It was the easiest camping area Imogen had ever entered. No scrambling ascents or descents, they just walked right in and were greeted by a rushing creek. And an amazing view. They stood there for a moment and took it in; the world’s beauty hadn’t faded simply because they’d been dragged away from their ordinary lives. Out in the open as they were, the Canyon’s distant monuments were on display—peaks and formations, layers of Kaibab and Toroweap limestone, Coconino sandstone, Hermit shale, the Redwall. All the vibrant colors of a divine palette.
“That’s the North Rim,” Beck said, pointing both her index fingers toward the other side of the Canyon. Imogen had always wanted to go to the less-visited, more remote North Rim; it was only open five months of the year. But more remote didn’t hold the attraction it once had, and the words maybe someday didn’t exist anymore. She found herself incapable of projecting herself into any sort of future.
“Time to eat, yeah?” Gale said, gazing around. “What’s a good spot? Look like all good spots here.” He took a few more steps, found a relatively smooth area beside a cluster of small boulders, and unbuckled his backpack. He took it off and leaned it against a rock.
“Time to pee,” said Tilda.
“Coffee.” Beck made the word a prayer.
Gale untied Imogen and watched her take off her pack; she left it there, on the hip-high rock she’d chosen to ease the weight. He let her do the work of untying Tilda, slipping off her pack, retying her hands—“Front again I guess, ’cause we’re gonna eat”—while he stood a few feet away, leaning on his spear. Imogen wondered—maybe stupidly, and always aware of the heavy weight in his hip pocket—if a handgun was anything like a bottle of champagne: Did it suffer any consequences from bouncing around all day? Would it explode if rattled too hard?
She went through the untying, retying process again with Beck, and then Gale summoned Imogen over so he could redo her hands. Keeping hostages tied up required a methodology and patience that she wouldn’t have had, though she supposed that if she were the kidnapper she’d just have to bark orders and look malignant. Being a hostage was tedious in a way she’d never considered.
“Grab some TP,” he said. “You girls definitely have a disadvantage in the peeing department.”
Imogen went first, slipping behind a boulder—a little close to camp for a latrine, in her opinion—as Gale kept his spear pointed at the two who weren’t doing their business. It was easier to relieve herself with the rock standing guard instead of Gale. But she had to give him some credit: he wasn’t lewd.
When she returned, Beck was doing a little dance, kicking one boot and then the other, like she could barely hold it, and Gale let her go next. Once they were in a row again, he had them turn their backs to him. A zipper unzipped. Followed by the hiss of piss, the splashing of it on the ground.
Tedious.
He directed them onward to the creek, where they scrubbed their hands, washed their faces. Imogen was tempted to cup the water, so cool and refreshing, directly into her mouth, but didn’t in case it wasn’t as pristine as it looked. Slate’s creek, similar to Boucher’s, was several feet across and only inches deep, but in places the arrangement of rocks created little pools. As they squatted there, Beck kept glancing at Imogen, a steely, determined look in her eye. Imogen wasn’t positive what she was trying to say. Get ready? On her other side, Tilda had withdrawn again, her focus a dreamy stare at the gurgling water.
Imogen, Beck, and Tilda sat cross-legged on the ground, a foot apart, as Gale bustled around. He could’ve made Imogen do this part too, but beyond the distrust issue, she suspected he liked fiddling with the gear. He set up both stoves; the dead man’s was different from Beck’s and he took a few minutes to figure out its workings. When he had both ablaze, he lowered two pots of water on to boil. Mesmerized by the little blue flames, he leaned against a rock and stretched out his legs.
“Reminds me a cookouts. Used to do that in the summer, Fourth a July ’n’ such, when I was home. Always liked that. Everyone sitting around, shooting the breeze. Kicking back with a cold beer, burgers or ribs. Back in Mississippi when I was a kid we put whatever we’d caught in the river on the grill. It was real special when the kids were little. Didn’t see Crystal as much, but my boys…loved to run around outside. A hot day and a hose and they were happy. Or on the Fourth, some sparklers, cherry bombs. Kids love that.”
Earlier Tilda had implied that Imogen didn’t have as much to live for, but perhaps she’d been trying to say that she didn’t have as many people. Beck had Afiya (and fingers crossed a baby). Tilda had Jalal. Imogen had struggled throughout her adulthood to even make new friends. Unless Gale counts. Strike that—another of those out-of-nowhere intrusions. But Imogen was less insulted thinking about it now, because she knew the value of her life didn’t depend on how many people attended her funeral. And they needed to take advantage of these opportunities to discuss loved ones. Gale had a strong sentimental streak.
“It sounds like…you had some really good times,” she said. “With your family.”
“Yup. In between fucking it up. I was in and outta prison before I did this seven-year stretch, and even when I was out I came and went. Regret that now. Shoulda stuck around more, tried harder. When I was younger, kept thinking I was gonna find that right thing, ya know? The right job or the right opportunity. And most a my…” He sighed. Went silent for a moment as he cut open bags of freeze-dried dinners and set out cups and bowls. It was still morning, but apparently he wanted something heartier than skimpy oatmeal packets.
“I went looking in the wrong places, let’s put it that way. Kinda dumb like that, I shoulda learned. You wanna trust yer buddies, yer kin, when someone says they heard about some great way to make some easy cash. Know now, ain’t no easy cash—not without consequences. And whatever yer thinking, my priority—in between being a drunk asshole—was wanting my kids to have better. Dreamed of them growing up and getting good jobs, respectable. Crystal did all right. Ain’t met her husband but he sounds okay, works hard. Everyone want coffee?”
“Not me, thanks,” said Imogen while Beck and Tilda nodded. “How old are your boys?”
Gale spooned the dead man’s instant coffee into three mugs. Imogen guessed he probably had no clue what to do with Beck’s Melitta cone; normal people brought instant. “In body, seventeen and fourteen. In the head, young dumb brats. A little slow, maybe got it from me.”
“You’re anything but dumb, Gale.” And Imogen meant it.
“Book dumb.”
“Books aren’t everything, and I say that as a writer of books. You’re smart.”
“Well, Crystal’s mom was smart to get away from me when she did. Saw I wasn’t gonna change and got the hell out. Made sure she gave Crystal the life she deserved—but never shut me outta my daughter’s life. Always love her a little fer that. My boys…” He shook his head and scowled. “They’re a disappointment. I can’t blame ’em ’cause it’s my fault, taught them the wrong things even when I didn’t mean to. And their momma ain’t any better. Those boys are angry. Oldest one’s locked up. In and out of juvie since he was thirteen. He’s mean and hard and thinks with his fists. Probly gonna get himself killed. I worry on that. Worry on it a lot. Still have a tiny bit a hope for Henry. He’s got a soft side. Maybe he’ll straighten out in time.”
The water came to a boil. Gale filled the three mugs. As Imogen watched the steam swirl toward his face, an image came to her of Tilda and Beck, splashing their coffee into his eyes. He turned his back to rummage around for a spoon and she snapped her head toward Beck, then Tilda, and made a little gesture with her bound hands, pantomiming flicking a mug. Beck’s eyes widened, and Tilda nodded—though she looked less keen to scald him than she had…when was it? Two days ago? It felt like they’d been with him for a month.
As if it were the most compelling thing they’d ever seen, they watched him stir the three coffees. Imogen was ready to do her part: spring up and grab the spear as he screamed, clutching his scorched face. But when Gale was done stirring, he held out a single cup—for Imogen to take. “You serve.”
She faltered, caught off guard. He wasn’t going to hand Tilda and Beck their steaming mugs. And once Imogen handed off the cups, Tilda and Beck weren’t close enough to do any real damage. They would jump up to help her, but if anyone was going to douse him with boiling coffee it would have to be Imogen—one mug, that would be her only chance to blind him and seize the spear. Seconds were passing like hours, she was taking too long; she should’ve already done it—
Accepted the mug without hesitation, tossed it in his face—
“Hot coffee’s a weapon in some places,” he said, reading her like a book. “Yer sister’s gonna be real sad if ya don’t deliver her coffee.”
The half-amused smirk on his face said everything: he knew what she’d been debating, and knew she’d failed to act. Ashamed, Imogen got up and handed out the mugs. Tilda, again, wouldn’t look at her. Imogen could almost see her teenage self through Tilda’s eyes, lying there inert beneath her boyfriend. Deciding later that she needed a good story so Tilda wouldn’t kill her. That’s not what happened. But it was believable. Imogen mouthed “sorry” to Beck, who mumbled her thanks and started blowing on the steaming liquid.
As Imogen was about to sit back down she tottered off-balance, spilling over onto her elbow when her tied hands couldn’t break her fall. The world was spinning again. She hitched her shoulder up to her ear so she could rub it, as if that would help.
“Good thing you ain’t a coffee drinker,” Gale said with a laugh. He kept his distance, manning the stoves, coffee in one hand, spear in the other. “Boiling water hurts like a bitch, know so a bit too well. Also know none a you ever stop thinking a ways to take me out.” His gaze traveled from one of them to the next. “Weird how my whole life brought me here. Brought you, too.”
At least he wasn’t angry. If anything, he seemed contemplative, calmer than he’d been since their reckless first meeting; perhaps Slate was finally remote enough to ease his paranoia.
Imogen couldn’t rewrite history, but in hindsight most of their attempted efforts at self-preservation were asinine, starting with that march to the rock shelter to reclaim the iodine tablets. Would it have been so bad if they’d just hightailed it back home? No one ever died from disappointment. And what was the worst that could’ve happened from drinking untreated water? Diarrhea? A regimen of antibiotics? A brain-eating parasite might’ve been better than this.
Beck would never have organized this trip if she’d had another way to force Imogen and Tilda to autopsy their relationship. They’re here because of me. It wasn’t the most linear thought, but Imogen felt the burden of how her floundering reactions—decades’ worth—had led them to converge here, now, just as Gale had said. They’d fumbled their opportunities to leave, and she wondered if that meant something too—if there was something she was supposed to do here, unfinished business that only she could rectify.