Ruthless (17 page)

It strikes me as strange how despairing I was twenty-four hours ago. Maybe it was hunger, or exhaustion. Maybe it was just the fact I'd lost faith. No matter the cause, I've been cured. For the first time since I found myself in the back of the truck, the odds are in my favor. I will get out of here. I will survive. My fight is back, and once again I can taste victory.

I said my confession prayers and meant every word, but I cannot help but imagine what it will be like to find my rescuers. They will be amazed that I survived, that I beat the odds. They will be blown away by the fact that I defeated a serial killer at his own game. I won't say it out loud, because that would be too much, but on the inside I'll think,
I am Ruthless, and I'm no one to be trifled with.

Ten Days Ago

HE SITS AT THE COUNTER
of the Denny's, listening to the target go on and on about herself. There is the entertaining thought of spinning around, leaping upon her, and stabbing her in the neck. Satisfying, in its own way, but the repercussions would be too severe. Besides, what would she learn from that? Nothing. There must be some purification for her, too. It's not all about him and his needs. There should be a balance struck. To be fair, it is also about his own needs, and considering how very, very long it's been, he's planning on taking his time. He's going to make this into a special vacation for himself.

Right now his plan is to return to sobriety after this job is over. Way, way down, deep underneath, he senses that once his sobriety is blown, it will be hard, maybe even impossible, to get back on the wagon. There's a vague discomfort with this, so it's best to keep believing that this is a one-time gig.

For twenty minutes now it has been nothing but the target pretending
she's not flirting with the boy. The man finds the kid interesting. He's obviously smart. There's a perceptive look about him, so why does he tolerate her torture? The man shakes his head. He is going to be doing this boy an enormous favor. Sure, he'll be upset at first, but in the long run he'll be thankful.

At last, something of note. The target complains about her horse's injured hoof, how no one is competent enough to wrap the foot correctly. She complains about entrusting her mother with the task during her absence. She complains about how she is going to have to get up so early before she goes to the beach to take care of the injury one last time.

He is profoundly grateful. Truth be told, he continued to have some doubts about whether it was right for him to break his promise. But here the stars have aligned; they have come together to tell him that this is meant to be. Providence never lies.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

IT'S SOMETIME IN THE AFTERNOON
when I decide to get off the river. The day is pleasantly warm, probably close to seventy degrees. The river has been nothing but smooth sailing. It's hard not to feel anxious about how long I've traveled without hitting a road, but I'm trying to have faith. A road will come. I know it will.

After I pull my boat out of the water, I use the forest as a bathroom. Not comfortable, but I see it as a good sign. My body is returning to normal. This is good. This is hopeful.

If only I was at the road already. . . .

Nope. Not going to think about that. Instead, I search for mussels. I find a handful, but no more. My morning feast was a lucky break. There are minnows darting in and out of the shallows. I want to catch and eat them, but it's a temptation that should be resisted. Trying to catch little quicksilver fish would be a good way
to waste time and calories. Instead, I make repairs to my boat.

It's time to get back on the river. Just as I step into the tube, I hear the baying of hounds. It's far, far off. I can barely hear it, but it's definitely the sound of hunting dogs.

Or maybe the sound of search-and-rescue dogs.

“HELLO!” I scream so loud it hurts my throat.

Nothing.

“HELP!”

Nothing.

“HELP!”

It's pointless. You can hear a good coonhound from five miles away. The human voice doesn't travel like that. Especially not over the sound of a river. I strain to hear, pacing up and down the riverbank, but the hounds are gone.

The work I did on the Logans' garage door has borne fruit. There are people searching for me, but they're searching upriver. Far upriver. Or maybe not. Maybe those were hunting dogs. It is hunting season; it would make sense.

I don't know and I wish did. I have one foot in my boat. Either I get in and keep going in hopes of finding a road, or I start the trek back toward the baying hounds, hoping to find rescuers.

There's no good answer.

Ultimately, I decide on the boat. Hiking upriver would be difficult, maybe even impossible. The boat is relatively easy, and I've found a source of food on the river. I get in and push off, praying that a highway is around the next bend.

I've heard the faint baying of hounds one more time, but that was a while ago. After that, a rifle shot, but that came from another direction. Even so, the sound of hunters makes me doubt my search-and-rescue idea. Ever since the gunshot it has been nothing but the sounds of the forest, the sounds of the water. Very slow, very shallow water. I have to use my raft pole to keep my boat moving forward. Going downriver feels like a mistake. An enormous mistake. But would it be an even bigger one to abandon course and go back?

My arms get tired as I use my raft pole again and again, pushing away from boulders and back into the current. Up ahead there's a sharp turn in the river. On the other side of that hairpin corner I want to see a bridge. A nice, clean, fancy bridge. The kind that big highways have. I want that bridge so bad, I think I can will it into existence.

It takes a thousand years to get to that bend. Slow, shallow, bumping, barely moving water holds me back, but every minute is spent envisioning that bridge. Willing it to be there. I can see the spans, the angle of it, the color of the concrete, the shadows cut by the sun.

Reaching the turn in the river, I hear something. It might be traffic.

Once around the corner I see it's not traffic. It's white water.

Before I can map a plan, I'm in the rapids. Ice water slaps me across the face. I sputter to clear my mouth, attempt to wipe the water from my eyes. As soon as I'm clear, I'm slapped again. My boat turns sideways, then backward. I'm going down blind. I
remember my stick and shove off from a boulder hard. Both shoulders scream. Twisting back to sideways now. Just as I get a glimpse of where I'm going, I slam against a rock. The back of my head hits granite. My concussion flares.

“No!” I say to no one but the river, but all the same, I say it. This damn river isn't going to be what beats me, not after facing down a serial killer on his own ground.

I push against another rock. My boat spins. I hit another rock, steadying myself. Now that I'm facing forward again, I put my stick across my lap, ready to push off left or right. Looking down the gauntlet of the river, I map a course. There's a channel of smoother white water down the center. Two quick moves with my stick gets me there. A second of peace lets me get to my knees. Now I can use my weight to keep balance.

Riding this river feels like sitting on a bucking two-year-old horse. When a young horse explodes, there's always a second where you don't know what the hell is going on, but then you find the rhythm of it. There's no time to be scared, there's only time to react. That's what I do, down the white water. React. Push, push, shift, push, shift, shift. My weight and my raft pole, that's all I've got. I'm starting to get a handle on how to do this when a strange sound begins to thrum overhead.

It's loud, mechanical, not from nature.

Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.

I can't look away from the river, so I only catch a glimpse. A helicopter. Headed upriver, toward the baying hounds. In less than a second it's gone.

A boulder rises up out of nowhere. No time to think about the helicopter. No time to think I'm wearing a camouflage hat and jacket. No time to think I'm invisible against the pattern of dark green water, white rapids, and boulders. No time to think that this river is taking me a million miles away from help. No time to think that no matter how hard I try to do right, all I make are mistakes.

There's no time to think these things, but I think them anyway. I'm riding the wild, bucking river, but it's my animal brain guiding my body. The real me is floating away, with the helicopter, up into the sky.

The river quiets for a minute. Not so quiet as to be safe, but it's not nearly as treacherous. I catch my breath. Wipe water from my face. Rest.

I think the rapids are over.

They're not.

I come around yet another bend, and there's a damn-near waterfall waiting for me.

“Oh shit.” It almost strikes me as funny. I sound resigned, weary, like someone irritated by spilled milk. But this isn't spilled milk. This is quite possibly my death.

The only thing I can do is get centered and steady and hold on to my stick. My stomach drops out from underneath me before the river does. Miraculously my little boat stays facing forward. Down into the froth and back out again, down three more levels of rapids, the whole thing goes as smoothly as it possibly could.

Now the river truly quiets. But I'm not quiet. I'm laughing. I just survived a mother-effing waterfall. How the hell did I do that?
I have no idea; but I'm glad I did. Having ridden a waterfall all the way down takes the sting out of seeing the helicopter. Right now it's much easier to have faith in providence, to believe that I am where I'm supposed to be.

The sun is about to dip behind the mountains. My friend the moon is going to pay me a visit sooner rather than later, and a visit from a friend is always nice. Before all sunlight is lost, I pull up to a nice, sandy bank. It's a good place to work on my boat. It's worse for wear after going through the rapids. It takes quite a while to get it pumped up again. By the end I'm feeling a bit weaker than I'd like to. Unfortunately, there are no mussels around.

Sitting there, I don't think about being hungry, or what else I might find to eat. At least I don't consciously think about it. But then something clicks in my mind, and I realize I'm looking at dandelions. The flowers are long gone, but the leaves remain. I've heard stories of dandelion tea, though I've never had it, and I know people pick the leaves and put them into salad.

These are safe to eat. With a thrill I pick a leaf and taste it. Not bad. A bit spicy, but not anything unpleasant. I want to grab up whole handfuls and eat, but it's important to chew slowly. My stomach is fragile. Besides, the slower I eat, the more full I'll feel.

By the time I'm done with my salad of wild greens, it's dusk. I push off into the water, and my old anxiety, the desire to find a highway, comes alive within me.

Everything's okay
, I tell myself.
I'm alive. I've eaten. I have a boat.
It'll be okay. I will find a highway.

Something new has taken over my world. Fog. It came on a little at a time, and at first I thought it was pretty. When it was nothing more than scenic wisps of smoke on the water, it
was
pretty. This is something else. This is like wading through wool. There must be heavy clouds above me, because no moonlight, no starlight, can find its way through the thickened air. There will be no visit from the moon tonight. This makes me sadder than it should. I need a friend now more than ever.

There is a new kind of quiet, too. The rustle of leaves and the sweet gurgle of the river have given over to a dead calm. It's as though the only things that exist are me and my boat and the water that surrounds me. I can't see either bank, and there hasn't been any rock for some time.

The river has broadened and deepened, becoming a lazy sort of southern river. Even so, lazy southern rivers can very quickly become raging rapids. I keep my ears sharp for the sound of white water, but the more I strain to hear, the more I hear nothing.

I'm tired. Dead tired. The endless nothing makes me even more tired, while making me all the more anxious. It leaves me not really awake but nowhere near resting, a terrible place of limbo. Limbo is a bad place to be. Limbo is a fertile ground for the imagination.

What if this river just peters out? Just turns into smaller and smaller streams, never takes you to a road?

No. It's a big river. Big rivers lead to roads. It's the way civilization works.

What if the search-and-rescue people give up? How long have they been
searching around the Logan place? They won't search forever, and there's no reason for them to come all the way out here.

I know that. The search-and-rescue people won't find me. I already know that. I have to find them. That's how this is going to work.

Still thinking it's going to be this great victory? You come strutting out of the wilderness, a champion? You know even if you do get out of here, you will collapse and cry before the first person you meet.

Maybe, maybe not.

You will collapse and cry because you're broken now. You're damaged goods. You always thought so highly of yourself, didn't you? Pride. You were prideful. Now look at you. Broken. Damaged.

But still alive.

Alive for what? How many years of therapy will it take to fix this? A million? Guess what. You're not going to live for a million years. You're going to be broken all of your life.

I'll still alive and that's all that matters.

But think of what you've seen. The underwear on the table. Wolfman masturbating. Do you remember making him go the bathroom in his pants? Do you remember taking cold aim and shooting a man in the back? Have you forgotten that? There's no coming back from this.

Shut up and leave me be. I've got to be ready with my stick, just in case the river turns or a boulder comes up out of the fog. A boulder is a real danger. I can't see two feet ahead of me. Last thing I need is to break my boat on a rock.

Out of the deep silence comes a sound. It is instantly recognizable and makes my insides melt with adrenaline. It's the sound of
a car. A car moving fast, driving on a smooth highway. But it seems to be coming from behind me.

Confusion spins my head around, and I see headlights floating through the fog. The car
is
behind me. Far behind. I must've drifted through the span of a bridge without the vaguest clue I was near a highway.

The car passes over the river and disappears into the forest without a second thought to me or my plight.