Time was the scraping gears of a malfunctioning clock. The cogs ticked and ticked and nothing changed. Imogen longed to know what was happening back at camp. As much as she didn’t want to be with him, being without Beck and Tilda made her anxious. What if no one else came by today? How long was she going to be alone? The optimistic partial canteen of water now seemed insufficient. Could it get her through the next day? It was still overcast and she had absolutely nothing in the way of gear. What if it dropped below freezing overnight? Or what if those clouds let loose a cold rain?
She was the safe one, but her mind made it an utterly miserable experience. When she ran out of ways to worry about herself, she returned to worrying about Beck and Tilda. What if Gale forced them to continue on with him? Where would he go? Slate? Or was he crazy enough to try to get unwilling hostages all the way up Hermit Trail to Beck’s Jeep? He could go faster without them—would he leave them behind? Tied up? Or…?
What if she never saw Beck again?
A noise interrupted her anguished thoughts. It took her a moment to home in on the sound and its direction—reverberating off the rock walls, it seemed to be coming from everywhere. With a mixture of dismay and fear, she finally recognized what it was.
Splashing. Scraping. Scrambling. Someone—or more than one—was coming down Boucher Creek, quick and sloppy.
Then she heard recognizable voices. Goddammit. A minute ago she’d been afraid of never seeing Beck or Tilda again, but if she couldn’t stay hidden now, this attempt at rescue would be lost.
“Stop!” Tilda screeched, her voice ringing with a distress Imogen had never heard.
“Come on!” Gale responded.
Imogen could imagine Gale yanking on Tilda, her wrists tightly bound, not caring if he was making her stumble. Of all the dangers they’d discussed—and encountered—a simple thing like a sprained ankle was potentially disastrous. Gale wasn’t going to summon a mule or helicopter rescue if one of them couldn’t hike out.
His steady banter to hurry them along was punctuated by Tilda’s outcries.
Wait. She didn’t hear Beck. Where was Beck?
Oh God, what if he’d killed Beck…
Her heart did that crazy thing again, slamming against her ribs as her pulse ricocheted in her skull hard enough to make her reel. She needed to know if Beck was with them. She fought the urge to pop her head out, see what was going on, and hunkered deeper into the leafy fronds instead. She’s the scaredy one. Their footsteps quieted as they reached the soggy riverbank. She didn’t need to see them to understand what was happening: Gale was looking for her, scrutinizing the terrain.
Scrunching down even lower, she was able to glimpse an incomplete picture through the striped gaps between the narrow trunks. Legs. Hands—tied behind their backs. They were all there—Beck, too!—standing close together. Gale had a length of cord wrapped around his fist as a leash; Tilda and Beck were tethered together, Tilda in front.
“Know yer here! Come out, come out wherever you are!”
Fear razored up Imogen’s spine. She’d made things worse. Never mind that she’d followed her sister’s instructions, it hadn’t worked and Gale’s tone was menacing. And impatient. She debated if she should give herself up. Beck wouldn’t want her to, and she was afraid she’d already ruined everything, regardless of whether she surrendered or stayed hidden.
“Come on now, I ain’t fucking around. You girls’ve pissed me off one time too many.”
And part of her knew: it was a matter of minutes, maybe less. Her hiding place was inadequate. She felt like a zebra against pink froufrou wallpaper, pretending that holding still was sufficient camouflage. Every second would piss him off more, but she couldn’t come out. Didn’t want to come out. Didn’t want to face him again, or her own defeat.
He spotted something, and resumed dragging Tilda and Beck along. Fuck. Imogen shut her eyes, condemning herself for a lifetime of mistakes. Even her good ideas were bad ideas. Gale kicked over her little tower of rocks. The note started to flutter away, but he snatched it up. Read it. Barked a laugh.
“You girls think a some crazy stuff.”
“Maybe someone picked her up,” Tilda said. “Maybe she’s already way downriver.”
If only. The hope in Tilda’s voice was heartbreaking.
“Yeah. And maybe she tied a note to one a those big black birds and it’s delivering it to Harry Potter.” He laughed again. Crumpled her cry for help and tossed it toward the river. “My boys loved those movies.”
His mood was improving. Imogen knew he could sense her, a predator with a whiff of his prey. The thought of her getting away had pissed him off, scared him, but now he was confident that she was nearby. The more they failed to escape, the more cocksure he got.
“Okay, you had yer fun. Know yer hiding here somewhere, all scared behind yer rock.”
Almost worse than her desire to stay hidden was Gale’s understanding of who she was, as if the word chicken were branded on her skin for all to see. Or it could be a sign that this was the moment to surprise him—to sprint out and clamber onto his back to tear out his hair, puncture his eyes.
He turned to face the stands of tamarisk.
“Ya know, yer not the one that’s gonna get hurt. I already had to hit yer sister. She ain’t as tough as she looks.” He didn’t call out this time and his quiet voice was grisly. His soft tone made her think he was speaking directly to her, having already detected her purple hoodie among the greenery. Her view was still limited to the lower halves of their bodies. What was wrong with Beck? Was Beck’s silence a precaution, or had he done something to her?
“Know this was her idea, you just taking orders. I’ll letcha pick.” It sounded like he was at her side and she almost felt his breath hot on her ear. “You got two choices fer a neck kill. A quick jab in the carotid artery, and bleed out like a stuck pig. It’s the better way to go. Probly hurts less too. Or you cut the windpipe and then you die all panicked and unable to breathe. Some people, if they got little control, just cut ear to ear and go fer everything.”
Imogen wanted to scream. She couldn’t fathom what was happening. How could this man say such things in such a placid tone? Was he really asking her to choose how he should kill Beck? Tilda quietly wept.
“Or, since I know you really like yer big sis, I could put a fast bullet to the brain. That’s more merciful. Yer call.”
Imogen stumbled out of her hiding place. Without even looking at Beck she collapsed to her knees, her hands in front of her on the dirt as she prostrated herself, sobbing the only prayer that mattered. “Please don’t kill my sister. Please don’t kill my sister.”
She finally dared to glance up. Through her tears Gale multiplied, so she wiped her arm across her eyes. While Gale had the gun pointed at Beck, he was clearly more interested in the strange slug at his feet. The crying slug with the lavender hair. It seemed as if he’d meant to step on the slug, but now the creature rather captivated him.
“Okay. What about this one?” He swung the gun over to Tilda. She clenched her eyes tight and whimpered, instinctively hunching.
There was a moment. A moment in which Imogen took in Beck’s lip, fat and bleeding, her left eye swollen and starting to bruise.
A moment in which Imogen was glad the gun was no longer aimed at her sister. No one spoke for that moment, though Gale started to grin.
“No—please!” Imogen begged, a second too late.
Gale bent his arm, redirecting the muzzle toward the sky. But he knew which one she’d choose. And apparently thought it was funny. Imogen was grateful Tilda’s eyes were closed; maybe she hadn’t noticed the hesitation. The guilt shimmied inside Imogen, made her want to slough off her skin.
“You gonna follow along peacefully, or you wanna join the chain gang?” Gale wagged the makeshift leash, and Tilda finally opened her eyes.
“I’m coming.” Imogen kept her hands raised as she got to her feet.
“You lead the way,” Gale told her, tucking the gun away.
As she passed Tilda she said, “I’m sorry.”
Tilda clenched her jaw and looked ahead.
Gale and his captives stayed close behind Imogen as she headed back up the creek. She was glad no one could see her face. She felt sodden, defeated; it was an effort to lift her legs and make them work. But she was also furious. Beck might’ve been the leader of their expedition, but if Imogen continued obeying her every command Beck was going to get them all killed.
Every second now might be a wasted opportunity, but for what? Only Imogen had her hands free. Only she could do something, right there, right now. Should she turn on him, weaponless? Shove him against a rock? Push his face under the shallow water and hope Beck and Tilda could help keep him down, even with their hands behind them?
Uncertain, she looked back at him. His eyes met hers instantly. He was a master of self-preservation, always aware of the darkest options. While one fist held the rope-leash that kept Tilda and Beck’s hands tied—together, and to each other—his other casually rested atop his sheathed knife.
It would slice through the soft flesh of Imogen’s belly, damaging precious organs as it went in, in, deep into her abdomen. It would hurt so much. (Worse than a bullet.)
The thought—the fear—made her turn back and keep marching.
Weak. This was who she was and what she spread wherever she went. She was a coward, more scared now than she’d been on that long-ago night—or that Saturday morning—when at least it had ended quickly.
She remembered how she reacted during the rape. It was one of the things she never wanted to give much space to: the reality that she hadn’t fought back. Should she have fought harder? Or had her passivity saved her then from further harm?
Wasn’t that also why she (hid in a bush) hadn’t run into the synagogue to try to save her fragile friends? Because sometimes passivity was the smarter move?
It was the one thing they hadn’t tried with Gale: fully cooperating; going along with everything he asked. It was a submissive approach and Beck and Tilda wouldn’t understand its merits. But Imogen was the only one of them who’d survived any potentially life-threatening situations, and she’d survived twice by not making any brazen moves. Maybe she, and everyone else, underestimated the role of meekness; maybe it didn’t make her weak or a coward. Was it possible that her past attacks were rehearsals, preparing her for this?
Beck and Tilda wouldn’t agree to capitulate. But their efforts to negotiate or flee hadn’t worked, so what else was left? If only the three of them could really talk. The trio wasn’t on the same page, that was for sure, and didn’t know each other’s minds well enough to consult from the same book.
Yup, they needed to have had their great bonding vacation before they got themselves kidnapped. Imogen resisted the bitter urge to chortle. Their inability to communicate was as dangerous an enemy as Gale.