On the Run (8 page)

He listened for a while, but tiredness crept up on him little by little, covering him like a cloak. He tried to shrug it off but he was losing the battle. The sound of the river cut through the voices and other night noises.
“Shhhhh,”
it said, dragging him down.

I need to know
.

These words came to him, and his eyes flickered open. No matter how many pocketknives he was given he still needed to know where the money had come from. He sighed and turned over. The mattress squeaked on the floorboards. He found a comfortable position and closed his eyes again.

What are they arguing about? Why do we have to “sit tight”?

Why couldn't he just be happy? Everything was good. Everything had been
great
all afternoon.
Let it go. They'll be fine in the morning.

He rolled onto his back, arms folded across his chest.

“Shhhhh,”
said the river, but Ben fought it. He would find out. He would listen to their conversation. He would learn where they were heading, what they were doing.

Ben reached over the side of his mattress and felt inside his backpack. His hand touched a days-old pear from school. He laid the pear aside on the floorboards, then felt in the bag for his camera. He ran his thumbs over the buttons, switched it on, and placed it on the green metal trunk. He sat up and framed a wide shot of the cabin. It was very dark, but the camera was good in low light. He hit the “record” button, and the red light shone. He threw some clothes on top, covering the red light, and he sent out a prayer that he had enough battery to catch their conversation.

His head hit the inflatable pillow, and he tumbled into a dark well of sleep.

 

EVIDENCE

“Sometimes I wish we hadn't done it,” Dad said.

Ben waited, his mouth dry. He pressed the video camera speaker to his ear, listening over the burble and swish of river. He sat on the bank, his back against a tree. He had escaped the cabin with his backpack and camera before anyone else woke. The sky grew orange, but the sun had not yet risen over the wall of sandstone on the other side of the river.

The picture on the camera's flip-screen was too dark to see, and the sound was low, so he kept the speaker pressed to his ear, swatting at mosquitoes on his ankles and neck.

“It's too late now. You got us in. You get us out,” said Mum's voice.

“I hate this place.”

“Welcome to the club,” Mum said. “Why didn't you think about that before you drove us all the way up here?” Then, in a quieter voice, “What about the kids? What are they thinking?”

Sometimes the words weren't clear, but Ben filled in the gaps for himself.

“I didn't have a lot of time. And the kids're fine. They're
kids
.”

“Just because—”

“As soon as we get the passports we go,” Dad hissed.

More shuffling sounds. No speaking for a while. Ben listened with every cell, muscles tight, breath short. He wondered if he should scan forward. Someone lay down on an air mattress, and it squeaked softly on the floorboards in the background.

“Worst case, we can't get the passports, we go into the desert, somewhere that doesn't even exist.”

“Great,” Mum said. “Sounds fantastic. I've always wanted to live in the desert, Ray. If you're falling apart here imagine what you'll be like out there.”

“Don't talk to me like that!” he snapped.

“I just wish you'd listened to me in the beginning.”

Ben waited for a long time but there was nothing more. Just Dad snoring loudly. Mum must have elbowed him because the snoring stopped. Three short, sharp snorts. Then silence.

Ben scanned forward but that was it. He rested the camera on his lap and listened to it over again. He pulled his notebook and pencil from his backpack and wrote these words:

Wish we hadn't done it.

As soon as we get the passports we go.

Disappear into the desert.

He reread the notes. Passports. That was the most important piece of evidence. Where were they going? Dad always said that he knew Australia was the greatest country on earth so why would anyone want to go anywhere else. Even when Ben pleaded to go on vacation to Fiji or New Zealand like some kids in his class, Dad said no. Ben ran his fingers over the words on the page. He figured that this was what a real detective would do—chew over the evidence, ratchet through the possibilities.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe they really were just going on vacation. Maybe they were getting passports for Fiji or New Zealand and were only stopping in at the cabin for a few days on the way to the airport. Dad was probably joking about the desert. Ben let out a breath and bit his bottom lip. Sometimes he wished that his imagination wasn't quite so good. He could never walk down a dark hallway or put out the garbage or stay home by himself without thinking scary thoughts.

He went to his raft and uncovered it. He took one end in his hands and struggled down over the rocks, carefully laying it in the water. He crouched and crawled on board, floating at the shallow edge of the river. Water rushed beneath him. The raft wobbled. Some of the grass ties split with the pressure of his body so he shifted his weight, which made the back of the raft move away from the river's edge. He scrambled for balance.

The ties continued to split. Ben clutched the narrow branches like he was a baby and they were his mama. He fell into knee-deep water, standing quickly, the freezing river ejecting him. The raft was in the middle of the river now, drifting toward the far bank, where it would be swept downstream and over the falls.

Ben was not a strong swimmer. He moved from knee-deep to waist-deep water with a sharp in-breath, the cold pinching him. He waded until he was chest-deep, the force of the water pulling him forward. He pushed off a rock with his toes and surged toward the raft, reaching for the back left-hand edge with two fingers.

He caught it, clamped it with his thumb, and pulled back, getting a better grip with his other hand. He swam with everything he had, trying to drag the damaged raft back toward the boulders that stretched halfway across the river.

The relentless pull of water made Ben panic. He was losing the battle. Just as he decided he needed to let go of the raft or go over the waterfall, his foot touched a rock at the river's bottom. He dug in and pulled hard against the current and, finally, nudged up against the large, smooth, mossy boulders that reached out across the river. He hung on, breathing hard, feeling alive.

After a few minutes he began the difficult climb up the slippery rocks. At the top he collapsed, panting and wet. He laughed. His first attempt at building a raft, at building anything other than clay figures and miniature stop-motion sets, had been a disaster. He slapped at mosquito bites on his neck and face and arms.

Wish we hadn't done it.

Passports.

It
. What did Dad wish they hadn't done?

Ben stood and hauled the loosely connected branches of his raft along the boulders and up onto the riverbank, dropping them next to his notebook and camera. He took the knife from his pocket, flicked out a blade, and cut the remaining grasses away. The knife was sharp and worked well. He headed off into the heavy shadow of the trees, and after a time he came across some tough, rootlike vines growing along the ground at the base of a hoop pine. They would do.

The raft needed bracing, something going across to hold the longer branches together. Ben remembered this from a school excursion to the maritime museum in third grade. He'd seen a giant raft that had been across the Pacific Ocean. It had a sail and cross-bracing.

He worked as sunrise turned to daylight, wondering if the physical work and the hunger were making him any less fat. He hoped so. Nobody called for him, and he heard no other human sounds for a long time. He sawed a branch into three equal lengths, gnawing away at it with the tiny saw blade on his knife. He carved grooves in the longer branches and laid the shorter pieces across to brace the raft. He lashed his new raft together with the vines, working quickly, his body moving constantly to keep the mosquitoes away. They ate his ears and ankles for breakfast.

It.

Wish we hadn't done it.

Sold the business?
Ben wanted to believe it, but he couldn't. He knew how much his parents hated the wrecking business. They'd started losing money the second Dad bought it.

Ben had done well to record their conversation, but now he needed to discover where the money came from, why they needed passports, where they were going. He needed to interrogate his father, to pry and uncover more evidence. He had somehow become a detective years before he ever expected to. It was scarier and less fun than he had imagined.

He pulled a vine tight and knotted it. The raft was finished.

Bang!

He ducked, pressing himself into the rough bark of his raft. He had never heard a real gunshot before, but that was what it sounded like.

 

THE HUNT

Ben watched, eyes alert, pupils black and big as marbles, glaring through the gloom of the pine forest. His father skulked through the trees higher up the hill, kicking pine needles and turning over rotting logs with a brown-booted foot. He twitched and spun at the slightest sign of movement. He was carrying the rifle from the cabin.

Ben had played millions of hours of games, and he wouldn't have thought that seeing a person with a real gun would bother him, but it did. Dad seemed nervous and unnatural with it. Ben wondered if he had ever held a gun before. He didn't seem to be holding it the right way. Not that Ben knew what the right way was.

He wanted to call out from behind the tree but he was struck silent. He thought of his camera and notebook and bent down to gather his things, throwing the notebook into his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. He turned the camera on, hit “record,” and poked the lens out from behind the tree. What was Dad hunting for?

Me.
That was the answer that came to him. But the voice came from the same part of Ben's mind that told him to run when he was walking back from the bathroom in the middle of the night. It was the same part of his mind that his stories came from. The fear place.

Dad zigzagged down the hill, about ninety feet away. Ben kept the camera trained on him. Dad tucked himself in behind a large fallen tree and crouched. He pointed the rifle out into the forest, deadly still. Something moved to his right.
Bang!
Another shot and the movement was gone.

“Dad!” Ben called without thinking, training the lens on his father. Dad turned. Ben put a hand out from behind the tree in surrender and lowered the camera. Dad shook his head. He motioned silently, impatiently, for Ben to come toward him. Ben wanted to cover his raft but he was afraid of bringing attention to it, so he left it lying there on the ground between the tree line and the river. Ben tucked in beside Dad at the fallen tree. It was crawling with green ants.

“What are you doing?” Dad whispered.

“Just … hangin' around,” Ben said.

“What time'd you get up?”

“Early.”

“Well, you're lucky you're still alive, scaring me like that.”

Ben stared at the rifle in Dad's hands. He couldn't help it.

“Did you fix it?” Ben whispered. The weapon was made of dark brown timber, black metal.

“Got some stuff for it yesterday down the coast. Cleaned it up this morning.”

“Have you ever used one before?” Ben asked.

Dad shrugged. “Can't be that hard. Your pop used it.”

“Did he ever show you how?”

“No,” Dad whispered.

“Why are we whispering?” Ben asked.

“Rabbits,” Dad said. “You seen any?”

Ben thought about the light gray rabbit he had seen the day before at the river. He shook his head. “Nope.”

“I saw one just up there,” Dad said, pointing. “Gray. Missed it. Ran off. Waiting for it to come out again.”

They sat, quietly waiting for rabbits. Ben hoped that the rabbit was way underground, settling in for a bunch of carrots and a long nap. He wondered where rabbits would find carrots around here. He looked at the gun, Dad's grubby hands gripping it.

“Why do people shoot rabbits?” he asked.

“Eat 'em,” Dad said. “They're a pest.”

“Olive's a pest and we don't eat her,” Ben said.

Dad looked out over the bumpy bark of the fallen tree in front of them, dirty blue cap with the gas company logo sitting limply on his head. He had creases and blackheads around the edges of his eyes. He looked more like a dog than a rat today, Ben thought. He wondered if dogs had hair growing out of their noses like Dad did. He couldn't remember ever seeing a dog with nasal hair.

Passports.

Ben wanted to ask why they needed them. He could say that he'd overheard his parents talking last night, but Dad would get angry. Ben did not want to anger a man with crow's-feet, nose hair, and a gun. He would have to be smart. He squeezed his bottom lip.
Interrogate,
he thought.
Get him talking.

“I love it here,” Ben said.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Ben was only partly lying. He liked being at the river by himself.

Dad raised his brows.

“Do you?” Ben asked.

Dad thought about it, adjusted his cap. “No. I don't.”

“Why not?”

“Keep your voice down,” Dad said, annoyed.

Ben asked again. “Why not?”

“I just don't,” he said. “Your grandfather planted these trees thirty years ago. Thought a pine forest would make him rich. He thought a garlic farm would too. But he died poor.”

“Is that why you don't like it here? Because of Pop?”

“No. I just like hot showers and cold beer.”