The Captive Page 5

  “You have to wrap,” Brooke heard Milo remind Sal again and again, until finally he put her down. She shrieked, feeling the cold, but soon enough she was splashing ahead, water darkening her clothes to the waist.

  They moved south. The water was low this time of year, but bitterly cold. Small river crayfish nipped at Brooke’s numbed ankles. Their touch felt distant, as if her limbs belonged to another body. From her remove sixty feet back in the creek, she listened to Milo keeping up a meandering conversation with Sal and a mainly unresponsive Holly. He had always been the easier parent. He played with them, did projects with them, made up silly songs for them. Now, he pointed things out to them in the creek and the foothills around them, distracting them, keeping them moving.

  Cawley periodically scanned the horizon. Brooke wondered if their pursuers had reached the house yet. If they’d found her trail into the creek, they might even now be closing in, watching from a distance, waiting for one of the kids to straggle, for Brooke to put the gun down.

  Brooke’s wet jeans clung to her thighs, pulling with each step. The pack dug into her shoulders. She had smashed a toe between two slippery rocks, and the nail throbbed in spite of the numbing water. Her ribs ached where Cawley had punched her. She imagined bending her knees and sinking into the creek, floating the weight off her hips and back, letting the cold soothe her.

  Images of their fight outside the shed flashed in Brooke’s mind: Cawley’s shovel blade hacking through the shed door, his hand reaching for the axe—how close he’d come to winning.

  Brooke shuddered to think what would have happened. Milo and the girls undefended, unaware.

  He didn’t win, she told herself.

  “Brooke?” Milo called. Ahead, he and the girls had stopped.

  Brooke looped the rope in her left hand, halting Cawley at a distance from them.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” Sal called back.

  “Just go on the bank where we can see you,” Brooke said.

  “I don’t want . . .” Sal darted a look at Cawley.

  “It’s okay, Sal.”

  “No!” Sal shouted, petulant.

  “She wants privacy, Brooke,” Milo said.

  “Go with her, then, but hurry.”

  “Holly, will you take your sister, please?” Milo asked. “I need to talk to Mom.”

  “Fine,” Holly grumbled, grabbing Sal’s arm. “Come on.”

  “Not far!” Brooke called. “And don’t let her out of your sight!”

  The girls clambered up the edge of the creek and over a small rise.

  “All right,” Milo said when they were out of earshot. His teacher voice was gone now, she noticed. “Taking him to Shaw Station wasn’t the plan.”

  “Buxton isn’t safe,” Brooke said, watching the place where the girls had disappeared from view. “I told you why.”

  “The marshals were only looking for him. We don’t know there are others. He might have said that just to scare you.”

  Cawley looked up. “Said what?” he asked, his voice still gummy.

  “Listen,” Brooke said quickly, keeping Milo’s attention on her. “We can make it. We’ll pass Buffalo Cross by tomorrow, if we hurry.”

  “Brooke, think about it. Even if we could walk a hundred miles, we’re not prepared for camping. We don’t have enough food. What if someone gets hurt? We can’t do this alone. And what about the harvest? If we’re gone for more than a couple days—”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Brooke said, hearing her voice rise. She lowered it again. “We just have to get him to the marshals. That’s all.”

  “Marshals?” Cawley coughed and spat into the water. “Since when do you deal with marshals?”

  “Buffalo Cross, though,” Milo said, thinking. “They’re supposed to have a sheriff.”

  “So?”

  “He might help. He might have a phone. We could meet the marshals there, instead of going all the way to Shaw Station.”

  Brooke had heard Buffalo Cross was unfriendly, a community that had survived by isolating itself and repelling newcomers. She had imagined bypassing it entirely. Nonetheless, Milo was right that they would need food and water by then. Brooke had packed for only a short journey, grabbing things from the pantry that could be eaten without cooking. She’d stuffed two sleeping bags in the pack as an afterthought, but hadn’t even considered the tent, which was heavy.

  “Okay,” Brooke conceded. “We can try Buffalo Cross.”

  At that moment, Holly reappeared at the side of the creek, alone.

  “I’m hungry,” she said.

  “Where’s your sister?” Brooke asked. “I told you not to leave her alone.”

  “She’s going to the bathroom, Mom, okay? She’s right over there.”

  Just then, Sal’s thin, high shriek came from beyond the bank.

  Brooke ran past Cawley, forcing him to stumble after her through the water so he wouldn’t get dragged under by the rope.

  “A mouse ran by me,” Sal cried when Brooke cleared the bank and saw her squatting in the brush. “I got pee on my leg.”

  THEY WALKED THE CREEK all day with no sign of pursuit. The sun moved slowly left to right, never more than halfway up from the horizon, tracking its oblique late-season course. By late afternoon, Brooke guessed they were five miles from home. The mountains behind them still looked close, but the land was opening up.

  Their feet were cut and swollen, their legs ached from trying to balance on uneven ground, and the cold had seeped into every corner of their bodies. Brooke had allowed the girls a small ration of lunch while they walked, but she and Milo had eaten nothing since breakfast.

  With early dusk coming down, Brooke directed Holly up the bank into a grassy meadow scabbed with bedrock, where they would have a clear view of the approach from all sides.

  Holly and Sal collapsed on the rocks, speechless with exhaustion.

  Brooke threw Milo the lead rope and watched as he checked the lock on the zip tie around Cawley’s wrists and used an extra length of rope to tie his ankles, then knotted the lead line around the base of a juniper bush. Brooke talked him through the correct knot, and how to check it. She kept a careful distance with the rifle, but Cawley made no attempt to escape this time. He lowered himself to the ground, wincing. Without the cold of the creek to numb the pain, he would be feeling his injuries. That wouldn’t be the worst of his discomfort, Brooke knew. His high was wearing off. Coming down from chalk could be as bad as the flu.

  Once Cawley was secured, and Milo safely out of his reach, Brooke put the gun down and eased herself out of her pack. The sky was darkening quickly, and she didn’t want to risk a fire or lantern. While there was still light to see by, she opened her pack and started pulling things out.

  “When are we going to eat?” Sal whined.

  “Soon, Salamander,” Brooke said. “Get changed first.”

  “No way am I getting undressed,” Holly said. “I’m finally starting to warm up.”

  “Switching to dry clothes when you stop moving is the best way to keep your body temperature up,” Brooke said automatically.

  “It’s not up,” Holly groaned.

  “Come on, Hol. I promise you’ll feel better once you’re in dry clothes. Dad packed your red scarf.”

  “When are we going to get somewhere?” Holly asked. “I’m so tired.”

  “We’re sleeping here tonight,” Brooke said.

  “Here? What, on the ground?”

  “It’s just for one night.”

  Brooke turned away from Holly’s aggrieved sputtering to evaluate their campsite. Forest on one side, rolling meadow and bedrock everywhere else. The meadow grass would soak the sleeping bags with dew. In the bedrock that broke through the surface, there was a long green seam, four feet wide, where moss and lichen grew. That would be the best place for the sleeping bags. She unstuffed them from her pack and spread them out on the ground.

  Milo dug the dry clothes out of his pack. Holly hid behind a junip
er bush, but Sal didn’t fuss about undressing in front of Cawley this time. Either she’d forgotten he was there, sitting apart—Awake? Asleep? Brooke couldn’t tell—or she was too tired to care. Once they’d changed, Milo rubbed Sal’s legs to warm them, and she squealed as her numbed skin lit up with fiery pins and needles.

  “Shh,” Brooke hushed her instinctively.

  “What?” Holly asked, wrapping her red knitted scarf around her neck. “Who’s going to hear her?”

  “No one,” Brooke said, turning to her pack. “Nothing. Let’s have dinner.”

  “Is that all we have?” Milo asked, looking at the small collection of knotted plastic bags Brooke took out. Their contents were difficult to distinguish in the gathering dark.

  Milo hadn’t spoken to Brooke since Sal’s shriek cut them off in the creek that afternoon. He’d addressed himself to the kids, receiving Brooke’s periodic instructions silently. Now his voice was stiff, restrained.

  “I packed for a day or two,” Brooke said, passing chestnuts and raw carrots to the girls. “We can make this last until Buffalo Cross.”

  “I thought we were going to Shaw Station,” Holly said, biting into a chestnut.

  “Well, Shaw Station is a long way,” Brooke said, glancing at Milo. “Buffalo Cross is closer. We’ll see if they can help us get Cawley to the marshals.”

  “Why wouldn’t they help?” Sal asked.

  “I don’t know, Salamander. I’ve never been there.”

  “What did he do, anyway?” Holly asked.

  “That’s none of our business,” Milo said.

  “Then why are we taking him?”

  “He said he knew Mom,” Sal added. “He said there was going to be a surprise.”

  “Hush, Salamander,” Brooke said. “Keep your voice down. I don’t know why he said that. He’s not thinking straight.”

  “Why not? What’s wrong with him?” Sal asked.

  “He’s sick, honey,” Milo said. “You know how we’ve talked about drugs before?”

  “Like the guys in the laundromat,” Sal nodded sagely, referring to Buxton’s small chalk den.

  “But why would he say he knew you?” Holly pressed.

  “Oh, I know her.” Cawley’s voice came though the dusk. They turned to where he was leaning against the rocks. His voice was less garbled now. His eyes were clearer and more focused than they had been all day. He was staring at Brooke. “Me and your mom go way back, Holly.”

  Brooke grabbed the rifle and crossed the distance in a heartbeat. She crouched in front of Cawley, just out of reach, her back to Milo and the girls.

  “Shut your mouth,” she whispered. “It’s not too late for me to shoot you.”

  “They don’t know, do they?” he smirked.

  “You don’t look at them,” she hissed. “You don’t speak to them. You speak only to me, only when I say so.”

  “You’re no fun to talk to,” he said, tilting his head to one side. “So fucking serious.”

  “Yeah, I am. I’m deadly serious. And if you speak to them again, I will make you regret it.”

  “Well, shit,” Cawley scoffed. “I wouldn’t want to regret anything.”

  Brooke clenched her fist around the rifle. She shouldn’t hit him in front of the girls. She turned away.

  “You look just like your mother,” Cawley mused to her back.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Brooke said, returning to Milo and the girls. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Just try to pretend he’s not there.”

  There was a yip, far off in the forest, soon answered by another. Coyotes.

  “Oh my god, I don’t see why we’re doing this,” Holly said. “I hate it.”

  “Hate it, then,” Brooke said. “As long as you cooperate so we can get it done.”

  “I am cooperating.”

  “You are,” Milo said, with a warning glance at Brooke. “You and Sal are both doing your best, and we appreciate it.”

  Holly rolled her eyes.

  “I’m still hungry,” Sal said.

  “Here,” Brooke said, snapping her carrot in half and splitting it between the girls. She sat, facing away from them, waiting for darkness to hide her completely.

  THE GIRLS ZIPPED themselves into their sleeping bags on the mossy seam in the rock and were soon asleep, despite Holly’s assertion that it was too cold and uncomfortable and creepy to sleep, and Sal’s fear, stoked by her sister, that they would be attacked by coyotes.

  A bright moon rose, nearly full, and by its light, Brooke could see Milo still sitting where he’d kept the girls company as they fell asleep. There was no reason for him to stay there now, unless he was as reluctant to talk again as Brooke was.

  Brooke got out the flashlight and busied herself spreading their wet things over a flat-topped juniper bush. Nothing would really dry overnight, but the airflow might prevent mildew. Then she unpacked and repacked both bags, until she was certain she could find any of their contents by feel in the dark. Finally, there was nothing left for her to do.

  She swept the flashlight to find Milo. He was no longer sitting by the girls, but moving toward Cawley with something held out in front of him. Something pointed.

  “Are you hungry, Stephen?” she heard him ask.

  “What are you doing?” Brooke hissed.

  “We have to at least feed him.” Now she saw it was a carrot Milo was holding.

  “Why?”

  “Because, Brooke. Even if he’s under citizen’s arrest, or whatever this is, he has a right to eat.”

  “He’ll just throw up,” Brooke said. “He’s coming down.”

  “Try to eat,” Milo said to Cawley, tossing the carrot at his feet. Cawley ignored him.

  Brooke shook her head. Let Milo give Cawley a carrot if it made him feel better. She shone the flashlight on Cawley, hunched against his rock. If he was listening to their debate, he gave no sign. He sat grim-faced and still. Or not quite still, Brooke realized. He was shaking, his teeth clattering in his jaw. He was still soaked from the creek. His lips were blue.

  “Milo,” Brooke said. “Are those the only other pants you brought?” She regretted now that she’d told him to pack only one extra set of clothes for each of them.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “He can’t sit in wet pants all night. He’ll get sores. You can share one of the kids’ sleeping bags to stay warm.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “He needs dry pants.”

  “Yeah, but so do I.”

  “Oh, for—” Brooke fumed. “The one thing you could have done instead of me.” She took off her sweatpants and threw them at Milo. The cold bit into her exposed skin.

  “The one thing?” Milo stared at her.

  “Come on,” she said, picking up the rifle to cover him. “His knee’s probably swollen. If he sits in wet jeans all night, it’ll open up. We need him to be able to walk tomorrow.”

  Milo grabbed the bunched-up pants from the ground. He undid the rope around Cawley’s ankles and pulled him up to his feet from behind, undoing his fly as if he were one of their kids. Cawley submitted without comment, shivering as Milo shimmied the damp jeans down over his leg.

  Getting Brooke’s sweatpants on him proved the harder part. They were a close fit, and Cawley’s clammy flesh and knobby, swollen joints caught in the leg holes. He lost his balance, and Milo caught him instinctively.

  They might have been laughing about this, Brooke thought. If absolutely everything were different.

  When Milo was done and Cawley secured, Brooke sat, pulling her bare legs up inside her coat.

  “Which kid do you want to share a sleeping bag with?” Milo asked.

  “Go ahead. I’ll keep watch.”

  “You’re not going to sleep?”

  “I’m not tired. It’s fine.”

  “Come on, Brooke. You’re freezing.”

  “I’ve got my coat.”

  With a puff of frustration, Milo took off his own pants. “Here.”

>   “Milo,” she said. “I didn’t mean there was only one thing you could—”

  “I’m tired,” he cut her off. “Just put the pants on. Wake me up if you need me.”

  He shifted Sal over in her bag and climbed in. Sooner than Brooke would have thought possible, his breathing dropped evenly into sleep.

  Brooke sat awake, alone. Under the moon, the meadow grew silver with frost. It would be clear tomorrow, Brooke thought, and the berries would be ready for picking. She felt a burst of irritation that the first good day for the harvest would be lost.

  Then she remembered: everything would be lost. The house and the crops and the tools, the jars of preserves, pickles, ketchup, plums. Their photographs. The stones and feathers Sal stashed on the windowsills according to some mystical logic all her own. Holly’s cookbooks. The ukulele.

  Brooke remembered the time, months ago, at the beginning of summer, when the four of them had gone together to move the beehives for pollination. It was a warm evening, one of the first of the year, and they were all giddy with it. A current crackled between Brooke and Milo when she kissed him on the porch.

  After dinner, Brooke taught Holly how to lay small squares of screen over the hive entrances and seal the edges with duct tape. Then she and Milo hefted the eighty-pound box into the wheelbarrow and descended the path to the bogs, the girls running ahead like puppies, laughing. Below them, the cranberry blossoms were just opening, their upward-curling petals standing like pink crowns over the vines.

  They lifted the hives onto a raised platform at the center of the bogs and climbed up to wait for the bees to settle so they could remove the screens. Holly stretched out, describing a process for making cashew cheese she’d been reading about. The western sky glowed orange, streaked by thin clouds, then turned pale, indigo, black. Milo lit a storm lantern and Sal crept into Brooke’s lap. Brooke remembered hugging her tight, looking out on the lamplight spilling across a sea of shiny leaves all around them.

  The bees and the plants would go wild without them. Animals would burrow in the dikes.

  In the meadow, Brooke watched her family sleep. She shrank from the moment when she would have to tell them they were never going home. If she was lucky, that moment wouldn’t come until they reached the marshals, the bounty, and safety. But if Cawley said something, or someone in Buffalo Cross identified her, or Milo simply stopped accepting her weak explanations, it would come sooner. And then Brooke would have to tell them everything, and they would see her, and what she’d done, and how little she deserved them.