Phoenix Island (28 page)

W
HEN MEDICAID LED THEM
straight to the second checkpoint, they were impressed. Maybe a little freaked out. Cautiously optimistic, even. But impressed.

On their way to the third checkpoint, Medicaid cut left when the map clearly suggested they should go right, then fell into a screaming tantrum when they tried to redirect him. “This way!” he shouted over and over, until they finally gave his way a shot.

Fifteen minutes later, they had written their names in the logs of both the third and fourth checkpoints and were hurrying across swampy ground to catch up with the kid. It was as if he had memorized the map at a glance. Stranger still, he now had more than a dozen bright blue butterflies fluttering around his head.

Octavia and Ross ran after him, laughing. Amazing . . . absolutely amazing.

Medicaid bobbled along, crowned in living blue, babbling his nonsense song.

“Do you understand what this means?” Ross asked her.

“Medicaid is some kind of human GPS?”

“Yeah, that, a miracle and whatnot, but more important: we don’t have to starve tonight.”

She laughed. “Thank God.”

Fifteen minutes and two more checkpoints later, Octavia looked up at the sky and said, “It’s not even noon yet. I don’t want to jinx us, but at this rate, we might beat everybody.”

“I know. I think we’re actually going to win.” A huge grin spread across his face, closing his swollen eye. “We’re saving a ton of time not having to consult the map. I never thought I’d say this, but Medicaid is a genius.”

“One more checkpoint, then on to the finish line.”

“And extra food.”

“And sleep. I can’t wait to see the look on Parker’s face.”

They slapped a high five and hurried on.

Medicaid led them up a steep hillside, moving with uncanny speed for such a roly-poly, normally clumsy guy.

They scaled the ridge and started down a slight counterslope, weaving through trees that grew farther and farther apart, until they stumbled laughing to the brink of another clearing. Perhaps a hundred yards away, down through the trees, Medicaid stood at the center of the open space.

Ross threw out his arm, stopping Octavia before she left the trees. “Oh no,” he said. “Look who it is.”

Decker leaned against the next checkpoint. He hadn’t seen them yet, but he was staring directly at Medicaid, who stood only a short distance from the redneck.

Her guts tightened, her mouth went dry, and her stepfather laughed in her imagination.
So stupid! How could you ever believe things would work out for someone like you?

The memory amplified her fear, weakened her.

You’re not exactly Lady Luck,
his voice reminded her, and she felt she could crumble into herself.

But no—she had to be strong.

She pictured the strongest person she knew—Carl—and used his image like a silver cross before a vampire to drive the voice of her stepfather from her mind.

Then real laughter floated up to her, and Decker’s thugs entered the clearing.

Medicaid stopped singing. The butterflies puffed out and away in all directions like living confetti scattered into the air.

She balled her fists. “Okay, let’s go.”

Ross looked at her, wide-eyed. “Are you crazy? Do you know what’s going to happen if we go down there?”

“No—but we both know what’s going to happen if we don’t.”

He reached for her arm, but she stopped him with a glare.

“You don’t know these guys,” he said. “We should just wait.”

“No. Carl wouldn’t abandon him, and I won’t, either.” Half-mad with fear, she marched out of the trees, forced a smile onto her face, and said nonchalantly, “Hey, guys. You beat us here.”

“Not yet we haven’t,” one of them said. Stroud chuckled. It was a mean, dirty sound.

She pretended not to hear. She tried to make her voice sound natural and upbeat. “So, are you guys, like, almost finished? I mean, is this your last checkpoint?”

For some reason, all of them started laughing . . . except Decker. He came off the post, staring at Medicaid, who started to whimper. Decker’s face held little expression—no fake grin or tough-guy scowl—but somehow, he’d never looked scarier. It was his eyes. The rest of his face, its bruises faded green and yellow, was relaxed, almost sleepy, but his eyes stared at Medicaid with frightening intensity. They burned a liquid blue, like a gas flame without warmth, and always looked oddly out of place in his square, brutal face with its black stubble: the eyes of a movie star set in the head of a caveman. They stared from either side of his broken nose.
More of Carl,
she thought.
Like Parker’s brace and bruises
. More of Carl’s work, lingering like an echo, reminding her of his absence. And with that thought, a kind of fatigue weighed down her chest.

Even though she felt like running back into the trees, she forced herself to keep going downhill. “Did you guys sign the book yet? If not, go ahead. You obviously got here first.” She made her face smile again.

Decker moved quickly. She saw his face change, saw his body shift, and had just enough time to understand what was happening before she heard the thump and Medicaid’s yelp. Medicaid fell to the ground and curled up, clutching his stomach.

“Hey!” She pointed at Decker. “You can’t do that.”

Now he looked at her, and there was his smile again. She wondered
if he ever smiled over anything other than pain. “Haven’t you heard? I’m the sheriff. I can do anything I want.”

He swung his shiny black baton overhead and brought it down hard on Medicaid’s butt. There was a loud crack, and Medicaid screamed.

“No!” Octavia said. “Leave him alone!”

Stroud, the tall, skinny bully, laughed. Bruises encircled his eyes, too. More of Carl.

Oh Carl,
she thought,
I wish you were here now
. But he wasn’t. She had to handle this on her own. She wished she had her shank.

Medicaid tried to crawl away, but Decker stomped on his lower back and pinned him to the forest floor with his combat boot.

“Let’s take his pants,” one of the bullies said.

She pointed at Decker, trying not to show her fear. “If you don’t knock it off, you’ll be in big trouble. I’ll tell on you.” And then she thought,
I’ll tell on you
?
What is this, third grade
?

Decker laughed and turned away from her. “Go ahead, Funk, take his pants.”

“You can’t be serious,” she said. “That’s just sick.”

“You got no idea how sick I am.” Decker stared into her eyes. “Want to find out?”

“No.”
Okay—crap—
that was it. No more pretending to be brave. This guy was crazy. And out here in the woods
—oh God—
he could do anything.

“She’s Hollywood’s girlfriend,” Stroud said. His hand reached for her.

She slapped it away. “Don’t touch me.”

“I’m thinking about making her
my
girlfriend,” Decker said. “But she’s flatter than roadkill.”

Stroud reached for her again, grinning. “Yeah, but she’s still
Hollywood’s
girlfriend.”

She swatted his hand away again and took a step back. That single step backward filled her with the urge to run.

Decker held up his baton. “She keeps looking at my club.” He waggled the thing in her direction. “You like it, baby? You want to touch it?”

Stroud said something and laughed.

She pretended not to hear.

Medicaid jumped up and ran for the trees. Funk and the other one chased after him.

Decker didn’t seem to care. He stepped toward her instead. “How come you got white hair?”

“Maybe she’s an old lady.”

Decker grabbed her arm. “She doesn’t feel like an old lady.” His grip was very strong, and she could feel his rough calluses.

“Ouch,” she said, and instantly regretted it. Guys like Decker, you couldn’t let them know they hurt you. It just wound them up. She couldn’t break his grip. She felt the heat of him, and his smell—sharp and sour—filled her nose, making her want to turn away, to scream out.

He laughed. “Where are you going? The long arms of the law have got you now.”

She felt Stroud’s hands on her hips. Without thinking, she kicked backward. Her boot heel drove into something soft, and Stroud let go with a loud
oof
!

She swung her free hand at Decker’s face, but he blocked it easily and yanked her toward him.

She screamed.

He twisted as he pulled, wrapping an arm around her and lifting her off the ground. For a second she was in the air, then she slammed into the ground so hard that light flashed in her head and all the air whooshed from her lungs.

Then he was on her. His body was hard and strong, and he pushed her into the forest floor and turned her onto her back and pressed her shoulders into the ground, hurting her. His blue eyes, coldly sane, stared from a face otherwise consumed by rage as he spoke. “You like to hit?” Then he slapped her hard in the face.

The world exploded with white-hot pain.

Suddenly, it was like her stepfather was alive again, like he was on her again, holding her down, hurting her, and she only wanted to kill or die. She cursed.

“Sounds good to me, honey. We got all day out here. All night, too, if I want. Because the sheriff can do anything he wants.” He stared at her with something like curiosity and pinched her arm, hard.

She cried out and tried to bite his hand. He moved his hand a little, and her teeth clicked down on air.

Stroud appeared behind him, looking murderous.

Decker laughed. “Oh, you want to bite, hmmm? That’s a bad little doggie. I have to teach you some manners. Like my daddy used to say, ‘A dog, a woman, and a walnut tree—the more you beat ’em, the better they be.’ ” He raised his hand in the air, and she closed her eyes, waiting for it.

Then there was a thudding noise, and his weight tilted, lifting a little.

She pushed hard. He rolled off, and she scooted backward, expecting Stroud to jump on her, but he was looking up at the trees.

Atop the rise, Ross bent over, picking up another rock.

Decker cursed loudly, holding his face. Blood trickled from between his fingers.

She jumped up and ran. Running where, she didn’t know, didn’t care. Just running. Away from them. Away from Decker and Stroud and the voice of her stepfather. Off in the distance, she thought she heard Medicaid scream. Behind her, Decker yelled, “Get her! Ross is mine!”

Fear consumed her like fire. She ran, burning with terror, into the trees, making the most out of the lead she had on Stroud. She was a good runner, and as she wove through the trees, she fought her fear until her mind started working again. Her eyes scanned the forest. There: a steep uphill grade.

She sprinted for the slope. She heard him behind her, snapping branches and huffing for breath, but she didn’t look back. No. She was going to run and run and run.

She scrambled higher, grabbing vines and saplings, yanking herself uphill like a monkey climbing a tree. The sounds of Stroud fell back, but she didn’t slow. She rocketed up the slope, cleared the top edge, and entered a thicker forest, everything lost to shadow. Diving behind a huge plant with wide fronds, she crouched and drew air, giving her lungs a break and watching the ridge for Stroud.

Seconds later, as her breathing came back into her control, she heard him gasping for breath. She smiled grimly. Decker and his buddies always poked along at the back of the runs, too cool to try hard. Now
Stroud suffered for it. He stumbled over the rise and fell onto all fours at the crest. He didn’t see her. He lifted his head, sucking air, with his eyes squeezed shut.

His weakness twisted her fear into rage. Had he really thought he could take her so easily? She charged from behind the bush.

He opened his eyes, saw her coming at the last second. “What the—?”

She swung her leg as hard as she could, and her combat boot smashed into his face. His head snapped backward, his arms lifted off the ground, and the top of him arched back and disappeared over the hill. His legs kicked up and then whipped away, too, and he was gone, screaming as he tumbled down the steep slope, bouncing and pitching into the air, smashing down again and bouncing, all the way to the jungle floor below, where he slammed into a tree and lay still.

Good,
she thought, shaking with rage.
I hope he broke his back
.

Off in the distance, someone screamed.

Ross?

She had to go and help him, like he had helped her.

But she was so afraid. She looked down the hill. Stroud still lay on the ground, not moving.

She took a deep breath. She had to help Ross. But she pictured Decker, pictured his face over her, his cool blue eyes, and for a second she couldn’t move.

Oh God,
she thought.
Please. I need to be strong. I need to help Ross
.

That’s when she spotted the club lying at her feet. Stroud’s club. He must’ve dropped it when she kicked him.

Down below, he stirred. There wasn’t much movement, but he was alive.

She picked up the club. It was lighter than she expected, made of wood. Its surface was smooth, but the handle had ridges for a better grip and a little leather loop attached to the butt end. She slipped her hand through the loop and started downhill.

She descended sideways, careful not to fall, and when she reached the bottom, Stroud cried out and tried to scramble away. She chased him
down, knowing she had to beat him badly enough that he wouldn’t follow her. He would’ve shown her no mercy. She would show him none.

She nailed his face with the nightstick. His body went loose, slumped forward, and lay still. She considered hitting him again and again, just finishing him. Forever. But there was just enough of her rational mind left to know that that was a bad idea, a horrible idea, that there would be no turning back.

Looking down, she saw one of his hands lying atop an exposed tree root. “You shouldn’t touch people who don’t want to be touched,” she said, and she swung the club hard. She heard the bones in his hand break, and she stepped back, startled by her own ferocity. Her stomach squeezed and churned, and her gorge rose, but she didn’t vomit.
Forget it,
she told herself, and ran toward Ross.