Someone kicked her in the back. It was a shitty, confusing way to wake up, but it was only as Imogen regained consciousness that she realized how deeply asleep she’d been. The sky was radiant with color; the sun, too, was just peeking over its nightspread, blinking at the new day. Her first thought was that Tilda or Beck (or both) must be anxious to get going and she was impeding their departure. But then she felt Beck’s warm, sleeping presence at her side.
And another kick in the back.
“Tilda, what the fuck—” Imogen rolled over.
Initially she was too shocked to even gasp at what she saw. The instinct to get away made her push backward, trying to crabwalk an escape. But her hands encountered sharp pebbles and her elbow collided with a small but bruising boulder.
“Ow, fuck.”
“Rise and shine, sleepyheads,” Gale said.
Beck was the only one yet unaware. Imogen wished with all her might for it to be a nightmare. But as she locked eyes with Tilda and the heat of peril throbbed in her spine, she was all too awake. Gale knelt beside Tilda, the hunting knife at her throat. Her friend appeared almost dazed with terror. As Beck startled into wakefulness and took in the situation, her instinct was to lurch forward, toward Tilda. Gale stopped her by tightening the grip of his other arm, squeezing his prisoner against his body.
For a moment they all froze, unsure how to proceed.
“Sorry to wake y’all up like this, but I was tossing and turning all night, bothered by something I couldn’t quite point a finger at. And luck of luck, y’all didn’t get as far as I thought.”
Beck reached for her boots. Force of habit meant she still turned each one over and gave it a shake before putting them on. Imogen would have preferred to keep retreating, away from the tableau, but without that option she had no choice but to crawl the length of her mattress pad to get her boots.
“What are you doing here?” Mornings, even on the best of days, were an existential struggle, and being wrenched from sleep by a madman made it infinitely worse. Was this really happening? Imogen’s heart was in her ears, a muted storm. How had reality caught up with her imagination?
“Just get yer things together. Come on.”
“We’re heading out,” Beck protested, quickly folding up her mattress pad.
“That was a mistake.” Gale glanced around, surveying the trail both before and behind them, nervous. “Let’s just get back. Better there, no one around.”
Beck and Imogen exchanged frantic looks. Going back to Boucher with him was like getting in the car with the kidnapper: doom. No one who wanted to survive an abduction went along without a fight. Imogen was certain her sister was thinking the same thing.
“Can’t we just talk about this? We’ll make some coffee and talk here?” Imogen said. Beck’s brain would be sharper with an infusion of caffeine, and they desperately needed to be alert. His desperation had been obvious—how had they underestimated him so badly? But hindsight was the devil’s mirror, and of course it was clear now that they’d made a terrible miscalculation.
Gale, the knife still at Tilda’s throat, jerked his head around, looking this way and that. He was jumpy. Too jumpy. His knuckles were white and the silver blade almost grazed Tilda’s windpipe. He was in no condition to hold a rational conversation. But Imogen would almost rather plunge into an abyss than follow him anywhere. Nothing good would come of it. She’d created a dozen different story lines for him in her head, and in none of them was he a kidnapper. And if he was capable of even worse things than what she’d imagined…
Before complete terror took hold, she made eye contact with Beck. Gave one shake of her head. “We can’t,” she mouthed.
“There were people over there.” Gale gestured with his chin in the direction of Hermit. “Worked good fer a couple days, got some necessities. But you know I don’t wanna see nobody else. Didn’t even wanna see you, but glad I caught back up ’cause here’s what was bugging me.” He scrutinized Beck. “Maybe you already seen me on the news, or heard something. I know they’re out there putting two and two together—even if Doug didn’t say who borrowed his car—thanks to DNA and other things I couldn’t make disappear. And you girls are gonna tell someone ’bout me the first chance ya get. Being a doctor, ya gotta report a gunshot wound—”
“I wasn’t going to report anything,” Beck insisted. “And we have no idea who—”
“It’s the law, ain’t it? You know whatcha learn by breaking the law? You learn how many damn laws there are. Now hurry up, get a move on.”
“You’re wanted by the police?” Imogen, disoriented, toyed with the possibility that she was lost inside one of her own stories. She wanted to ask what he’d done, but why bother when she was a conjuror of nightmares and could simply guess and be close enough to right.
Beck remained calm, her face unreadable. She efficiently packed their loose things while Tilda looked on helplessly. “I can’t guarantee no one else is going to come out to Boucher,” Beck said in her smooth hypnotist’s voice. “People do go out there.”
“Didn’tcha say I could keep going, head west? Maybe we’ll do that. But let’s—”
“Why are you doing this?” Imogen begged as dread started to boil inside her. Maybe Beck was thinking that, for Tilda’s sake, they needed to comply, but Imogen wasn’t ready. It felt too much like giving up. “We helped you. We gave you our stuff and fed you and Beck fixed your arm.”
The hand at Tilda’s throat relaxed a little. “Yer not gonna do anything stupid?” he asked her.
“No.” Her voice was a croak.
Gale released her. Tilda scampered out of arm’s reach, releasing a sob, and quickly put on her boots. Imogen held her breath. Had she gotten through to him?
“Last night. I was so tired and I shoulda been asleep. But I kept thinking; I made so many mistakes. Gave you my name. That’s what I do ’cause I’m a friendly person, but I shouldn’ta done that. And you know what I look like. And I let slip a few things I probly shoulda kept to myself. Fuck it if I ain’t the biggest softy at heart, when I see a person as a person and I relate to them. But it gets me in trouble, sometimes keeps me from doing what needs to be done.”
Was he saying what Imogen thought he was saying? That if he wasn’t such a people person he wouldn’t have let something like three innocent, mortal women get in his way?
“We won’t get you in trouble, Gale. We really don’t know who you are,” said Imogen. His other name came to her, Red Fred. He was right in a way: if he’d been less chatty they wouldn’t have known anything about him other than the nature of his injury. And Imogen had no idea if that alone would’ve made Beck report him to the authorities. But now that he’d come after them, they knew he was wanted by the police. And if he expected to be on the news, he was either a narcissist or had done something really, really bad.
“We promise we won’t tell!” Tilda said.
“There’s nothing to tell,” Beck maintained. “You’re a random…guy. I don’t care why you’re here. I was perfectly fine and serious about going our separate ways and calling it a day.”
“You”—he pointed the knife at her for emphasis—“are a big fat liar. Big fat doctor brain. Think yer smarter than everyone. I’m not stupid—wanna know what I know? Lit a few matches as the night wore on—hate being in the dark, fucking hate it. I’da had a flashlight if I hadn’t been worried ’bout how you girls were gonna hike in the dark! See? Then this morning, soon as the sun started up, started going through the stuff, seeing what’s what and if there were more matches. And you know what I found? No fishing tackle. No line, no hooks.” His face twisted; his nostrils flared. He looked like an injured bull sick of playing games with the matador. “You don’t appreciate. How nice I was trying to be. Fucking bitches trying to get over on me. Now come on.” He flicked the knife toward the trail.
Beck’s expression gave away nothing, but Imogen wanted to kick herself: she shouldn’t have let Beck try to pass off the lie. Gale had already proven himself to be observant, and if Beck and Tilda hadn’t noticed—or understood what that meant about his character—Imogen should’ve been more assertive. And while she was at it, she could’ve made a better argument for pushing on toward Hermit. For someone who made her living with words, she sure didn’t use them well when it really counted.
Before she could come up with another line of negotiation, another stall tactic—which was itself dangerous, considering his bad mood and jitters—a helicopter swooped past. The discord was an invasion, complete with the gunfire of rotary blades. But it was a common sound within the Canyon: some people preferred to gain a dragonfly’s perspective, a quick hover before darting away. They were simply tourists out for a morning excursion, but Gale jumped back against a rock, plastering himself into a shadow.
“See?” he said, when the chopper receded.
“It’s just a sightseeing flight.” Given Gale’s new distrust of Beck, Imogen considered it her duty to take over the talking.
“They’re looking fer me.”
“Not them,” Imogen insisted. “Gale, honestly, we don’t mean you any harm. I’m sorry—we’re sorry—about lying about the fishing gear. For what it’s worth, we always talk about bringing some, but never do. We just wanted to finish our trip in peace, and let you get on with your own business.”
She was trying to be clever, emphasizing their willingness to be candid and discreet. But her hope that he’d reconsider lasted less than two seconds.
“We can talk about that back where we were. Come on, stop dillydallying.”
Imogen turned to Beck, pleading with her eyes, unsure what to do but certain she didn’t want to follow him back to Boucher. Gale’s knife had been sharp enough to cleanly slice the cord on their hanging food bag. And if he’d had an altercation with someone with a gun—and won with a knife—they never wanted to see that knife in full action. Beck gave the tiniest of shrugs, and then a barely perceptible nod. She shouldered her backpack and after a second’s hesitation, Imogen did too. Beck had some sort of plan, Imogen was sure of it. She handed Tilda her walking stick.
Tilda flared back to life. “You’re going with him?”
“It’ll be fine,” Beck said. If Dr. Beck ever had to tell someone they had cancer, that was surely the manner she’d use. Gentle; unflappable.
“No, wait.” The sisters had taken a step forward but stopped at Tilda’s urging. “I can’t help you with anything,” she said to Gale. “I don’t know anything about outdoor survival, I’d never even been in a sleeping bag before a few nights ago.”
Imogen looked at Beck, jolted that Tilda seemed on the verge of bargaining for her own release. Was this a clever ploy to try to get help, or something more selfish? The situations were radically different, but the last time they’d encountered trouble in the Canyon they’d foolishly not stuck together. Judging by the fury that flashed in Beck’s eyes, she was thinking the same thing.
“I had nothing to do with planning this trip,” Tilda went on, pleading to Gale. “You can have the rest of my gear, there’s nothing else I can do to help you. And I’m not a doctor, I don’t have to tell anyone about anything.”
He looked like he was considering her offer, but then he chuckled and turned to Imogen and Beck. “True colors. Always find out who yer friends really are when the shit comes down.” His amusement vanished as suddenly as it had arrived and he took a step toward Tilda. She tried to retreat, but he grabbed her arm. “Pretty sure that makes you the phoniest a the bunch. The one I need to keep my closest eye on. No more debating,” he bellowed to all of them.
Beck strode forward, ready to scramble through Travertine’s demarcating boulders and lead them back to Boucher. Everything about this felt so, so wrong.
“After you.” Gale, mimicking a gentleman, indicated with a sweeping, bladed hand that Tilda should fall in line next.
There they were, proceeding as they would have on any other hike—Beck, then Tilda, then Imogen. Only this time Gale took up the rear position, where none of them could escape his observant gaze. For an instant the air rippled as reality divided itself. Imogen had experienced this before, when time demarcated a Before and an After. They were in an After now.
From behind them, Gale started to warble a hoarse but jolly tune.
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray…”