Ruthless (18 page)

Swinging from paralyzed to panicked, I take my stick and try to push toward the left bank. The stick does nothing. The water is too deep for it to touch bottom. I put my arms in the cold, cold water and start paddling. My shoulders hate it, they hate it so much, but it doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is getting to solid ground, getting to the road.

I'm breathing hard by the time I grab on to a tuft of grass. The water is too damn deep here, the bank at too sharp of an angle. A tangle of rhododendron branches reach out to me, but they're only in my way. If my freaking shoulders worked, I could pull myself up and out, but there's no way that's going to happen. Instead, I use the branches to pull myself downriver, looking for some spot to clamber out.

Forty yards down there's a place with something like a slope to it. There is no graceful way to do this. Using my left leg and my left arm, I hoist myself into the branches, onto the dirt. My boat bobs out from underneath me and my right half dunks into the frigid river. The smack of icy water pushes me to fight through the pain. With a scream I pull myself out of the water.

Clinging to the rhododendron, I turn to see my empty boat drift away into the foggy darkness. It looks like home, like safety and something good, and I'm sad to see it go. Surprisingly sad to see it go.

“Good-bye, little boat,” I say. “Thank you.”

It disappears into the night, gone from me forever.

The climb up to the road is brutal. I am climbing through as much as I am climbing up. Rhododendron and mountain laurel cover the steep hillside, creating an almost impenetrable thicket of rough-barked branches. Every ten feet I stop to breathe. The road is so far away, but at least it's there.

It's amazing that car drove by when it did. Otherwise I never would have known I'd sailed past what I spent so long searching for. What if it hadn't gone by at that moment? Where would I have found myself? Lost in a wilderness too thick to escape? Possibly. I must be thankful and know I'm in God's hands. That car feels like proof that providence will lead me to safety.

These good feelings of meant-to-be keep me going up the side of the embankment, keep me going all the way to the guardrail. I pause to touch the metal. It's like a blessing, although whether the guardrail is blessing me or I'm blessing it, I couldn't say. It's just important to mark this occasion. The road is before me. I've made it.

Five Years Ago

EVERYTHING IS PACKED UP AND
ready to go. The horse is in the trailer, one last check to make sure taillights and blinkers work. The girl has opted to ride with the boy and his mother. Her grandmother is riding shotgun, so she climbs into the backseat of their station wagon, next to the boy. She is exhausted. So, so exhausted.

There is silence for a few minutes. All she wants is for that silence to go on forever, to go from Oklahoma to South Carolina.

The boy's mother decides to make conversation. “So, school is around the corner. Are you excited to go to the new middle school, Ruth?”

“Haven't thought about it.” She uses the tone of voice that means stop talking, and the woman takes the hint.

The girl looks over at the boy, in his old Wranglers and stained white T-shirt. He is never going to change. He is going to be a social liability for the rest of their lives.

The boy turns to look at her, smiles. He's wearing the cross he's worn ever since his father left. She has spoken to him about the Wranglers, but she wouldn't dare address the cross. And it's not that she doesn't share his faith. She does. They are in their church youth group together. But the boy is the president of the youth group, and he isn't shy about that fact. He'll tell anybody all about it.

She doesn't mean to, but she sighs.

“You okay?” the boy asks.

“I'm just tired. Really, really tired.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

BECAUSE I CRAWLED UP THE far side, I need to cross
the bridge. Although I don't believe the search-and-rescue people will find me, it would be stupid not to head their way. The helicopter, the sound of the dogs, all of that pulls me down the road. Not only that, but my best guess is that the town I saw from the mansion is in the same direction. It's hard to say, after getting lost, but my gut says the town, the search and rescue, all of it is on the other side of the bridge.

Walking across the bridge is eerie. The river is far below me, but the fog hides any clue of just how high up I am. If anything, the fog is even thicker up here. There's not a lot to see, but what can be seen looks old. The pavement is cracked; the guardrail is rusted. This isn't a big freeway with a bunch of lanes and fresh asphalt. It's an old two-lane country highway. But beggars can't be
choosers. It's a road. It's paved. It's going somewhere, and at some point someone will drive past. I'm so close to saved I already know what it feels like.

Finding the road must have given me a boost of adrenaline. Or maybe it was optimism. Whatever it was, it's gone again. The parts of me that are wet have turned to ice. My feet hurt. My shoulders hurt. The only thing I have in all the world is the white line in front of me. I follow it like a drunk taking a field sobriety test.

I wish I had the moon to talk to. Of course, the moon still hangs in the sky, far beyond the fog, but that's not good enough. I need to see him to talk to him. At this point I'd settle for being able to see some trees, or even the far side of the road.

How long I walk before I hear an engine, I don't know. But it's like hearing angels sing. The car is far away, giving me a chance to prepare myself. I can't screw this up. I can't.

A new wrinkle presents itself. With this fog they won't see me until they're on top of me. I stand close to the yellow line. Walking on the shoulder of the road might say “I'm minding my own business.” Standing in the middle of the road says “I'm in trouble.” I slip off my coat, both because my white T-shirt underneath will show up better and so I can flag them down with the jacket.

All I can see are headlights in the mist. I start waving the jacket, just in case they already see me. I want to wave the jacket hard, above my head, but my damn arms won't do it. I have to settle for a strange matador-type motion.

The headlights are close now. This is it.

I flap the jacket harder, as hard as I can.

I edge as close to the yellow line as I dare.

Here it comes.

“Help!” I don't know if they can hear me, but I scream anyway. “Help!”

In less than a second the car takes shape out of the mist. It is new and black, with four doors. It swerves to avoid me even as it smacks me with the blare of its horn. It accelerates away, its red taillights looking angry in the night. Then it is gone. Altogether gone.

“Idiot!” I want to throw something at it. “You idiot! What do you think? You think I want to be here? You think this is fun? You think I'm crazy?” I pause. “Well, you'd be right on that last point.” There is the tiniest bit of humor that comes out of saying that, but that glimpse of normalcy only makes everything worse. There is nothing normal here, nothing funny. Nothing good.

For a while there's nothing I can do but stand in the middle of the road, because going forward hurts too much. Going forward means continuing to try, when trying is so hard. The world is filled with idiots and assholes and monsters. Where are the guardian angels? Where are the decent people? Where are the people with sense? Where have they all disappeared to? Why try, when no one will help me? No one will ever help me. I am alone.

I return to my long walk to nowhere.

No. Not alone. My family and friends care. More than care. They love me. People are searching for me. I lost hold of these facts once, and I can't afford to do it again. It's important to hold on to this.
My family and friends love me. People are searching for me. These things are real. I cannot see them, but I must believe they're real.

I stick to the yellow line. Might as well stay in the center. It would take energy to move over to the side. The one good thing about the silence is that no cars are going to sneak up on me.

As I walk, I try to force myself to remember the faces of loved ones, envision rescue teams searching for me. It even occurs to me the idiot driver might call 911 to say there's a crazy person bothering cars out in the middle of nowhere. Or maybe they were shocked by the sight of me and only later realized I was in trouble.

So far the highway has sloped gently downhill. It didn't dawn on me that I should be grateful for that until the slope switches dramatically. Now, as I climb steadily uphill, everything becomes harder. No energy for positive thoughts. No energy for anything but putting one foot in front of the other.

The fog remains oppressive. My cold flesh is now numb. The hill will never end. One foot in front of the other. Every step dulls my senses until it feels as though the fog has taken over my brain along with the rest of the world.

With a blaze of light and the roar of an engine everything changes. I didn't know it, but I'm almost at the peak of the mountain. Cresting the hill is a giant SUV going fast. I'm on the yellow line and way too close for comfort. Instinct takes over and I jump out of the way. The speeding SUV hits the brakes as it passes me. I take off my jacket and start waving it. The SUV keeps going, but at a slower pace.

I run toward the car. “Stop! Stop!”

It's going to stop. I can tell it's going to stop. Everything's going to be okay.

But then the SUV picks up speed.

My run turns into a sprint, and I flap my jacket harder. “Stop! Please stop!”

The SUV pulls away from me and drives off into the night.

“Oh God.”
Don't cry. Don't despair
. “Oh God, why?”
Stay positive. Stay positive.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
Think of the good things. That driver had doubts. I know that driver had doubts. They thought about stopping. They might be calling 911 right now
. “What did I do to deserve this?”
Stop crying. Now
. “I wasn't perfect; I know I wasn't; I know all the bad things I've done. But I don't deserve this. I don't.”
Get a hold of yourself.

Breathe.

I obey myself. I breathe. I breathe for a while.

Now think. Why isn't this working?

These idiots are scared of me. That's what it is. These idiots are scared. It baffles me how anybody could be scared of a teenage girl who probably weighs less than a hundred pounds at this point, but they are. I pause to consider myself.

I'm wearing a puffy camo trucker hat and a giant camo jacket. Underneath that is a filthy, man's white T-shirt. On my legs are oversize socks tied with laces, making them look like saggy makeshift Roman sandals. Around my waist is a holster and a handgun. Not sure if the gun works after getting dunked in the river, but it's there.

I need to change tactics.

Five Days Ago

IT IS FOUR IN THE morning when the man parks his
truck
behind a line of Bradford pears. The bushy trees, now a dusky autumnal red, shield the service entrance to the ranch from view, as well as his old truck. He believes she will arrive in an hour, but it's important to account for variables. Leaving his vehicle behind, he stations himself behind the two tractors. From here he can see his own truck, the main drive, and the entrance to the barn. It's perfect.

The weather has been up and down lately. It's chilly now, but the man wears a thick flannel shirt, woolen cap, and leather gloves. The leather gloves are dual purpose.

Time slips by in peaceful fashion, as it does whenever he is in the zone. He checks his watch. It's almost five.

Headlights come up the main drive.

She is punctual, he'll give her that. It is still dark as night, and there
isn't a soul around. If he'd written a script, he couldn't have created a better scenario.

She disappears into the barn. The faint glow of the tack room light flicks on.

It's go time.