Out (23 page)

Like it’s his
fault. It’s my fault. It’s what I’m about to do. But I can’t think about that.
I just have to get to midnight. “Thanks,” is all I say.

“I’ll get you
some tea.” I sit as he goes to the kitchen, pours, stirs, brings back a
steaming stoneware mug and hands it to me. “This’ll help. Peppermint. Good for
the stomach.”

I clutch the cup,
breathe in the curls of steam. “I’ll be better soon.”

“Hmmm.” He
takes a sip from his own mug, scoots a bit closer to me. Shit. Dread fills my
gut, threatening to bring on another bout of retching. I move away, just an
inch, but he gets the hint. “Okay. As I said, we can take this slow.”

Maybe if I can
get him talking about something unrelated to any of this, it will eat up the
time a little. “Do you like board games?”

“Board games?”
He sounds surprised. Guess he didn’t count on this being a traditional
eighth-grade sleepover.

“Yeah.” I take
another sip of tea to stall. “You know…checkers, or chess. You like chess?”

“I…I guess so.”

“I bet there’s
a chess board somewhere in here. Or they have a board at the office. These
places usually do.” I set the tea down, hop up on my new mission.

I haven’t
stayed in this cabin before, but it looks like most of the others, so I know
there’s a closet near the door that usually has extra cords of firewood,
blankets, surplus toilet paper, a spare flashlight. Yep. There’s the chess
game. I pull the battered box off the top shelf. “We’re in luck!”

McFarland
grunts darkly. Guess he doesn’t think it’s so lucky.

I check my
watch. Seven-fifteen. Almost time.
 

“Here we go.” I
set the board on the coffee table in front of the couch, carefully set up the
black players on his side, the white on mine.

He picks up the
black king and examines it. “I’m not very good at this game.” He waves the
piece and sets it down in the middle of the board. “Here you go. I’ll make it
easy. Just jump me right now.”

Oh boy. “That’s
not fair.” I smile, try to sound flirty and charming without promising
anything. “We have to play the game out till one of us wins. Fairly.”

“Do we?” The
tone in his voice is different. It’s more like the voice of the guy who grabbed
me in the kitchen.

My heart starts
to beat faster, breathing gets rapid. I start to sweat.

“Yeah,” I
manage to say without looking at him. “Wow. I’m starting to feel…kind of woozy
again. Can you finish setting up the pieces?” I head toward the bathroom
without looking at him.

For an older
guy, he’s fast. He’s in front of the bathroom door before I get there. “What
game are we really playing?”

“Jim,
seriously, feel my forehead. I’ve got cold chills.” I look into his eyes. Shark
eyes. No more mister nice guy.

He grabs my
wrist, twists it back, steps toward me. “Right. I know you’re up to something— “
 

 
I twist my hand free and stumble back.
 
“I just need to wash my face,” I blurt, and
dodge into the bathroom and turn on the water.

 
He follows me.
 
“What is wrong with you?” He sounds angry. “Are you that pure and
virginal that you can’t even stand a man touching your hand?”

I say nothing.

“Answer me!”

I’m still
hunched with my face over the basin. There’s just breathing, mine, his. Creaky
bathroom floor, steps come toward me. I see his socks to my left. One has a
hole in the toe, and this makes me incredibly sad.

“I’m sorry.” I
put my head in my hands. I could probably cry, but I don’t know what effect
that would have on him.

“Hmm.” His
socks line up next to my feet. “Me too. Sorry to be…anxious.”

“Sure.” I wipe
my forehead, check my watch. 7:28.
 
I say
my line.
 
“Hey, I need a bag from the
front seat. Can you go get it for me?” He sighs heavily, as if it’s a huge
burden, but grabs his coat, heads out into the steady rain.

I dry my face,
but he’s still not back from the car. I wait, but nothing. He’s left the door
open, so I hear the rain falling harder on the porch. I sit with the chess
pieces, stare at the black king in the center of the board.

He never comes
back.

Two hours pass.
They must have picked him up already, but I’m afraid to look outside.

The open door
gapes behind me, a yawning mouth. I have to see. I have to know, right?
Suck it up. Just go look.

I amble over to
the porch, peer outside past the glare of the security light. Beyond it,
there’s just the silhouette of the car, dark and empty behind the veil of rain.
No sign of anybody there. Was there blood? How did they do it?

I quickly shut
the door, scuttle back to the couch.

What was I
supposed to do? I thought they were taking him at midnight...no. They’re coming
for
me
at midnight. Of course they’d
take him earlier. I’m supposed to be hanging out, waiting.

Maybe he went
for a walk.

In the rain?

We had a fight.
Nine o’clock. Not sure, officer, not sure where he went. We had a fight.

 
I strip off my clothes, leave them in a pile
on the couch, and head for the shower. The hot water cascades down my back,
rinsing road grime, diner stink, puke stink, McFarland— what if he’s dead?

I force that
thought out. I wash it down the drain. No soap. That’s okay. I just want the
warmth of the water, scalding, hot, burning out impurities and weakness. I
guess I’m pretty weak. I shouldn’t feel bad about what happened to him. He
deserved it, didn’t he?

The white towel
scratches, smells of bleach. I don’t have a change of clothes, I realize. All
my stuff’s still in the car. I pull on the dirty jeans, t-shirt, flannel. I
suppose it won’t be the last time I’ll be wearing unwashed clothes. At least I
feel better.

I still have
three hours to kill. To wait. I lie on the couch, staring out the window,
watching rain drip down the old wavy glass.

When I wake up,
it’s freezing. Ten-twenty three. The fire’s out; the wind howls through the
chinks in the cabin. My coat’s on the chair by the door, so I grab it, shrug
into it.
 
Glance out the window. The
car’s still there, like nothing’s happened.

I just have to
see. I pull on my boots, look both ways as if crossing a busy street, then will
my feet forward, pretending I make no noise. Nothing but drizzle now, dripping
from tree limbs and the porch roof. Behind the SUV, footprints and drag marks
scar the road, mangled in mud and water.

The car’s
unlocked. I get my bag from the backseat, scurry back to the cabin. At least
I’ll have some of my stuff. Nothing to do but wait. And wait some more.

At twelve past
midnight, my heart threatens to quit. Nobody has come. Nobody’s coming.
Something has happened.

How long should
I wait? Should I go back home? What was the plan? That’s why I have the red
wallet, right? If something goes wrong, I read the map, go to the river,
wait.
 
Maybe I should see if anyone
comes, though. It’s only…twenty minutes after. Wouldn’t they be on time? I
always thought stuff like this ran on time.

I wonder if
Carmen is out there somewhere. What if she showed up and she’s out in the rain
right now, wandering around with nobody there? What if they all got caught, and
somebody told about us, where we are, where we’re supposed to meet? Shit. I
don’t know what to do.

I can’t leave
her alone. I have to find her.

 
I dig out the red wallet, find the map, read
it.

Alright. I
spread the map on the table. Smooth the edges. Focus. Where am I now? I find
the spot, Indian Lake. We’re on the west side…here are the cabins. I run my
finger across the blue line of Indian Creek, which is only an inch away from
the cabin on the map. Of course, in real life, that’s a mile or so through the
woods in the dark. I can do it, though. I can do it.

I fold the map,
put it back in the pack, and get ready. Should I leave the lights on? I guess I
will. No umbrella. I should’ve thought of that. But there is an extra blanket
on the top shelf, so I grab it, throw it over my head. An extra blanket might
come in handy out there.

I glance at the
cabin one last time. It’s my last American building, maybe…not going to think
about that. I’m going to think about Carmen, and our brown brick house with the
purple flowers. As I pick my way across dead branches and puddles, grabbing
rough-bark tree trunks for support, I’m thinking violets.

I walk for
thirty, forty steps. Stop. Wait. Listen. A night bird chatters, punctuates the
slow drip of rain. Otherwise, silence. The moon comes out from behind a cloud,
making everything blue-white and dead-looking. I walk on. Thirty steps, forty,
fifty more. I should be at the river pretty soon. How many steps in a mile? I
should’ve figured that out before I left.

Something
crashes away to my right. Sounds like something heavy falling through
brush…breaking twigs, cracking branches. It comes closer, then I hear the
single piercing echo of a gunshot.

I feel my chest
tighten in panic. Breathe. Breathe. Wait. Wait or go? Which is safer? A dog
barks in the distance, far away. A howl. Then more crashing, coming toward me
fast.

I run away from
the noise, blindly, my feet tripping over exposed roots, wet whips of thin
branches slapping my face.

 
It happens so fast I can’t even change
direction. Something black and noisy careens out of the trees, runs toward me
as I run away, and then it’s on me, tackling me. I fight it off, try to roll it
over, something wet and sticky comes off on my hand.

I kick at the
thing, scoot away from it like a crab crawling on sand, but it doesn’t move.
It’s a person, a guy on his stomach. I wait, to see if he’ll move. He doesn’t.

With the toe of
my shoe, I nudge him. Nothing. I roll him over to see his face.

It’s Matt. The
cocky guy from the bar, the rebel hero from Canada. Most of his cheek is gone, right
below the eye. In the bare light, it shines like lacquer. Bubbles form at his
lips. He tries to talk.

“Matt?” I grab
his gloved hand. A big piece of his arm is gone too, gaping through the down of
his ski jacket. He doesn’t see me, not really. He’s going to die.

A dogs howl
again, closer. “Matt. I have to go. I’m sorry.”

He clutches my
hand, won’t release it.

“I can’t help
you.” I try to pry his hand off mine, but it’s like steel. “I have to go!”

He whispers
something, but I can’t make it out. I lean closer. He says, “Go back.” Then I
see the life go out of his eyes, like a light turning off. Just that fast.

Rain starts to
pound harder, bouncing off his ski jacket. Should I cover him up with the
blanket? Should I try and take him with me? No. I can’t. I have to go. Where?
Go back…I can’t go back.

Panic wells up
in my gut, threatening to spill out onto the forest floor, but I tamp it down.
I give myself to the count of five to feel it, to let the wild rage of fear eat
at my belly, but then I smack it down.

Where would
they be? At the river. So that’s the way I go. I leave without looking back at
Matt’s body, head down, trying to feel the exposed tree limbs with the toe of
my shoe as I go. Another canine howl sounds in the distance, but closer this time.
Have to get to the river.

Mud sucks at my
feet, making each step sound like a plunger unclogging a drain. Everybody must
hear it. How could they not? I slog on, concentrating on my feet, one step,
then another.

I stop when I
hit rushing water. It comes up unexpectedly, like someone just dropped it
there, no sign or marking on a trail. The river. So, now I’m here. This was my
goal, and now…what? I’ve made it.
 
I pull
the dripping blanket so it covers my head a little bit better, but that just
makes rivulets of rain pour onto my shoes. Should I wade through the water?
Follow the line of the river?

I keep seeing
Matt’s face. That’s what they’ll do to me if they find me. Maybe they’ve
already done that to Carmen. She might be dead. What if she is? I’m risking
everything I used to know for this, for a girl who might be dead. Rain beats
down on my head, and it’s coming through the blanket now, saturating me with
cold and wet.

A light flashes
from the other side. Was that a trick? I fix my eyes on the spot where I think
it happened…no, there it is again. Definitely a light, quick, bright, then
extinguished, inside the trees. It must be them. I wave, trying to tell them
that I’m over here. Should I yell? Probably not. They must know I’m here,
that’s why they signaled.

The flash
again. A spark of gold, hope. How fast is the river flowing? Can I make it
across? God, I wish my dad had taken me camping more often. I don’t know
anything.
 
A pistol shot behind me
decides it. I sprint forward with my soggy shoes into the river, until I'm
ankle deep in cold water.
 

I feel the
river bottom with my feet, trying to navigate the slippery rocks. If I fall in,
I might be washed downstream, I might drown…who would know where to look?
They’d leave me, the same way I left Matt. They should. So I have to be
careful. Two steps, three...the water is getting faster, harder to fight. How
far to get across? Looks like only ten feet or so, not that far. I can make it.
I will make it.

Another step,
another. My foot snags on a root from some massive tree, and I almost fall, but
I don’t. Now the water it up to my mid-calf, and freezing. I hope they have
some coffee. One more step, balance, try not to fall.

From the bank
behind me, someone calls my name.