“Are you Drake?” I asked him, grunting as we grappled. I asked again, “Are you Drake Oil?”
It felt like I’d been on the ground with this man for a full year of my life, yet there I was—still alive, still a contender. In my favor was the fact that his bullet wound wasn’t just one hole, it was two. I knew because I was covered in his blood from rolling in the dirt. I was beginning to see I had hope.
Until we splashed in the river.
I didn’t register being midair, but I definitely noticed when the free fall finished and we plunged into turbulent, cascading water. My world went cold as we were dunked under and instantly swept along.
His grip softened just a bit; it was all I’d hoped for in these interminable minutes. Let that be printed on my tombstone: SHE GOT HIM TO SOFTEN HIS GRIP.
But he was on top still, his formidable body weight shoving me deeper down. We banged limbs for what seemed like the entire month of June. I suppose I should’ve been worried about upcoming rocks, but he’d introduced a new variable into the equation—not sure when that was exactly. He had a knife.
Underwater, amid murky eddies, I didn’t have his throat anymore. I had both of my hands on his wrist. My instincts had rerouted all my physical focus from his esophagus to the jagged, murderous blade in his fist.
One swipe, one cut, and I would’ve been done.
With rocks on all sides, we were getting up close and personal with the unforgiving wrecking balls of the rapids. My one goal was to try to swim upward, break free of his iron grip, and get to the surface. I could engage instead, try some kung fu moves on his face—but I’m not the fastest thinker when it comes to underwater close-quarters death-match combat.
Didn’t matter. The game ended on its own.
His size was his advantage on land, but it became his Achilles’ heel in the rapids. He was too big to make it safely through the rocks unscathed. The riverbed did its job.
Poonk. A muffled thud. I could hear the blow his head took from a cluster of granite. He swung his last two punches at me in a halfhearted, half-conscious motion.
His grip on me faded.
The surface seemed to rush down toward my face, and my body emerged like a clumsy rocket. I had been treading so hard, I actually got my full torso up above the waterline before being beaten back down by the current. I was floating. I tried to glance behind me to see if he’d surface, too. We’d both been under for what felt like a decade. I scanned the surface behind me but he’d been consumed. I assumed, given the gunshot and blood loss, that he was dead.
And I was adrift.
I slowly took inventory of the situation: where I was heading, where I’d been, and what I now had in my possession.
I had nothing. The river gave me victory but it stripped me of all else. In addition to the gun I’d already lost, I’d lost my jacket. I’d lost my phone. The only thing I didn’t lose was pants, and a clear sense that things were going to get worse before they got better.
Chapter 13
I managed to drift over to the riverbank and crawl up onto dry land, dragging my torso above the waterline. It was a Herculean effort, though pathetic. To an onlooker, I’d appear to be a major drama queen. One hand slowly clawing after another. Pulling in slow motion. Gasping.
I’d kill to see anyone out here…of course, I’ve killed the two people I’ve run into so far.
But I was alone, having led myself a million miles away from hope. All I had were wet clothes and unanswered questions. Why Drake Oil? Why my husband? Where’s a phone?
I needed physically proficient help. I needed a cop. Better yet, an FBI task force.
Where to go now? The crags were south. The freeway north.
My husband, in the crags, might need me. I could give him an update on my trials out here in the wild. And he could tell me whatever he might have to tell me. Like, y’know: Miranda, funny thing I should’ve mentioned; here’s why an army of men might try to kill you on your stroll through the western United States.
The possibility of actual help, though, was north. A busy highway. The bigger highway gave me the best chance of finding a good Samaritan, and then law enforcement.
Yet what would I even say? Even if I managed to flag down a speeding motorist by the side of a highway at night, what if he or she didn’t believe me? Even if I managed to find the nearest police force, how would that story go?
“Officer, I need your help,” I said aloud, rehearsing. “I…uh…I…” Talking things out always helps me when I’m overwhelmed; it comes naturally to me. And right now, exhausted, starving, battered, half drowned, I felt half insane. Why not make an imaginary friend while I was at it? Anything to keep me going.
I took a few gradual steps along the higher slope. I would, again, hike to the nearest vista point, so I could make an informed decision.
“Excuse me, Officer,” I repeated to the imaginary cop.
“What seems to be the trouble, miss?” I said back to myself. Slight southern accent.
“Well…you see…Drake Oil.”
“Reckon I don’t follow,” I said, tilting up my imaginary cowboy hat. I decided I had on boots and spurs. A female deputy detective.
“For a bite of your éclair,” I said to her, “I’ll tell you.”
I took a bite out of the phantom detective’s phantom éclair. And noted that my hunger level was starting to get to me.
“He started working for Drake Oil three years ago,” I said.
“Who?” said the detective.
“My
