Ruthless (5 page)

Forty Years Ago

THE SMALL CABIN IS IMMACULATE
in the way only something brand-new can be. The boy, a fifteen-year-old who looks eighteen, sits at attention, happily craning his neck to take in all the details of the place. At his feet are two splotchy-colored hunting dogs. He pets one and then the other, scratching them behind the ears. His uncle Lou is giving him a long-winded spiel about how he built the cabin with his own two hands. Most would find it boring at best, but not the boy. To him this is something close to heaven.

His uncle pauses, and the boy focuses in on the older man. They look like they could be father and son, instead of just uncle and nephew. The boy senses something important is about to be said.

“I want you to have this cabin after I'm gone, Jerry.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I want it to stay in the family, with blood. I suppose
Jenny or Marleen could inherit it, but what use would they get out of it? Maybe if they get married, their husbands would come up here, but I don't want no damn son-in-law having this place. No, when I die, I want you to have it. Already talked to my lawyer, had it added to my will.”

“Uncle Lou, I don't know what to say.”

“You just say thank you.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome. And don't think I haven't been watching you. Ever since we came up, you've been looking around like a kid in a candy store. I think you might love this place as much as I do.”

It's too much for the boy to wrap his mind around, so he just nods emphatically.

“And like I've said, I've been watching you.” Uncle Lou pauses, then says in a low voice, “I see the bruises are still coming.”

The boy's happiness evaporates.

“It's nothing to be ashamed of, son. It's not your fault. It's your daddy's fault for leaving y'all behind when you were nothing but a june bug in the bassinet. Jerry, you know what a man's job is?”

“No.”

“The job of the man is to keep the woman in line. It's his job to be boss, keep things clear and orderly. If a man doesn't run a tight ship, you get things like the way Avanelle is now. Don't get me wrong; when she was young, she was just as bad. Difference was, Daddy whupped her proper and that kept her managed. Once your daddy run off, and Avanelle was head of her own household, she was allowed to run amuck. So those bruises aren't your fault, Jerry. They're your daddy's fault. He's the one who should be ashamed.”

The boy looks pensive. Uncle Lou seems to read his mind. “It's Avanelle's fault too. But women, generally speaking, will run amuck without a man to be the boss. So try not to be too hard on your mama, Jerry. She's just a woman.”

He nods, but he doesn't look particularly convinced.

“Now, I'm going to take a little nap. Why don't you do some hog scouting? You can take Boy and Biscuit with you, if you want.”

Two hours later the boy returns with the dogs. Happy once more, breathless from exercise, he gives his report.

“
Went down by the bear bucket and over two klicks northeast to
Ravine B
and found a sow, but she had piglets, so . . .” The boy's sentence trails off into nothing. He sits down, knowing there will be no hunting today. Boy and Biscuit put their chins on his knees, and he playfully pushes them away. Tails start to wag and a game develops.

Behind the boy, Uncle Lou straps himself down with two massive hunting knives and a rifle. “Don't know why you're getting comfortable.”

There is disapproval in the man, disapproval that sends an electric shock down the boy's spine. He jumps to his feet and grabs his coat.

“Let's go get us a pig,” says Uncle Lou.

The boy isn't sure if he's referring to the sow, because that doesn't seem right, or finding a different hog altogether. Either way, he's not going to say a word.

He washes his hands in the cold creek. They're shaking. The sleeves of his coat are soaked in blood.

“Don't you forget the knife,” Uncle Lou says.

The boy picks up the hunting knife and lets the water wash away the red. Along the gravelly bank is a line of dead piglets.

Uncle Lou stands over him. Watching him. Bearing down into him.

Biscuit limps up. Before the hog died, she did her work on the hound. The dog laps water from the creek, holding one forepaw in the air all the while.

The boy can feel what's coming before it comes, so he closes his eyes tight, but he can't close his ears, and the rifle shot is deafening. His eyes are still shut, closing him into blackness, when his uncle says, “You can't be afraid of killing.”

CHAPTER SIX

I'M STRUCK BY HOW SLOWLY
he walks. He's taking his time. There's no urgency, no panic, no worry in him. He's confident. Maybe even enjoying himself, taking in the whole experience. It seems so impossible that a human could be this inhuman.

As I sink even deeper into the rocky hillside, my fingers touch something warm and sticky. It's my own blood, flowing from the bullet wound. I don't feel real pain, only a vague hum of burning numbness.

He's getting closer.

It occurs to me he also walks slowly because he doesn't want to miss a thing. He's being careful. Despite all of his earlier sloppi­ness, not tying me to the couch and going gunless during the hose-down, I now feel an attention to detail. Out here, hunting in the wilderness, Wolfman is in his element.

And it terrifies me.

Now, more than ever, he has the upper hand. He holds all the cards. Against the rocks, naked and injured, I have no advantages.

He disappears from view, but I can hear him. After a few minutes, his footsteps grow louder again.

He's sweeping the hillside. Back and forth, back and forth. Searching out all the crevices.

What can I do? How can I win this? A terrible conclusion begins to feel inevitable. But I want to win. Not only for me, but for Mom and Dad and Grandpapa and Nana. For Caleb. I want to make them proud of me. But I can't win this. There's no way I can run. He's far too close, and his gun is too powerful. I don't think I can sneak away and stay quiet enough. In the silence of the autumn forest I can hear every sound he's making. My own movement would be just as obvious.

I half close my eyes, worried the whites of them might give me away.

Staring at the forest, I wonder if this is the last thing I will ever see.

Is this how the girls felt before they died? Did they feel the noose of inevitability tightening around their necks? Did they give up? I hope they fought. That they never gave up. That they never gave him that satisfaction.

Be here for me
, I pray to them.
Be here for me and make me strong.
I then think:
Help me. If you can help me, help me now.

Something comes into focus. I am looking at a deer. A buck with an enormous rack of antlers. He stands, still as a statue, many
yards away. It is only thanks to a perfect window through many bushes and trees that I can see him at all.

It seems he looks at me, just as I look at him.

He is beautiful.

Run,
I think.
Run
as fast as you can. Make him think you're me.

But he stands, seemingly fearless, unstartled by me, unstartled by the presence of the Wolfman.

Run! You are in danger! Run!

I scream so loud inside my own skull I almost drown out the sound of the Wolfman's steps. They are so close, too close—they're on top of me.

Help me.

Wolfman takes a bad step. A rock crashes down the ravine.

The stag runs.

He is big and he is loud, but thanks to the undergrowth, he is invisible. Wolfman takes off after him. He's no longer slow and careful; now he's excited by the hunt.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Quiet returns to the forest. He is gone. For now.

Exhaustion comes over me, and there, clinging to my rocks, I fall out of consciousness and into a dream. But this time I do not know I'm dreaming, and it's not a memory dream. It's more hallu­cination than anything.

In my dream the other redheaded girls come to me. There are six of them. They do not say a word, but they surround me as I lie in the ravine. They want to help and comfort me.

I look into their faces. They're all younger than me, twelve to
fifteen years old, maybe. Some still have cheeks that carry the soft roundness of childhood.

“What are your names?” I ask, but they say nothing.

“How old are you?” I try again.

Finally I say, “Does anyone know what happened to you?”

One girl makes eye contact and shakes her head no. She has dark eyes, and her hair is so deeply red it's almost brown. There is so much sorrow radiating from her it makes me want to cry.

For the first time I consider what would happen to my family and friends if I just disappeared and never came back. How would they deal with not knowing? Would it be better than knowing my fate? No, I'd rather they know. If for no other reason than that they would bring this man to justice.

Which is one more reason why I can't fail. It's
my
job. That fight would be too much for them. I need to do this.

My eyes water. The Wolfman tried to take my family away from me with his notebook and mind games, but I know they love me. And I love them.

The girls huddle around me now, tucking my muddy hair behind my ears, wiping my tears away, softly touching my wounds and making them feel better. Their expressions are somber, strong, compassionate. They are here for me, and they understand.

I think:
I am not alone
.

And wake up.

The moon is still low in the sky; the mud is still wet on my skin. My wounds feel the same as they ever did. Not much has changed. But I feel better for having had my dream-­hallucination
about the other redheaded girls; I feel stronger, more able to think.

What do I do now?

My first thought is to continue heading west, away from the cabin. It's natural instinct kicking in; it's what makes sense to the part of me controlled by fear.

But that's not who I am. I win by taking risks. By standing out. Mom hates how I ride Tucker right past the judge as many times as possible in a class. She says it's showboating and it's tacky. Some judges don't like it. Long ago, though, I decided I'd rather win being me than lose by playing it safe.

So what would the classic Ruth Ann Carver move be? What would he not expect?

Well,
I think,
I could steal his truck.

Five Years Ago

IT'S HARD NOT TO FEEL
small, taking in the warm-up ring. The most famous trainers riding the most valuable quarter horses are crammed in there, fighting for practice space.

“I'll be in this corner, okay?” her mother says.

The girl nods obediently, with no intention of actually obeying. She hopes it looks like it's the traffic that forces her to pick a spot in the opposite corner from where her mother is stationed.

A competitor since age three, she doesn't consider herself young and inexperienced. She feels she is a grizzled veteran of a thousand wars. Which is why she hasn't let herself get too excited about the last two weeks, despite the glimpses of greatness her horse has given her. That was at home. Here, in the chaos of the Oklahoma City Fairgrounds, it may be a different story.

She jogs her black gelding along the rail, letting his muscles come to life. Their routine is burned into her brain. Circles left, circles right, transitions
from walk to jog to lope, then pushing him into an extended lope, his long strides eating up the ground like he's hungry for dirt. Halt, back, side pass. Only a few times does she ask him for show-off moves, sliding stops and rollbacks and spins. No point in drilling a skill that's already solid.

With every movement, her horse is with her. More than with her, he is a part of her. All that is required is a thought, and then that thought comes to life in the form of perfect motion. She knows it's her nervous system carry­ing those thoughts through her body, creating tiny movements her horse is reading. Knowing this doesn't make it any less magic. Her horse is happy and she is happy and this is the one place in all the world where everything makes sense, everything is as it should be. She is in perfect control, and it is so pleasing to her, that sense of control, that sense of power.

Satisfied with the practice, she asks her horse to halt. She gives him a pat and murmurs words of praise. Her focus released, she is now free to absorb what is around her, truly and completely. There is conflict. Conflict everywhere. Trainers riding horses too roughly. Trainers yelling at their clients. Horses pinning their ears in anger. It's all wrong. Suffocatingly wrong. She's seen plenty of bad riding in her life, but she thought here, at Worlds, it would be different. Instead, she is the one who is different from the rest. A sensation of disconnect and inadequacy weighs her down.

The girl looks to the corner, to her mother, who gives her a double thumbs-up. She feels a swell of gratitude. Her mother may not bring in the big-money clients, but she's a real horsewoman. Her mother has taught her right. The girl is proud she rides the way she does. It's occurred to her before that this is what should be rewarded at horse shows, that her mother's methods deserve recognition. Now the old thought comes home with new force.

She takes in the same scene—the yelling trainers, the unhappy horses—but now a beautiful thought comes shining through.

I am better than them.

The girl pilots her horse out of the arena to where her mother is waiting, a giant smile on her face. Guilt stings the girl. She shouldn't have hidden from her mom the way she did.

“That was so good!”

“Thanks, Mom.” She mumbles the words, ashamed.

“And it was smart of you to find your own space away from me. That's thinking like a competitor. You needed your own quiet area to work in and you made it happen. That's exactly how I want you to think, because that's how you become a winner.”

Her chest expands; her spine straightens. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Winners are ruthless, Ruth. Ha, that's funny. Anyway, point is, in order to be a winner you have to be tough and not worry about other people's feelings. I'm proud of you for being more concerned about getting in a good practice than you were about what I had to say.”

“Huh,” she says, letting the unexpected words seep into her bones.