Last Track, The (27 page)

How a photographer dealt with someone that did not want his picture taken varied, but Jessica had a simple answer. She was there to document, not sell. She wanted the right subject more than the best-looking one, and the right person revealed himself through his actions.

Perhaps the first one that caught her eye was perfect; but many times it was not. Appealing qualities often lurked beneath the surface of a shyer person. Someone typically overlooked by most, who hung back, who disappeared in crowds. More reserved, he rarely considered himself photogenic. To encourage the reluctant, she introduced the camera early, listened, and waited.

Knowing that people who anticipated a picture posed, looking forced and uncomfortable, Jessica never counted or announced when photographing people. Her approach encouraged people to reveal themselves. Jessica needed only be there at the right time and capture the results. If she waited until she became aware of the shot in the viewfinder, it was too late. The moment was gone forever.

Not wanting to lose herself behind the lens, Jessica ruffled Andy’s hair. A horrified look spread across his face. He patted his unkempt locks down and checked for witnesses to his indignity. The braver of the two twins laughed at Andy. Andy grinned first, and then glared at them. Both girls ran.

In the spirit of childlike play, Andy chased off after the girls. All three children tore away from their respective parents, and dashed for the trail head. Squeaky childish voices echoed back to group.

Jessica watched them go.

Moments later, with an authoritative tone, the staff leader announced the end of the break. By then, Andy and the twins had veered out of sight. Jessica called out Andy’s name clearly, her tone steady. Cara stood beside her, hollering for her own girls. Her twins appeared. “Hide-and-seek,” the braver one explained. “Andy’s it.”

Jessica thanked the girls and yelled for her son, making it clear the game had ended. Andy didn’t answer. Jessica called again, and this time her voice shook.

He didn’t answer a third time.

Jessica corralled the twins. “Show me exactly where you saw him last.” Reluctant, the girls looked at their mother for guidance. Cara nodded approvingly.

The braver one clasped Jessica’s hand, and led her fifty paces up the trail. Cara lingered with her more timorous daughter back near the group.

The twin pointed to a maple that curved inwards to the trail. “He closed his eyes there and counted to ten. Is Andy in trouble?”

“Not at all,” Jessica said.

“Cause he is not real good with numbers.” The girl grinned, nervous.

Jessica almost said that she understood that about her son very well.

She heard Cara scream.

03:46:04 PM

Sean’s route twisted back and forth like a vagabond wandering, and fed toward them without warning. Mike noticed the change. Fresh evidence of the boy’s fatigue: patches of low-hanging branches Sean had mashed underfoot. Branches Sean might have stepped around or over easily. Noting the shift in Sean’s behavior, Mike stopped cutting the tracks. The chance the boy might suddenly detour again seemed high. There was more going on here than an unanticipated turn. Some stressor impacted Sean’s emotional state. Mike wanted a handle on that before advancing.

There was something different troubling Sean. Anxiety was Mike’s first guess. A few feet later, Sean veered off and emptied his bowels. The fecal matter beside a tree appeared firm, maybe ten to twelve hours old.

Inexperienced campers on long excursions had to relearn a basic instinct their predecessors knew practically from birth. On average, people battled constipation in the wild for four to seven days before they stopped fighting nature and allowed themselves to do what humans did freely before outhouses and John Harington’s indoor flush toilet. Now there were bestselling books on how to shit in the woods—as if the idea were revolutionary.

Stepping downwind from the recent discovery, Mike massaged his left hamstring. The dense muscles in his rear thigh were taut. Easing the tension required a series of prolonged, hanging stretches. Unusual cramping in the legs suggested two possibilities. Low calcium levels, or worse, dehydration. One had symptoms that could be checked out easily enough.

Wiping his finger on his jeans first, he dabbed his lips. Raw and dry. Beneath the slightest pressure of his fingertips, a thin crack threatened to break. The tiny strip of flesh would tear soon, and blood would trickle and dry upon his chin. It sounded much worse than it looked. Even at a range of two feet, only a trained eye might notice.

His ears buzzed. Normally, his hearing, like his sight, verged on perfect, though his ears rang at odd intervals. Inexplicably the problem had begun eight years ago. An otolaryngologist studied the condition, fully expecting tinnitus. Convinced of it, in fact. The presumptive diagnosis made by the ear, nose, and throat specialist proved inconclusive. Successive auditory tests and examinations did not explain the anomaly. Mike, however, believed there was a reason; it was a warning. Like a mother wolf that could sense her young were in danger, so could he. Now whenever his ears rang, he knew Andy was in serious trouble.

He powered on the cell phone. Before he could dial Jessica, the Partner called again.

“What did I tell you about keeping your phone on?”

“You never mentioned sending goons to shadow us,” Mike said.

“We had a deal,” the Partner said. “And you broke part of it, and now there are consequences. For Christ’s sake, manage the ex! She’s endangering everyone. Get her out of the picture.”

“What if I can’t?”

“Just do it! There are others in the organization less reasonable than me. I’m trying to do what I can to head them off. Remember what I said!”

And the Partner was gone. Mike dialed the Partner’s number, which Shad had died for. He wanted answers. He wanted an explanation. He got something else: a recorded voice:

This call cannot be completed because the number is not in service.

03:47:19 PM

Cara Isham’s scream did what many editors had believed impossible: badly rattle Jessica.

Accounts of Jessica’s reserve were legendary among the press corps. Work tested her often, hardened her at the edges. Now a crisis, even one charged with emotion, seldom affected her in the moment. Her secret was a tough reporter face, and an even tougher disposition. She needed the protection.

That stoicism allowed her to walk among tragedy victims without absorbing their negative energy; it kept her from internalizing their pain. She respected the people affected by disasters. She sympathized. She saw what happened. But she did not become overwhelmed by their emotions. Instead, she observed, recorded, and produced. On time, every time.

But the scream from Cara, Jessica heard differently. It touched her personally. She wrestled for the right word, and suddenly, diction became irrelevant. No description she could muster then would do the scream justice. What followed the sound enveloped her, seized everything inside, and choked off the other thoughts. All that remained, all there was: a scream. A scream that jabbed her eardrums like an ice pick to a block of steel. Whatever Cara actually said did not matter. Her words—if the wail earned that title—defied recognition.

Hooves clattered against the soil.

A second scream answered the thunderous footfalls.

Jessica grabbed Cara’s daughter, clasped her around the torso, and yanked the small girl clear of the trail. Together, they danced backwards and dipped between the trees. Jessica scraped her right elbow on bark. She drove both arms tight against her body. Her chest heaved. She shielded the girl from harm.

A horse thundered up the trail, in full gallop. Mr. Jones. Andy’s horse. Before this, the horse had acted docile. Maybe a trace cantankerous, and definitely a bit under challenged, but normal. Absolutely normal. That was then, though. Now he had changed.

Now the animal appeared every inch a madman. His eyes, solid spheres of black, reflected only darkness. If animals communicated emotion through facial expressions, Mr. Jones spoke the language of a street fighter. Beneath the leather reins and bit, a snarl dripped off his mouth. His powerful legs flexed, pumping out massive strides. He was a runaway train carving his own tracks.

And the conductor inside Mr. Jones spurred him faster, faster still. Mr. Jones fired ahead, and thrashed his way over the exact spot Jessica and the girl had stood. As he advanced on their hideaway, Jessica understood what Cara actually meant with her yell: demon on the loose.

Aboard Mr. Jones, Andy gripped the cantle, both feet out of the stirrup irons. The reins dangled, out of his reach, useless. For each stride, the boy rose off the rippling body, until gravity slammed him back against the pommel. Bobbing up and down, at points he rode a cushion of air inches above the saddle.

His right leg slid, his ankle nearly snaring the beast’s legs.

03:49:37 PM

With the young girl lagging, Jessica stormed the group, gunning for her own horse, yelling “Hang on, Andy. I’m coming!”

Those who witnessed the next part agreed on one fact. Somehow, Jessica vaulted over Tic-Tac, and lodged her feet in the stirrups. Yet, no one ever noticed her knees bend, or her legs swing over either side of the saddle. She was simply on the horse just as an instant before she was not.

Leaning forward, her head hung near Tic-Tac’s. “Go!” She spared him the sting of boot heels against his sides, and in return, Tic-Tac responded, knowing exactly what to do. He launched them both off into the woods, a case study in earthbound flight.

Jessica sensed Tic-Tac could get her where she needed to be. A fortunate trait within the Arabian bloodline was speed. Tic-Tac was a fine example; he had loads of it. Genetics endowed him with so much power; in fact, she suspected very few riders—or perhaps none, even—had realized his full potential. Fewer still probably considered him manageable. In Jessica’s mind, this assessment was one-hundred percent correct: he was not for every guest. So the typical rider probably passed up Tic-Tac for a kinder, gentler horse. Maybe now and again, someone with actual chops climbed aboard Tic-Tac, yearning for a more responsive and capable horse. Maybe an experienced rider like her. But even among those infrequent pairings, she bet they still had overlooked the raw power smoldering within Tic-Tac. They had underestimated him, because it was quite easy to do so. After all, he looked quite ordinary on the outside. But she had seen past the surface and made the connection. Her Tic-Tac was special.

And there was another reason for her fondness of the Arabian.

To Jessica, he had very much picked her. Kindred spirits in manner, she saw him for his excellence, his incredible strength. Now for Andy’s sake, Jessica needed Tic-Tac’s magic.

And Tic-Tac delivered.

They charged down the trail. Images at the edges of her vision merged together from the speed. The leaves, a wall of greenish hues. She scarcely noticed the blurring effect. Squinting, her eyes settled on Mr. Jones.

“Mom!” Andy wailed.

“Hang on!”

For endless moments the distance between the horses remained constant, unforgiving. As if both animals churned in place, chained on opposite sides of a great divide.

The gap narrowed slightly, though a sea of openness still kept her from Andy—the space between them enormous and overwhelming. An inch was too much. She focused on breathing as best she could while jouncing on horseback.

And she worried how much more steam Mr. Jones had left before exhaustion flattened him. Of what might happen to Andy if his horse collapsed. Well, she wasn’t going there.

“Come on, Tic-Tac!” she pleaded. “Do it! Do it now!”

Tic-Tac did it. Rocketing ahead, the gap halved, then halved again. They gained more ground. Her head ached from the rush.

With a fresh surge, Tic-Tac drew within five lengths of Mr. Jones. The boy turned briefly toward her. Andy’s features were clear, his terrified expression seized her heart. Their faces mirrored each other; the fear was evident on both.

She drew closer still. With a tap of the reins, another booster rocket engaged beneath her legs. Incredible. She sensed even more juice awaited her commands. Right there, Jessica struck a mental bargain about Tic-Tac. If Andy escaped unharmed, she would purchase the horse, whatever the cost. Tic-Tac could live out his days in a field of sugar plums and carrots, enjoying daily massages. Whatever her horse—the hero—wanted, would be done. She would promise him that.

Five seconds, three lengths, and twenty feet—these were the obstacles between her and Andy. The trail ended, emptying into a sprawling field of dried-out grass. Bordered on the left by woods, on the right by a stream, and straight ahead, by a cliff, the scene made her heart sink. And just as the scene became almost too much, at her right shoulder, a strong, sturdy voice said: “Right behind you!”

Jessica turned; Jessica blinked; Jessica squinted. Erich Reynard remained. Never had she been a woman who believed in miracles. She thought she might start believing.

“I’ll try the reins. You take the right!” Erich yelled the directions over the thunder of hoof falls. Jessica nodded in agreement.

Side by side, they pulled even with Mr. Jones’ hindquarters, each on opposite ends of his rump.

It seemed to Jessica that Tic-Tac found his cruising speed first, then Erich’s horse. Three horses barreled as one, dashing toward the vacant sky like painters fixated on their work, oblivious to concerns beyond the canvas edge.

“Mom! Help me!” Andy screamed. Like a rehearsed dance, Jessica leaned leftwards, her arm extended. Her well-toned limb shook from the motion, exhausted by the stress. She steadied herself. Reaching as far as she could toward Andy, she yelled, “Give me your hand!”

Andy flailed, struggling for his mother. His body swayed with Mr. Jones’ movements. The nails of his left hand dug harder into the cantle. Thrusting his right arm out, he clutched at the waiting hand. He missed, two inches shy of deliverance. Andy grappled once more, harder, reaching farther, but Mr. Jones drifted, whisking him along.