Getaway (29 page)

And then it was out.

She fell back, gasping. The air was so sweet. Even the dump smells were beautiful.

She let herself lie there for a minute. Just to rest.

But I can’t stay here, she thought vaguely. The man had left, but would he come back? Could he be looking for her now? Driving on the road that circled the dump? She hadn’t thought of that.

A fresh rush of adrenaline got her to her feet.

Her feet. She’d lost her flip-flops at some point. It wasn’t too bad at first—no cans or glass, that stuff had already been sorted and gleaned. But still she stepped on things, things that hurt, and she couldn’t stop to look and see what they were. Animal bones, maybe. Shards of hard plastic.

She picked her way through the bags and tires, trying to find some kind of path. Her hip was stiffening up; every step on that side sent bolts of pain shooting down her leg, and she hadn’t gone very far before she lost her balance and fell. She didn’t know if she could stand up again, with her hip like that, without her arms to aid her, with no firm surface.

Use your core! Use your core!
She’d had a trainer once who said that nearly every set, regardless of the exercise, and Michelle heard her voice now.

She’d never liked that trainer.

Somehow she stood.

The third time she fell, she thought, That’s it. I can’t do it. Maybe she could lie there for a while. Maybe in the morning someone would find her. Someone who could help.

She thought about that some more. Remembered the first time she’d come here, the buzzard sitting on the cow head, picking at the hide and the scraps of flesh the butchers had left. That’s what the man had wanted for her. He’d wanted to beat her to death and throw her body over the side, into the garbage, for the birds to eat.

Well, fuck that.

Use your core!

She stood.

She just had to get to the road. It wasn’t too far. She risked running into the man in the car, she knew that, but it had been a
while now, and he hadn’t come back, and she knew she could not continue much longer through this landscape of garbage bags and abandoned couches.

She could see the road, just over a ridge of trash.

Only a few more steps. Past the crumpled baby carriage. Around the torn mattress, bleeding springs and stuffing.

Here was the road. She stepped onto it, feeling like she was climbing off a rocking boat onto solid land. Beautiful road, she thought.

She hesitated for a moment, swaying. Up or down?

How had the man gotten into the dump? It couldn’t be open now, could it? Were there gates at the bottom? She couldn’t remember. There was a guard shack, she remembered that. What had he done, bribed the guards?

The man had gone down, hadn’t he? Could he be waiting for her there?

She wasn’t sure she could even make it that far.

Up. What choice did she have?

Was there anyone up on top who could help her? Anyone at all?

I’ll get to lie down, she told herself. There were shacks up there, she remembered those. A table, with umbrellas. Maybe someone had some water. People lived up there, didn’t they?

Up and up and up.

Her feet hurt. She’d cut them, she thought, but she wasn’t sure. Stepping wrong, the pain in her hip made her cry out. A lot of things hurt, actually. It hurt when she breathed. Her arm, too, every time it moved. Her head.

Count to ten, she told herself. Take ten steps. One step at a time. Okay. Now ten more.

Ten more steps. She could do that.

She could see the top of the dump now, stretching out ahead of her, a vast plateau ringed and dotted by mounds of garbage that in the near dark took on the contours of hills and shrubbery, the resting birds moving now and again like ripples on a wave.

Over there were some shacks, she thought—rectangular, hard angles against all the softer curves. There were little lights on in some of them, and she thought she even heard music.

She stumbled toward the lights.

“Hello?” she called out. Tried to anyway. Her voice cracked and broke. “Hello,” she said again. It came out a whisper.

She kept walking. Were there people there, sitting at a table? Drinking beers, playing cards? Waiting for sleep, and then for the next day to begin? There would be work for them in the morning, wouldn’t there? Garbage to sort. Cans and plastic bottles. Copper wire from junked appliances. Maybe a T-shirt to wear.

She thought she saw someone at a table stand up, someone else pull him down. Were they ignoring her? How could that be? She had her hands tied behind her back, for fuck’s sake.

They probably hadn’t seen what the man had done to her. Or maybe they’d seen it and were afraid. Well, no one wants trouble, right? She could understand that.

“Can someone help me anyway?” she whispered. Or thought.

When she fell this time, she didn’t get up again. That’s okay, she told herself. It’s warm enough out here. I can just rest awhile.

[CHAPTER THIRTY]

Look at the pretty lights
.

Michelle opened her eyes and saw diamonds reflecting gold. She closed her eyes again. That couldn’t be real.

When she opened her eyes once more, she saw an old woman crouching at her side, dabbing at her face with a wet cloth. The old woman wore a lace-embroidered dress and long white gloves. It was dark, except for the warm yellow light that bounced off crystal twinkling behind her.

The old woman smiled at Michelle and said something.
“Tranquila,”
it sounded like.

“Okay,” Michelle said. She lifted her hand. I can lift it, she thought. The rope marks around her wrists were livid, even in the dim light. “Water … Do you have …?” She tried to think.
“Agua.”

“Cola,” the old woman replied. She held up a half-full plastic bottle of Coke in her gloved hand.

Michelle tried to sit up. The pain in her head and ribs made her fall back on the … What was she lying on?

A mattress. An old mattress, covered with a tattered blanket.

Where was she?

“Le ayudo,”
the old woman said. She cradled one arm around Michelle’s head, lifted it up, tilted the Coke bottle to Michelle’s lips.

Michelle drank. Sweet, warm, and sticky. Nectar.

It was a shack, constructed of crates and cardboard and scraps of canvas. The light, two lanterns, like Coleman lanterns, one sitting on a tilted card table covered with …

Little bottles. Little bottles everywhere, reflecting the light. What were they? Perfume bottles?

“Descanse,”
the old woman said.

Rest.

Michelle laid her head back down on the mattress and closed her eyes.

When she
opened them again, it was day. She knew that from the light leaking in through the cracks in the makeshift walls, the scented heat rising up from the tainted ground.

The old woman … Michelle hadn’t dreamed that, had she? The rest of it seemed to be true. The shack. The tiny bottles everywhere. Next to the mattress was an upended crate, a sort of nightstand. There were bottles there, perfume bottles, just like she’d thought last night.

And a half-full bottle of Coke.

Definitely half full. She was alive. The man hadn’t killed her. He’d tried, but she’d survived.

Michelle reached out for the Coke bottle. Gasped. Her arm … He’d hit that arm, her left, with the bat. Maybe it was broken.

Sit up, she told herself. Just sit up.

Christ, she hurt. She couldn’t even separate out the pain right now.

But the Coke, the Coke still tasted good.

Leaning against the wall between the mattress and the crate was an umbrella, an old-fashioned black one with a wooden handle. Michelle used her good arm to prop up her injured one, grasped the umbrella, and dropped it onto the mattress. She gripped the
umbrella in her good hand, leaned on it as much as she thought it would bear, and pushed herself up.

Outside, the heat felt like a living, malign thing that had swallowed the world and her with it. Bulldozers pushed garbage from one spot to another, making the mountain shudder, the noise reverberating, confined by the heat. The gleaners, too, were moving, ripping open bags, sorting through the contents. Heat rose off the plastic in waves.

No one paid much attention to her. They had other things to think about, Michelle supposed. Getting through the day, for one.

What time was it anyway?

She’d assumed it was morning—she’d just woken up, after all—but looking at the sky, the sun hanging over the sea, she thought, it couldn’t be morning, could it?

Too bad she wasn’t wearing Gary’s watch.

Her phone, she didn’t have that. Her purse … Who knew what the man had done with her things? She wouldn’t get them back, she was sure of that.

No passport. No driver’s license. No credit cards.

It doesn’t matter, she told herself. She’d figure something out.

She wasn’t sure where she was, other than at the top of the dump. I’d better find the road down, she thought. Find a phone. Get some help. Maybe call Charlie’s friend. At this point why
not
call him? As if she needed any more proof that she was in trouble, that this wasn’t some crazy paranoid story she’d made up. Wasn’t this enough?

Just get me home, she thought. All I want to do is go home.

She limped toward the roar of machinery, where the bulldozers were.

Here was a donkey, attached to a wooden cart heaped with flattened cardboard boxes. The donkey just stood there. A dog slept underneath the marginal shade of the cart. They looked familiar. She’d seen them before, she thought.

“Hello,” she said. To the dog, maybe. She wasn’t sure.

“Michelle?”

The voice was incredulous. Michelle turned.

There was Vicky, wearing yet another Hawaiian shirt, this one featuring a pattern of pink flamingos.

“Hi, Vicky,” she said.

It made sense for Vicky to be here, didn’t it? She’d seen Vicky up here before. Vicky came up here nearly every day or something. Michelle couldn’t remember for sure.

“Oh, my God, what’s happened to you?”

Vicky clasped Michelle around her shoulder. Michelle cried out. She couldn’t help it.

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s just that …” She started to cry. “Sorry. That really hurts.”

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. Let me …” For a moment Vicky stood there with a helpless expression. Then she seemed to shake herself. “Okay,” she said. “We’re going to get you some help, okay? My car’s not too far. Can you walk?”

“I can walk,” Michelle assured her. She laughed. “I can walk. You wouldn’t believe how far I walked.”

“Okay, honey. Now, let me help you, okay? Here’s my arm. Is that okay?”

“It’s fine.”

They started walking together, away from the donkey, Vicky’s arm circling Michelle’s waist, which hurt a lot because the man had hit her ribs with his bat, but Vicky was being so nice, and Michelle didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

“Oh,” Michelle said. “I have the old woman’s umbrella. I don’t want to take it away. Can we give it back to her?”

“The old woman?”

“She wore gloves and lace. And her shack is full of little bottles. Like, perfume bottles. I’m not making that up. I really saw it.” It felt important to say that to Vicky, that what she saw was real.

“Oh, I know who you mean. That’s Ascención. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she gets her umbrella.”

They came to Vicky’s 4Runner, and Vicky opened the passenger door and pushed the seat back as far as it would go to make it easier for Michelle to climb inside.

After the heat of the day, the air-conditioning in the truck was almost too cold, raising goosebumps on her bare arms and legs. Sitting there as Vicky steered the truck along the road that led to the exit of the dump, Michelle stared down at her hands resting in her lap, at the rope burns on her wrists.

“Can you tell me what happened to you, honey?” Vicky asked.

Michelle thought about it, about what she wanted to say. “Someone robbed me.”

“You were up here and someone robbed you?”

“No. No, he brought me here, after. I don’t know why.”

“It doesn’t make much sense,” Vicky said, frowning. “You can’t just come here without permission.”

“Maybe he works here,” Michelle whispered. She closed her eyes and leaned back in the seat.

They drove for a while, over rutted roads and then onto smoother avenues.

“Where are we going?” Michelle finally asked.

“To a hospital, sweetie.”

“No. I need to … I want to … I have to make a phone call.”

“You can do that at the hospital. Trust me, if you could see yourself … We’re going to a hospital.”

Michelle supposed that was a good idea. “My head really hurts,” she said.

“I’m sure it does. Don’t worry, we’ll be there pretty soon.”

They drove awhile in silence. Funny, Michelle thought, how Vicky always seemed to just turn up. Like that first time at El Tiburón. Then later, on the street.

Vicky had permission to enter the dump. Vicky and her group.

Michelle shuddered. Her hand clutched at the armrest, feeling for the door latch.

“What’s wrong, Michelle?”

“Nothing. Nothing.”

Vicky stared at her, her round, pleasant face set in an expression of concern. Of caring. The appearance of it anyway. “We’re almost there, I promise.”

Michelle swung her head around to look out the window, trying to ignore the stabbing pains behind her eye, down her neck. She didn’t know where they were; they could be anywhere. Bland stucco buildings. Hotels. Chain stores. A Starbucks. The north end of town, the Hotel Zone maybe. Where she’d met Gary.

“Can we stop for a minute? I have to … I think I might …”

“Are you feeling sick? Do you need a bag?”

“I just need to stop.”

Vicky pulled over to the curb. They were in front of a Chili’s. Michelle reached out blindly for the door handle, found it, opened the door. Tried to stand. Grabbed the umbrella to steady herself.

“Michelle, what are you
doing
?”

“I’m going. I’m just … I don’t need your help.”