Edge of Flight (6 page)

My mind goes back to Jeb. The bullet, the blood.
He could die within twenty-four hours.
I haul in the rope and coil it beside a tree. Down below, Rusty gives a final wave and heads back toward the cave.

I switch my tight climbing shoes for sneakers and take off my harness. The orange triangles nailed to the trees make the hiking trail easy to find. I set foot on the trail and take a deep breath. From here to Mount Judea, I am on my own.

chapter twelve

Behind me, the bikers' campfire crackles. Its light flickers, but the men are nothing more than dark shapes among the trees. Their voices mingle with the sound of smashing glass. Are they still trashing the truck, or have they moved on to breaking beer bottles against rocks? I turn away and try to put them out of my mind. We've escaped them. Score one for us.

The trail runs along the bare rock of the clifftop. Twilight is fading quickly, but it's too risky to turn on my headlamp this close to the bikers. There is still enough light to see by.

A motorbike roars on the dirt roadway, and a headlight flashes through the woods. I freeze, but the headlight passes by. Is one of the bikers leaving, or are more arriving? I stumble on rocks and tree roots. There's no point in twisting an ankle.
Slow down, Vanisha.
But how long will it take to get to Mount Judea?

The trail veers from the edge of the cliff and leads into the woods. At first, the shapes of the trees remain visible. But after a few minutes of walking, the forest becomes nothing more than a dark blur. The trail is a grayish glow that cuts through the blackness on either side. I can't see more than a few feet ahead of me. At every step, the world around me grows a little darker. It is like walking in fog.

Another motorcycle roars down the road. I freeze, but the headlight flashes and disappears. The sound of the engine fades, and the forest seems darker than ever. A pinpoint of light startles me. But it is only a firefly. Another firefly glimmers, then another, like the glitter of fairy light in the woods.

I step in what seems to be the direction of the trail, but find myself wading through tall grass and brambles. This can't be right. I turn on my headlamp. Suddenly, the shapes of the trees jump out—spindly branches and vines snaking around slender, crooked trunks. Something scurries in the underbrush. My chest clenches. Calm down. It's just some critters, as Jeb would say. Don't be a-skeered of the critters.

Jeb.

The headlamp's beam falls on an orange triangle marker on a tree. A few steps through the waist-high weeds take me back to the trail. But as I walk farther, the trail becomes narrower and narrower until it is not much more than a deer track through the woods. I turn off my headlamp. Pitch darkness—I cannot see my hand in front of my face. I fumble to turn it on again. Hopefully, the batteries will last. There is no way I can continue without light.

Crickets chirr. Mosquitoes bite my arms and legs. The sky darkens. The stars come out. I walk and I walk. I walk until I have no idea how long I've been walking or how far I've gone. Only the orange markers on the trees tell me I'm heading in the right direction. That, and the feeling of going downhill. Down, toward the river and the town. Down, toward help.

My headlamp flickers. A couple of sharp taps with my finger steady the beam. Are my eyes playing tricks on me, or is the beam growing dimmer?

Crack!

I stop in my tracks. It sounded like a branch breaking. I shine my headlamp around, but its beam shows only the black, spindly forms of trees and their weird shadows.

Crack!

I turn my headlamp off. If someone is coming, they must have a light. No one could find their way through the woods in this darkness. Rooted to the spot, I look around. There's no flashlight beam.

Maybe it's an animal? A deer? A bear? What else? Lynx, bobcat, cougar? Do they hunt at night? I crouch, trying to make myself invisible, and wait, my heart racing. Nothing happens. Seconds go by, then minutes.
If something were stalking me, it would have got me by now.
There's only one thing to do. Keep going, one foot in front of the other.

I twist the headlamp to turn it on, but no light appears. Panic throbs in my gut.
Breathe deeply. Calm down.
I fiddle with the headlamp. A light flickers. Flickers again. Then, a steady glow. Dimmer than before, but steady.

I take a few steps forward. The path seems to arc to the right. Around the bend, a warm, orange glow lights up a small patch of the woods. A campfire.

Another
crack!
sends a shower of sparks spinning and drifting toward the sky.

The path leads past the campfire. In the firelight, the dark shapes of people move around the small clearing. Mellow voices thrum through the darkness. Hunters. A couple of the good ol' boys, as the waitress in the diner would say.

Their campsite is not far off the trail—maybe fifty or seventy-five feet through the woods. Why not run over there and ask them for help?

A burst of laughter, deep-throated. Their voices are garbled. How many men are there? Two? Three? More?

What if they're drunk? What if one of them grabs me?

It won't happen, Vanisha
. But they're complete strangers. I'm a girl, alone, in the night. In the middle of nowhere. It's not safe. Jeb already got us into trouble messing around where he didn't belong.

I have to be careful—for my sake, and for Jeb's. I'm Jeb's only hope. I have to protect myself.

My quiet footsteps take me past the campsite and beyond, farther into the woods. In less than a minute, the light of the campfire and the sound of voices have disappeared. I run for as long as I can and then walk. I am surrounded by the chirring of insects, the rustling underbrush, and sometimes the roar of an engine on the unseen road. I walk so far, I begin to second-guess myself. I should have stopped. I should have asked for help.

It's too late now.

My headlamp grows dimmer and dimmer until at last the battery dies. No amount of fiddling will coax a light out of the dark bulb.

I stand stock-still. It's critical not to get turned around and lose my place on the trail. Overhead, the treetops make black patterns against the glowing night sky. There are thousands of stars, but no moon. Maybe I should sit down and wait for it to rise. It will be full tonight. Maybe it will cast enough light for me to see my way.

But how much time will I lose if I wait? One hour? Two? Hours that might be critical to Jeb.

I close my eyes. The woods are so black, it makes no difference whether my eyes are open or closed. But closing them helps me focus. I hear the sigh of my breath, my pulse hammering in my eardrums and the sustained note of cricket song. But beneath those sounds, there's a low, steady, undercurrent of rushing water. The river. It must be close by. If I find the riverbank, I can follow it to the bridge and take the road into town. I might even be able to see the lights of Mount Judea on the opposite bank.

I take a step forward. A tree branch hits me in the face. Am I going in the right direction? Now that I can hear the rushing water, the sound seems to surround me. I take a few more steps. Weeds as tall as my thighs brush against my legs. This is hopeless. Surely I've lost the trail.

Then I see a light.

A firefly, I think at first. It is bright and white, not flickering orange like a campfire. But my eyes are playing tricks on me. The light is far away and much bigger than a firefly's glow. It doesn't float and disappear. It stays steady, like a cabin's porch light, maybe. A stranger's cabin. This time, I am ready to throw myself on the kindness of strangers.

Brambles scrape my legs. I hold my hands in front of me to push away tree branches. Every step closer makes the light more distinct—not one light, but two. Not a cabin, but a pair of headlights from a car parked on the road.

The rushing water is louder now. The river must be close. That means the bridge into town is close.

I creep to the edge of the road and peek out from the cover of dense bushes.

A car door slams. A man walks in front of the headlights. He is tall and lean, with a gun at his waist and a ranger-style hat on his head.

It's the deputy.

Thank goodness.

I step onto the road.

chapter thirteen

I am about to call out to him when something makes me freeze. There is a second figure in the shadows behind the cruiser's headlights. My jaw clenches. My voice dies in my throat. It's a big, burly man with black hair and a beard. And he's straddling a motorcycle.

The biker dismounts and swaggers toward the deputy. As he walks in front of the headlights, I see his face—the same man who trashed Jeb's truck. He slaps the deputy on the shoulder in a friendly way, and the deputy laughs. Then the biker hands him a package. At that moment, I know the package contains one of two things. Money or drugs.

I take a step backward. A twig cracks beneath my foot. The men's heads turn in my direction.

“Hey!” the deputy shouts. “Hey, you!”

He runs toward me. But I dodge into the woods, keeping close to the side of the road, where there is just enough light to see by. My feet feel light and swift. I duck under branches and deke around trees, past the cruiser, past the motorbike. Then I dart back onto the road, where the ground is smoother. I feel like a track-and-field runner. Fast. Sure-footed. My arms pump. My feet fly over the dirt road. It slopes downward, and I pick up speed. I feel as though nothing can stop me. I round a bend in the road. The forest ends, not far ahead of me. I see the river and the bridge into town.

An engine roars. I leap back into the woods and thrash through the underbrush. Brambles tear at my clothes, but I know it is not far now—not far to the river, to the town and to help.

Who can I ask for help, if the deputy is friends with the bikers' gang? I don't know. I just know I have to get there.

I climb a steep rise, panting and choking on my breath. Suddenly the woods open up, and the hiking trail appears again at the edge of a steep drop. Fifteen feet below the river rushes a mass of frothing, churning white water.

I grab a tree branch to stop myself from pitching forward. The ground is muddy from the river spray and the rain. Across the river, the lights of Mount Judea shine, and the full moon rises, at last, above the trees. On my right, only fifty feet downriver, is the bridge.

There is no time to waste. The deputy is thrashing through the woods behind me. I turn and run, my feet slipping and sliding in the mud. But as I approach the bridge, I see the form of a man straddling a motorcycle. The biker is blocking the way across.

I spin around. My foot catches on a root in the mud. I fall headfirst, pitching over the embankment. My hands grapple for a hold and find a thick tree root. Sobbing and panting, I cling to it. My cheek presses against the ravine. White water sprays against my legs.

Above me, I hear the deputy shout, “Hey, you! Hey, kid! C'mon out here!”

It's time to give up, Vanisha. It's time to beg for help
. How long can I hold on to this root? And even if I can hold on until he leaves, will I be able to pull myself back up?

The deputy will save me, won't he? He's a law-enforcement officer. I'll promise not to rat him out. I'll say I didn't see anything. I'll promise…but what about Jeb? If I tell the deputy where Jeb is, how do I know he won't tell the bikers? How do I know he won't let them have their revenge? No, I can't risk trusting the deputy.

Below, the river froths and boils. To my left, a gnarly shrub grows at the base of the ravine, near the water's edge. It's not far. A couple of good bouldering moves would take me there. If only I could find a foothold.

I probe with my feet along the rock face. There's a pocket to shove my right foot into, and a solid ledge for my left. I ease my weight onto my legs and feel the relief in my arms. My target is in sight.

A large rock sticks out of the cliff to my left. I try it as a handhold. It's damp but solid. Letting go of my trusty root, I match hands, match feet, and slide myself sideways across the rock face. So far, so good.

I slink my left hand along the rock wall, searching for another hold. A rock juts from the cliff face, but it is smooth and wet, too slippery to hold. Above it, my fingers dig into a deep rock pocket. I tug down. It's good and solid. Now for the next foothold.

Ignore the rushing river. Focus on finding a hold
. A rock sticks out like a steppingstone. I pose my left foot on it, gently. It seems solid. I begin to shift my weight. But the rock breaks off beneath my foot. My leg flails in the air. I grip the cliff face tighter and hug my body against it.

My heart pounds. My pulse throbs in my throat. I breathe deeply.
Get control.
Everything's okay.
My left foot taps along the rock face until it finds another place to stand. A smaller foothold, but solid. Gradually, I shift my weight onto it. It holds. I take a deep breath, refocus, match hands, match feet. One more lateral move takes me directly above the gnarly shrub.

I crouch and reach one leg down into the basket formed by the shrub's thick, tough branches. I set my foot on the base of the trunk that grows out of the rock. Bombproof, as Jeb would say.

Jeb.

I reach the other foot down. The trunk holds. My stance is steady. I lower my body into the shelter of the branches. Tucked into a ball, at last I feel safe.

The white noise of the river rushes below. But from above come the voices of the deputy and the biker.

“You see where she went?” asks the deputy.

“Must've run off in the woods somewheres.”

“You catch a good look at her face?”

“Couldn't see. Too dark.”

“Looked like a high school kid.”

“Yeah. Prob'ly a bush party. Underage drinkin'.”

“Makin' out with her boyfriend.”

Laughter.

“How much d'you reckon she saw?” says the deputy.