s face looked swollen and sore, but she gave a tiny nod, her good eye always on Gale. He paced, looking west, looking east; Imogen saw him weighing his options, trying to figure out his next move.
“Sorry,” Imogen whispered to Beck. “A pair of rafts came by but I guess they couldn’t hear me over the rapids.”
“That was the dumbest fucking thing you could’ve done.” Tilda practically spat the words at them.
“You’re one to talk. At least I had a plan.” The words slurred; Beck sounded like her mouth had been shot up with Novocain.
“I didn’t know he had a gun then,” Tilda hissed.
Stuck between them, Imogen wasn’t sure what to do. She folded the washcloth in quarters and soaked it, then laid it gently on her sister’s puffy eye. Gale strode an antsy patrol back and forth a few feet away, and she feared his paranoia was skittering back in.
“We have to overpower him,” Beck said, inching around to include Tilda.
“No.” At Imogen’s refusal Tilda and Beck both looked at her. “That won’t work.”
“You have an idea that will?” Tilda’s rancor betrayed her belief that none of Imogen’s ideas would ever work.
“So what are you thinking?” Beck asked, curious.
“We have to seem like we’re going along with—”
Not only did Imogen stop speaking, she stopping hearing. Something exploded against the left side of her head. A bomb of pain that instantly made her dizzy and nauseous. She was already sitting, but her muscles gave out and she wilted. Tilda’s body was there to catch her, to keep her from tipping over onto the ground. She saw Beck’s mouth moving, saw her livid face looking up at someone, yelling.
I can’t hear.
The thought lasted only seconds before the buzzing of a familiar agony set in. Gale’s face came into focus. She swayed, trying to sit straight; she knew what had happened. Gale had punched her in the head. In the same ear that hadn’t been quite right since the incident with her walking stick. This time she didn’t need to wonder if her brains were oozing out—she could feel something warm and wet. The nausea lingered though the sharpest pain started to fade. When she touched her ear her finger came back with a pinkish spot of blood.
“You punctured her eardrum!” Beck’s red face was now equal parts injury and rage.
Gale knelt. Tilda tried to squirm away, but couldn’t. He was close enough that Imogen could smell the regrettable dereliction of his body, his teeth.
“Sorry I had to do that,” he told her. “Know yer the soft one, but you gotta learn to stand on yer own two feet. Can’t listen to everything yer damn sister says—”
“I told her it was a bad idea.” Imogen’s voice was shaky. She wasn’t trying to sell her sister out, but she wanted him to know that she agreed with him.
“She says ‘Jump!’” Gale said, “you gotta learn to say ‘Fuck you!’” Tilda bobbed agreement, glaring at her. “I expected more from you.”
Imogen felt dazed. Part of it was the ringing in her ear, the rest was an unexpected barb of remorse. Gale seemed to have faith in her ability to do better. No one ever told Imogen her instincts were good; she felt a little sorry for letting him down.
Perhaps it showed on her face. He patted her shoulder. Then stood and said to all of them, “And fer the love of fucking Jesus y’all need to stop with this plotting and scheming. You said ya wanted to help? This ain’t helping.”
A few heavy drops of rain splattered on their pants and shoulders, on the surrounding dusty dirt. Imogen cupped her throbbing ear and, with the others, turned her face skyward. Her brain was still helter-skelter and the odd thought came to her that in this moment they were all in sync: an unhappy deity had demanded their attention with flicks of water, and they’d all looked upward in obeisance. What was It going to tell them? Something that would set them all free?
Apparently the others only saw darkening skies, laden clouds.
“Great,” Tilda said under her breath.
“We should move to higher ground,” said Beck. “In case the creek floods.”
“That happen often?” Gale asked, looking from the sky to the overhang in the cliff face where they’d first accosted him. What a mistake it had been, approaching the dragon in his lair.
Beck shrugged. “Depends on how hard it rains.”
“Been near a flash flood once. Got no desire to do that again.” He burst up and started shoving stuff into their packs. All of Beck’s and Imogen’s gear was in their sloppy postexamination piles, and Gale’s acquisitions were still scattered around. “You,” he said to Imogen, “help me get this packed up. Don’t matter what goes where.”
She got to her feet, but didn’t get far before she tottered and had to stop. The world spun and she kept her hands on her knees. Everything in her stomach was lurching around, in contra-rhythm to the sway of the earth. A groan escaped her mouth, which was preferable to vomit.
“Dizzy?” Beck asked.
“Yeah.” Dizzy sounded like a cute word compared to how she felt.
“She’s got vertigo,” Beck said to Gale. “She could even have a mild concussion. Why don’t you have one of us help you?”
“Too late fer that.” He snatched at whatever was at hand and jammed it into the nearest pack. “Come on, let’s go.”
The dribbles of cold rain helped Imogen focus. She let it wash away the feverish green feeling, until finally she could stand upright. She’d push through, because they needed her: it would help nothing if their supplies and gear were swept away in a storm.
Imogen gathered up armfuls of their belongings and filled Beck’s pack. Just a few nights ago they’d been in Beck and Afiya’s living room and Imogen had been annoyed at Beck’s disorganization; how silly that seemed now. She wished she could shut her eyes and transport to the safety of that cozy room with its cathedral ceiling. She wouldn’t say no to a mug of Afiya’s earthy tea. If Imogen was thinking about this, Beck was too. And Tilda probably longed to be in her own home, away from the Blum sisters and their abominable ideas.
It was only early afternoon, but the clouds brought a mood that made Imogen want to find a nest and curl under a fluffy blanket. “Could use a nap,” she mumbled, strapping her sleeping bag to the bottom of the rust-colored pack.
“Just my plan,” said Gale. “Need some shut-eye myself. Not ashamed to admit I ain’t thinking my best and I don’t wanna make no more mistakes.” He looked at the sky again. The rain hadn’t gotten worse, but there was no hint that sunshine might return. “Ready to put that on?”
Imogen struggled into the bulky pack. The cliff shelter was the ideal place to go if it was going to storm, but she couldn’t imagine how she would sleep, or do anything else, while confined in a rock prison with the dragon.
He picked up a walking stick—Tilda’s, as it happened—and handed it to Imogen. “You head on up. I’ll watch these two. Hurry, in case the rain comes down harder.”
Once upon a time she’d contemplated how to use a walking stick as a weapon. Now she needed it to keep from stumbling. She glanced back as she started off. Though he’d ordered her to do it, it didn’t feel right leaving Beck and Tilda behind, again.
Her emotions had been caroming inside her since Gale had kicked her into wakefulness. She’d intermittently been a lump of ice or a puddle: solidifying when called to action, and melting in defeat as things worsened. Now she felt herself shrinking, losing substance; she couldn’t sustain this level of stress. On top of it, she was still queasy. She wanted to close her eyes, make everything as motionless as possible, retreat to a place of stillness and quiet so she could recharge. The stress was exhausting, and they couldn’t afford any more slipups.
As she clambered up to the overhang she dreaded the thought that Gale intended to use her as a mule, ferrying the packs to the shelter one by one. It would be faster if he carried Tilda’s next time, then they could complete their move. In her current state Imogen was the worst person to be hauling heavy backpacks, though maybe that was intentional, part of her punishment for running off.
Imogen walked into the rock shelter and unbuckled the hip belt, slipped her arms out of the straps. The backpack dropped to the ground. While only eight feet deep, the interior felt roomy with its high ceiling and wide wings. Twenty people could sleep beneath the overhang, but it was still too small if one of those people was Gale.
He’d said he wanted to take a nap. Undoubtedly he planned to arrange things so they would be helpless to escape or attack him as he slept. But maybe they could finally talk. Imogen needed to make them understand how they might win him over by expressing more sympathy, treating him with respect. Common wisdom recommended trying to make your abductor see you as a real person. She wanted to take that a step further and convey that they could be friends. That would require, at the very least, getting Beck on her side: Beck could be a master manipulator when she wanted to be. Somehow, they needed to convince Gale that letting them go was what he wanted.
Her skull ached and she still felt wobbly, but with the walking stick’s support she hurried toward the yawning mouth of the overhang, eager to get back. But then she paused beneath the towering umbrella of rock, stunned by what she saw across the creek.
She blinked hard, in case it was a mirage, in case her head injury was making her hallucinate. But no, it looked real. Her heart screamed go-go-go and she hurtled on, half slipping down the steep incline.
There was a man. A backpacker in full gear. Heading toward their camp—toward Gale. The backpacker would have easily spotted them on his steep descent into Boucher; much of the camping area was visible from the trail. With Beck and Tilda facing away, and Gale busy packing, they hadn’t noticed him yet.
Imogen recognized his approach for what it was: their best chance to end this.