Knifepoint (4 page)

“We've seen the mill. Let's go down the mountain and I'll take you to Broken Bridges. There's some pretty cool stuff to see down there too.”

The wranglers travel the Broken Bridges trail at least once every couple of hours. Hikers use it too, lots. It runs along the riverside, in plain view of the water and its constantly shifting audience of rafters and kayakers. Lots of people.

People who can help get me out of this insane situation that I've suddenly found myself in.

The knife's blade glints in the sunshine. I can see it at the edge of my vision. He's pulled it out to frighten me. He's watching me, waiting for me to lose my head and wig out. I keep my eyes glued to the ground.

“What do you say?” I ask.

He sighs, almost happily. I listen as the knife slides back into its sheath. I look over to where he's sitting. He stretches out in the morning sun, catlike. He grins. “Nah,” he says. “I like it up here.” He's in no rush, I can see that. He pats the ground beside him. “Have a seat, Jilly Bean.” My heart sinks.

I don't want to go over there. I don't want to sit next to him. Next to that knife. What can I say? I've run out of words. I don't know how to steer this conversation, don't know what to say to a deranged guy who carries a knife and presses himself against virtual strangers. What do I do?

I know there's a cell tower on top of this ridge. I've seen it dozens of times. If I can get to my phone inside my saddlebag, I can call for help. I kick myself for taking it out of my chest pocket this morning—but why wouldn't I have? I always do when I ride. I don't want it to shake itself out when I'm galloping through the forest.

Phoning out is a good plan, but I can't call anyone without first getting to my horse. I look over at Whiskey. She's only a few feet away, but I need a good reason if I'm going to be walking that way instead of toward Darren.

“Okay.” I shrug, making sure I sound like I have a choice in the matter.

“We can stay for a while. But I gotta re-tie the horses or else they'll tangle in their ropes.”

I gesture with my thumb to where Whiskey's rope has slid to the bottom of the tree trunk. She grazes calmly, oblivious to my near-death situation.

I squint up at the sky, shading my eyes against the sun. “And I need my sunscreen. It's hotter than a Texas desert out here.” That was a cheesy thing to say, I think. But then, I'm not really thinking straight, am I? It's hard to cough up light banter once you've found out your companion is a raving sociopath.

Darren's obviously not worried that I'm going to bolt, because he nods and waves me toward the horses. But he watches me all the same. I feel his eyes on me as I move—
Slow! Keep it casual,
Jill!—
toward Whiskey. Just a few steps.

There.

When I reach the horse, an outrageous idea hits me. Her rope, having slipped down the tree trunk, is on the ground now. I could easily untie her without him noticing.

Moving calmly, I step directly on the lead rope. I twist my foot slightly as I pass Whiskey's lowered head. I keep moving, toward her hindquarters, where the saddlebag sits. I catch the other section of rope with my other foot and tug on it. The quick-release knot slides apart on the grass. I blink, stunned that it worked so easily. What if I'd tied her with a bowline this morning instead of a quick-release knot? What then?

But I didn't tie a bowline. Today, for some reason, I didn't tie a bowline. I send the universe a silent message of thanks.

Don't look at the rope on the
ground
. I yank my eyes up. Reach for the saddlebag. My hands shake as I unbuckle the flap, and I need to stop what I'm doing for a second. I take a deep breath. No fear here.

No. Fear. Here.

I slide my hand into the saddlebag and grab the phone.
Yes
. I flip it open.

And this is right about where the plan fails. Now that I've got the phone in my hand, I can't see to dial any numbers unless I take it out of the saddlebag.

Darren saves me the trouble of making a decision about this problem. He must have sensed I was up to something. With the stealth of a cougar he's crept up behind me. His hand snakes out and grabs mine. He pulls my hand—and the phone—out of the saddlebag. He turns me around to face him. I swallow.

“Oops,” I say brightly. “That's not my sunscreen, now, is it?”

Darren's eyes glitter as he looks into my face. Cold.

“You weren't thinking of calling for help, now, were you, Jilly Bean?” He speaks softly. “Something that stupid could get you killed, you know.”

His voice is calm, but his actions are violent as he wrests the phone out of my hand. He takes a couple of steps backward. His eyes bore into mine. Then he raises his hand above his head and slams the phone down hard, against a rock.

SMASH!

Again.
SMASH!

Again.
SMASH!

The phone splinters into a thousand fragments that catch and reflect the sunlight. My head swims at the scene I'm witnessing. Fear stabs at me again and I push it away. I have to stay calm. I can't give him what he wants.

As he pummels the phone against the rock, time suspends itself. I think about my life in clips, like a PowerPoint slideshow. Mum. Dad. Tyler. School.

My friends. Tasha telling me I was crazy to come and work in the country.

Hannah telling me I should lie about my age and work with them at the nightclub instead.

“C'mon, Jill-O,” she had said. “It's easy money. Guys
love
the shooter girls.

You'll make huge tips.”

But I had shaken my head. “No thanks,” I'd said. “I don't want to be groped on a nightly basis by drunken idiots.”

Jeez, Jill. I guess you' d rather
be groped by a crazy knife-wielding
sociopath instead.

I can't help myself. At this last thought, I break into deep, braying laughter.

Abruptly Darren freezes. His eyes narrow. I stop laughing. He throws the hollow shell of the phone aside. Bends over. Lifts the leg of his jeans. He's going for his knife.

Suddenly the fear returns, sharp and hot. It joins my focus, giving me desperate strength.

Without thinking, I swing my leg back and drive the pointed toe of my boot forward as hard as I can. Into his face. I hear a crunch, followed by a wet sucking sound.

Darren roars in pain. He falls forward, on his knees, the knife temporarily forgotten. Splinters of white teeth drop from his bloodied mouth.

Wow. That was amazing.
I
did that?

Darren looks up at me, surprised, like I've betrayed him. His face is a wet red mess. My stomach heaves.

I turn and grab Whiskey's saddle horn. I swing up as Darren lurches to his feet, one hand clamped against his mouth. My feet just find the stirrups as he grabs for my leg with his other hand.

Frantically I shake him off and pound Whiskey with my heels. She pitches forward. Away from the bleeding, staggering fiend beside us.

Darren roars again. He snatches at Whiskey's tail. I hammer on her flanks.

And just like that, we're away. My heart swells up, a balloon filling my entire body with relief. My breath squeaks through the narrow opening in my throat.
We're good, we're good,
we're good, we're good.
The sound bite skips in my head, over and over and over.

Then the saddle slips.

Chapter Eight

Not much. Just a bit. And with it, my heart gives a sudden lurch and lands in my stomach. I forgot that I had loosened off Whiskey's saddle. How could I forget?

Well, really. It's not like I could've stood there and tightened up her cinch while Darren-the-wacko was smashing my lifeline to smithereens. There wasn't time.

I feel the saddle slip again, and I yank myself in the other direction. I might be able to keep it straight just by jerking it back into place every time it slips. Darren's outraged shouts follow us as we plunge down the trail. He's fast, for a guy who's just had his face rearranged. Not as fast as the horse.

But if I fall off… The saddle slips again, and a blast of adrenaline rockets through my body.

My mind races, flipping through choices like a stack of cards. I could slow to a walk and try to yank the saddle back into place. But Darren might catch up—and the saddle would still be loose, besides. Or I could quickly dismount, tighten the cinch and jump back on before Darren catches me. Right. With these shaking fingers? Or…I could just see how far I can go with a loose cinch.

Maybe— Without warning, the saddle slides clean around Whiskey's barrel, taking me with it. On my way down, I grab for her mane and halter. Small bushes whip my face as I find myself suddenly at ground level. I duck and shut my eyes.

My grabbing arms pull Whiskey's head to the side. Fists full of mane and rope, I heave and scramble up onto her back.

But she's not having any of it. Like any horse, she knows the saddle belongs on her back, not on her belly. Whiskey bucks, trying to get free of the strange sensation. She's scared. I'm scared.

She bucks again. I cling.

She runs faster. Realizing she's still stuck with the saddle, she bucks again, serious this time. She throws her head down at the same moment that her rear comes up. I can't hang on. With a heavy thump, Whiskey's butt knocks me clean off her back, like a catapult. I cartwheel into space.

I hit the ground with a
whump
and lie there, gasping for air. I can't get any. Someone's emptied out my lungs and tied off my throat. I hear Whiskey's hoofbeats as she thunders off down the path. Unable to breathe, I swirl into darkness.

Chapter Nine

My head hurrrrrrrrrts. Augh.
Aaugggh.

I open my eyes slowly. I come to, surrounded by green. I'm looking up into the dark forest canopy. With a slow, dreadful precision, the morning's events slide into place in my memory. I stifle a moan as everything comes back into focus. I close my eyes again. If Darren is still around, I don't want to know. Not just yet.

My head is pounding. I must still be alive.

I crack my eyelids a bit, surveying the scene. I'm lying in the dirt, on my back, with my legs splayed out in front of me. Blood smears the toe of my right boot. It mixes with the dried-up horse-shit, and I almost smile. I wonder how
that
tasted? My jeans are streaked with dirt. My chaps are off, piled in a heap beside Darren, who's sitting on a rock ten feet away. I feel a wash of terror.

The knife is out again, and Darren is cleaning his fingernails with the tip of the blade. He's humming, absorbed in his sick grooming ritual. As I watch, a tiny rivulet of red trickles from underneath one nail. I suppress a shudder of revulsion.

Focus
.
Not fear.

I tear my eyes away from the bleeding mess and shift my attention to the noises around us. I strain my ears, but all I can hear are the leaves of the aspen trees around us whispering in the breeze.

I look around without moving my head. We're up high, on an outcropping.

I'm lying in a clearing with my back up against a small cliff of dirt. I'm sore all over after being pitched off Whiskey's back. I curl my toes inside my boots.

No pain. I can still feel my legs. Good.

Slowly I flex the muscles in my arms. Where are my fingers? I can't feel them. Concentrating, I will them to move. Ah. There they are, somewhere above my head. They're tingling a bit. I try to move my hands apart, but I can't.

I think my wrists have been tied.

My shoulder throbs where Darren twisted it earlier. I look back at him, making sure he's still intent upon his macabre grooming. Then I steal a quick peek up above me.

My heart sinks. He's tied me up. My hands are knotted together and then tied to an exposed tree root in the crumbling cliff face. The root is old and gnarled, covered in green lichen. I can't see past it to the ledge above, so I can't tell how big the tree is. Damn.

But in looking around, I've placed myself. We're on the west ridge. There's an aspen grove below us—an army of white trunks that march into the woods as far as the eye can see. There's only one grove like it anywhere near the ranch.

I must have made it pretty far on Whiskey before I fell off. Either that or Darren dragged me here. Surveying the state of my jeans, I figure he probably dragged me.

But now he's the stupid one. Because the river runs right beside the aspen grove below us. And right beside the river runs the main trail. Darren won't know this. He can't hear the river over the constant
ssssshhh
ing of the aspens.

It's a good thing he stopped where he did. If he hadn't been halted by the steep embankment, he'd have kept dragging me until he stumbled on the river. Then he'd have turned around and taken me right back into the bushes. And I'd be another statistic.

But I'm not a statistic yet. And I don't plan to be either.

I look up at the blue sky. Around at the shadows. I figure we've been gone a couple of hours. If the eleven o'clock ride went out on the river path, like the one-hour trips almost always do, there's bound to be a whole string of people passing below me in the next while.

My heart beats faster at the thought of being rescued.

I look at Darren. He stares back. He knows I'm awake now.

My hope drains fast. I might not have very long.

“Well, well,” he drawls. A misshapen grin twists his ruined face, and my gut knots with a sudden rush of adrenaline.

“Seems like Jilly Bean's gotten herself into a whole lot of trouble,” he says.

Except, without his teeth, it comes out:

Theemth like Zilly beanth gotten herthelf
into a whole lot of twouble.
I bite my lips against a sudden smile.

“You better not try anything thtoopid again,” he lisps. With a demented leer, Darren brings the knife up into full view.

My urge to smile vaporizes. He turns the knife this way and that. I can't take my eyes off the enormous shiny blade.