Edge of Flight (7 page)
“Nothin' that'd hold up in court. Like I said, too dark.”
A flashlight casts a search beam down the ravine.
“I sure hope she didn't go over.”
“That's one way to get rid of a witness, deputy,” says the biker and laughs.
“Don't even joke about that.”
“That's three miles of white water right there. If she fell into that, she ain't comin' out alive.”
The flashlight's beam sweeps over the water again.
“Nah. She's run off into the woods,” says the deputy.
“A course she did, deputy.”
“She'll find her friends and be safe 'n' sound back in town by tomorrow morning.”
“A course she will.”
“Been a long night.”
“C'mon up to my campsite, deputy. I got somethin' that'll make you forget your troubles.”
The flashlight beam sweeps down the ravine one more time, then disappears along with the voices. I am alone and shaking with exhaustion and betrayal. How can an officer of the law leave a kid lost and alone in the woods? What if I had fallen into the river and died?
It takes a few minutes to steady myself before I can confront my next problem. How am I going to get out of here?
Straight up. That's my first thought. Fifteen feet to the top of the ravine, then find a root or branch or something to haul myself over the top. If I fall, maybe the bush will stop me from tumbling into the river. Maybe. But is there a scalable route to the top? It's impossible to tell from here.
I could traverse back the way I came. At least I know there are handholds and footholds. But will I be able to find them again? It's a longer route than climbing straight up. And if I fall, there is nothing to catch me.
I'd rather head toward the bridge than away from it. It's a simple bridgeâflat, with a metal trellis that supports it from below. If I were standing on a raft on the river, I could grab the lower beams and swing myself up. Then I could shinny up the trellis. But a raft isn't an option. Maybe there's another way to reach the underside.
Maybe I could find enough handholds and footholds to boulder across to the rock wall to my left and reach the bridge. But that's risky. There is one other possible route. A huge, sun-bleached driftwood log lies in the water along the river's edge. It's caught between the boulders of the riverbed and the rock wall of the ravine. The water licks around it but doesn't flow over it. If I use it as a balance beam, maybe I can reach the underside of the bridge.
But if I fall off the log into the riverâ
that's three miles of white water right there
. I'll be careful. I won't fall. Of all the options, it is my best chance.
I ease myself out of the bush and crouch on the log. I don't dare to walk on its slippery surface. So I lie on my belly and straddle it. I grip it between my knees and plunge my arms and legs into the cold water.
Broken-off stubs of branches stick out of the log. I grab them and pull myself forward until I'm beneath the bridge. The metal trellis hangs less than six feet above me.
Almost there.
Carefully, I draw my legs underneath me. Water squelches in my sneakers. Holding tight to the stub of a branch, I try to plant my feet on the log and stand. But I have barely reached a crouch when my left foot slips and plunges into the fast-moving water. I grab the log, lying flat on my belly once again. The bridge hovers above. If only I could stand up.
Ahead, a boulder juts out of the river like an island. The current parts around it, rushing and swirling. Its rough surface looks better for traction than the slick log. I inch forward until I come alongside it. But there is a foot-wide gap between the log and the rock. I reach across the gap with my left arm, fingers clutching the stone. My chest plunges into the icy water. The current rips at my body, trying to drag me downriver.
Ignore it. Focus on the next move. Commit
.
Now the left leg. I swing it over to straddle the rock. My body hangs like a sagging suspension bridge between the rock and the log.
Let go of the log
.
There's no other option. Commit.
The river yanks at me. But I fight it, swing my right hand like a grappling hook at the rock and grab it. My right leg dangles in the current like a piece of driftwood. I heave my leg out of the water. Hunkered on the rock, gasping, I raise my head to look up at the bridge.
The sound of rushing water thunders in my ears. I slowly rise from my crouch. Every inch toward standing is an effort of balance. The water rushes dizzyingly around me. But I focus on my goalâthe solid metal beam of the bridge. Stretching up, I at last touch it and grab hold with both hands.
I wish I had Jeb's strength to hoist myself chin-up style to the lower beam of the bridge. But Rusty taught me raw strength isn't everything. There's always another way. I swing my legs and plant my feet against the rock wall of the ravine. A few steps up the wall take me to horizontal. I kick my legs and wrap them around the beam. For a moment. I hang there upside down. Then I hoist myself over to lie on the beam facedown. My wet clothes cling to my skin. The metal smells like rust, like blood.
A trellis of diagonal struts joins the metal beam to the roadway above. Squirming up one of the struts, I grab the bridge's metal railing and pull myself higher until my head reaches the level of the roadway. I haul one leg onto the surface of the bridge. Dirt and pebbles scrape against my belly as I drag the rest of my body over.
The full moon shines on the empty road. The water below the bridge sounds faraway, now that I've escaped it. Rusty would have been faster and more agile. Jeb would have been stronger. But I did it. I made it to town. I saved myself.
Now I need to save Jeb.
Water squelches from my sneakers with every step on the road into Mount Judea. My clothes hang from my body in sopping clumps. Main Street is shut down for the night. There's no light on at the gas station or the general store. The diner's empty, and the sign on its door is turned to
Closed
. But a light burns at the back of the building. The waitress stands outside, leaning against the brick wall, drinking a cup of coffee. The door to the diner's kitchen is propped open with a chair. Light and the sound of a radio playing country music come from inside the kitchen.
Even after a full day's work, the waitress still looks dolled up, with her blond hair pinned in a perfect bun. I comb my fingers through my wet tangles and walk toward her. I'm ready to ask for help anywhere I can find it.
“Honey, what happened to you?” Her black mascara makes her eyes pop wide.
“I need help,” I say.
“Why, you're the girl that was goin' out climbin' with them boys from the city,” she says. “Now before you say anything, you need somethin' dry on your back and somethin' warm in your belly.”
She takes my arm and hustles me into the kitchen. The bright fluorescent lights are blinding after my long trek through the dark. The ceramic tile floor shines. The stainless-steel counters gleam. Every pot, pan, knife and spatula hangs in its proper place. I blink and squint while the waitress opens a closet door and pulls out a sweatshirt.
“Take your top off, honey. Don't be shy. I got kids. I seen it all. Now put this on. That's right, and sit down whiles I git you somethin' to eat.”
She bustles around, laying food in front of meâsteaming chicken and grits, pecan pie, hot coffee. My hand shakes as I pick up the fork. Once I start eating, I can't stop until it's all gone. The waitress pulls up a stool beside me.
“You look like you're in a mess of trouble, honey. Why don't you tell me what's goin' on?”
The whole story comes rushing out of me. Jeb snooping around in the marijuana patch, the bikers chasing us, the gunshot wound, the truck getting trashed, the deputy and his dealings with the bikers.
“We need to get Jeb to a hospital. But how can we do that, if the deputy's on the side of the bikers?” I ask.
The waitress taps her long red fingernails against her coffee cup. “I never did trust that deputy,” she says. “Them boys was dealin' so much drugs right under his nose, you had to figure he was either dumb as a mule or he was in on it.”
She takes a sip of coffee. “Well, there's the volunteer fire department, but it's run by the deputy's brother, so that's out. Then there's the state troopers, but they're an hour away, and the first thing they'll do is call the sheriff's office. If the deputy's in on it, could be the sheriff's in on it too.”
“What about calling the hospital? We could get them to send an ambulance,” I say.
“Honey, as soon as you call the hospital with a story like that, they're gonna call the police and the fire department. Emergency responders. Y'see? It'll go right back to the sheriff and his deputy. You want anything official done around here, it goes right back to the sheriff's office. Everything.”
“So what does that leave?” I ask, my spirits sinking.
“That leaves nothing much else but us,” she says.
“Us?”
“Yep,” she says. “Us.”
The waitress whisks my plates off the counter and washes them.
“What did you say your name was, hon?” she asks, drying her hands on a dishtowel.
“Vanisha.”
She takes my hand and squeezes it tight, as a mother would. Although, she's about the furthest thing from my own mother I could possibly imagine.
“I'm Loretta. Best waitress in Newton County,” she says. “And more than just a pretty face.”
She opens the closet again, trades her high heels for a pair of sneakers and takes a large leather purse off a hook. “Tell me again what them bikers looked like,” she says.
I describe the big, burly guy with the Grim Reaper on his jacket. She nods. “That's Shank. Who else?”
“The other guy had black hair in a ponytail and tattoos all down his arms.”
“They call him Blade. Is that it?”
“That's all I saw.”
Loretta walks over to the refrigerator, pulls out a jug of amber liquid and pours some into an unmarked glass bottle. She closes the bottle with a screw cap.
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
“Honey, if I know them boys, they're half drunk and stoned already. They'll pass out eventually. I'm just gonna help them along with a little home brew and Southern charm.”
She pops the bottle into her purse.
“So, we're going to put them to sleep?” I ask. It doesn't sound like a foolproof plan.
“That's right, honey. Neutralize the enemy. Then we can go on in and rescue your friend.”
She pulls something else out of her purse. It looks like a pen, or a miniature flashlight. She tucks it into her hair so it's hidden in the curls of her updo.
“Itty-bitty camera,” she says before I have time to ask. “I been usin' it to spy on my girlfriend's no-good, cheatin' husband. Looks like it'll come in handy again.”
“What for?”
“Honey, if we're gonna nail the deputy, we're gonna need some proof.”
“Nail the deputy?” I say.
“Sure. You said he was corrupt, didn't you? Let's go in there and get some evidence.”
“I don't want to nail the deputy. I just want to get Jeb to a hospital.”
Loretta waves her hand. Her red fingernails flash like warning signs. “Come on now, honey. Might as well kill two birds with one stone.”
Driving through the woods in Loretta's truck, I can't stop worrying about Jeb.
Hang tight
, I tell him in my head.
We're coming
.
I try not to doubt Loretta and her Southern-charm plan. Maybe she's right. Maybe these guys will just drink themselves into oblivion and we can waltz in under their noses and rescue Jeb from the cave.
What other choice do we have anyway? Gather a posse of hunters and go in there, guns blazing? That's a sure way to get someone shot and killed.
As we round the last switchback before our campsite, Loretta tells me to climb over the seats and hide on the floor in the back.
“There's a blanket back there somewheres,” she says. “Git under it. We don't want them boys to see you.”
I cram myself onto the floor below the truck's tiny backseat. Something hard and lumpy digs into my ribs. I pull it out from under me. It's a locked rifle case. Somehow, it's reassuring to know Loretta has protection. Still, how much use is a rifle, locked and stowed in the truck, if things start to go wrong? I slide it onto the backseat, then pull down the blanket and huddle beneath it on the floor.
“No matter what happens, you stay there till I come and git you,” Loretta says. “Remember, I know them boys, and they all know me. I know how to handle 'em. You don't.”
Those are her last words. A few minutes later, the truck jolts to a stop, and I feel the driver's door open, then slam shut.
“Why, deputy!” The waitress's voice sounds high and cheerful. Flirty. “You're surely makin' it a late night.”
“Loretta,” comes the voice of the deputy. “What brings you out here?”
His voice sounds defensive. Guilty. Like someone who's been caught shoplifting a chocolate bar and tries to hide it behind his back.
Loretta's voice is warm and sweet as honey. “My brother's got a huntin' camp a little ways farther on. I was fixin' to visit him, and then I spotted y'all. And I said to myself, them boys look like they could do with a little company.”
“We surely could, Loretta. What's that you've got there in the bottle?” asks the deputy.
“A little brew of my own, Jim. Care for a taste?”
“Don't mind if I do⦔
The banter continues. Loretta's voice, the deputy's, and the voices of two bikers, Shank and Blade. Loretta's Southern-charm offensive seems to go on for hours. Lying beneath the blanket, I drift in and out of sleep. Bits of conversation and laughter mix in my head with nightmares of dark caves, blood-soaked wounds and Jeb moaning in pain.
