Necessity (23 page)

She opens the child gate. A bit of a squeak; nobody is likely to question it—if they hear it and think about it at all they'll take it for the nurse going downstairs to get a bite of lunch.

She goes downstairs first, going down sideways one step at a time, keeping the gun and one eye on Melinda behind her while she negotiates the stairs. At the second step up from the bottom she stops. She warns Melinda with a gesture and the nurse stops three treads above.

Keeping the revolver leveled and cocked she watches the nurse unblinkingly while she listens to the sounds from the kitchen: the opening of the fridge, the scrape of something being removed from a fridge shelf, the chunk of the door closing, Marjorie's footsteps and voice: “You want glasses or just drink out of the cans?”

Bert's voice is faint: “Just the cans. Stays colder that way.”

Marjorie's footsteps recede.

Down to the bottom of the steps now. Cradle the baby. Keep the gun on the nurse. Whisper: “That way. Out the back door. You go ahead of me now.”

Then they're out the back door and elation washes over her. Ellen darling—we did it. That was the hardest part.

She wags the gun at the nurse. “Walk. That way.”

Into the woods—and she sees it when the nurse hesitates, thinking about letting that long branch whip back into her face. “Don't do it, Melinda. I'm watching you. Keep going.”

Down to the pioneer road. No sign of the dog. The baby burbling now, soft questionings, not yet fully awake. Melinda hiking along the center hump of the road, white shoes filthy.

It's hard to walk with the baby in her arm and the gun in her hand; she can't see her own feet and it's hard to watch the baby and the nurse and the uneven ground at the same time.

“Slow down. Stay closer in front of me.”

“You know you ain't going to get away, miss. You know that, don't you?”

“I like it better when you don't talk.”

They go on, an odd procession. She's beginning to listen for the sound of Charlie's airplane but all she can hear is their own footfalls and the cicadas and a conversation taking place in the trees among the birds.

It's turned into a beautiful day, my darling Ellen. In your honor I'm sure. Do you like airplanes? It'll be noisy of course but I imagine not as noisy as that helicopter you're used to. I hope you like Charlie. I hope he likes you. What are your views on moving to San Diego? I expect you're going to—oh!

Caught under something—root or rock—her foot won't come loose in time and she feels herself pitching forward; she flings out her right arm to break the fall and rolls on her right shoulder into a shallow puddle in the Goddamn rut but she's still got the gun and she has protected Ellen in her grasp and the baby just laughs, thinking it some sort of game, so there's no real harm done and let's just get to our feet and never mind a bruise or two—

She hears the fast thumping of footfalls and the snapping of branches and knows she's been hearing it for several seconds before realizing what it is: she searches frantically, getting a new grip on the revolver and whipping it up.

Bitch!

She sees the big white dress fleeing through the woods, weaving and dodging, flickering among the trees—arms batting about to fend off branches; feet scrabbling on the slick ground; an ungainly passage that makes a lot of noise but doesn't put distance behind the nurse very fast. She's still easily within range.

Bitch.

Aim the revolver—draw the hammer back to full cock—take a breath, let part of it out, hold it.

Hell. What's the point. They'd hear the shots.

Go ahead. Shoot. They'll have no idea which direction the shooting is coming from …

She watches the nurse gallop out of sight back toward the house.

Face it. You never would have shot her. It's just lucky she didn't call your bluff sooner.

The baby is starting to cry.

“Okay Ellen. Okay. We're going.”

Hurry now. Hurry.

Run
…

53
Gasping for oxygen she fumbles for the handle and gets the door open and tosses the revolver in and climbs into the Jeep. The baby is caterwauling at full decibels, flailing arms and legs.

I know. You feel exactly the same way I feel. Let me out of here! Right? Okay—okay. We're going. Hang in there, kiddo.

She fastens the shoulder belt down across baby and all; snugs it tight; grips Ellen firmly and turns the key.

It starts right up. Thank heaven for small blessings. It's still in dual drive low range where she left it so she doesn't need to struggle with that.

She jams it into low gear and with one hand strong on the wheel points it off the road and holds the baby tight while the Jeep caroms off a stump and jounces toward the fence.

It would take an extra hand to shift gears. She leaves it in low and gingerly depresses her foot on the accelerator; braces her forearm across the steering wheel and clutches Ellen tight and she's doing maybe ten or twelve miles an hour when the Jeep collides with the fence and stops short and damn near breaks her arm.

Jesus.

The engine has stalled. She can feel an ache in her neck. She lifts her arm off the wheel and works her fingers, makes a fist and then shakes the arm roughly with a wanton need to know.

Hurts like hell but everything works. Just bruised, evidently.

The baby wails. She strokes Ellen's face and peers out through the windshield. The Jeep has bounced back a couple of feet from the point of impact and she can see the outline of its hood against the mesh of the fence. There's the glitter of broken glass beyond the fence—pieces of headlight lenses.

Made a hell of a dent in that son of a bitch fence. One or two more and maybe it'll give way.

At first she doesn't recognize the sound; then because it's quite faint she's not sure whether she hears it or not. She opens the door and leans her head out into the open air and now she can hear it quite clearly: the drone of an airplane.

It grows steadily louder and she hears a change in its pitch. Descending now; throttling back.

Charlie. God bless him.

She shoves in the clutch and turns the key. The starter grinds.

Oh shit. Have I busted something in the engine?

Then it catches and roars. She backs her foot off the pedal and has a hard time ramming the gearshift into reverse. Backs up nearly to the road and that's when, looking back, she sees the Bronco back there, engine whining high, bearing straight down on her.

54
The Jeep gathers speed, rushing the fence. She's got her foot hard and flat on the gas and she's braced against the wheel again, heedless of the pain in that arm, tensing her left hand and arm around the baby in a grip an ape couldn't pry loose, lowering her head instinctively to protect her eyes if the windshield goes, hearing the thunder of the overstrained engine and the high whine of the gearboxes, feeling the seat pitch around as the tight shoulder and lap belts yank her around with it, aware of the Bronco speeding toward her from behind and everything it means.

She's not sure whether the screaming is Ellen's or her own.

Impact. Ellen is nearly torn from her grasp. A great rending racket all around her—compound of tearing metal and crunching glass and screeching friction. She knows only a desperate need to keep her foot jammed down on the throttle. She's got the fingers of her right hand locked around the wheel and for a moment the pressure of her own weight is so great that she's sure either the wheel will shatter or her arm must break. The seat is lurching, turning, tipping to the side. She blinks and tries to see through squinted eyes; images flash but she has no clear idea of what's happening; things jerk back and forth, there's still the cry of the engine, the right side of the Jeep is up in the air somehow and it's threatening to turn over and crush her but then it rights itself, slamming down, sliding off something, skidding sidewise before the wheels get purchase and the seat jerks forward violently enough to slam her skull back against the padded headrest.

The wheels are bumping on things now, spinning; the Jeep is bucking around like a wild horse and her foot slips off the gas pedal. Instantly everything calms down.

A tree looms straight ahead. She pulls the wheel to the right and feels around with her foot for the pedal. The Jeep obeys: a slow turn to the right, a grinding climb past the big tree.

“Ellen—Ellen darling—we made it through!”

55
It wasn't the windshield that broke, thank goodness. The outside mirrors are gone—one empty of its glass, the other torn completely from the vehicle—nothing left but the jagged base of its mounting. There are horrendous scratches across the hood and the front of it is buckled up in an odd shape. The Jeep feels as if it has been twisted askew.

But the engine continues to pull well and she's gathering speed along the pioneer road, feeling as if the Jeep is crabbing sidewise. She manages to shift gears one-handed while the Jeep lurches back and forth within the guiding ruts of the road.

She reaches up to adjust the rear-view mirror and gets a glimpse of the Bronco back there beyond the gate: they've got the gate unlocked and a man is swinging it out of the way and the Bronco starts forward.

Beside the gate she flashes on the swirl of mangled metal that somehow she broke through. It looks utterly impenetrable.

The road curls amid the trees; she loses sight of things in the mirror. How far to the airstrip now? Can't be more than a minute or two.

Has Charlie had time to find it?

“Take it easy, Ellen. It'll be all right soon. Calm down, that's a good girl. I know this is a hell of a trial for you. Hang in there, darling.”

A bend up ahead; past it another. She doesn't remember any of this; she only came out here a couple of times and she wasn't driving and you never remember roads if you haven't driven them yourself.

Then without warning she's out of the trees and there it is—a long cleared strip running left to right, the late summer's grass gone yellow-green now.

High to her left she sees the airplane descending toward her on its approach run.

“Charlie.” She whimpers his name.

He'll need most of the runway to stop it. She'd better be at the far end to meet him.

She puts the Jeep forward into the wide field until the wheels begin to hum and whine on the hidden steel mats under the grass; she accelerates up through the gears, not needing the four-wheel drive any longer but there's no time to take it out of dual range now so the gears keep whining and the engine keeps straining but she's up to forty-five and that's the end of the field coming up ahead.

She turns it around and stops.

Can't do anything but wait for him to bring the plane down. Then she'll drive right out to meet it and jump in with Ellen and they'll be out of this nightmare place for good.

The baby is silent. She looks down at her. Wide-eyed and contented. Sucking her thumb.

“You're all right. You'll do, kid.”

She sits in an unaccustomed quiet, engine idling, stick in gear, clutch to the floor. The airplane drops closer. I love you, Charlie.

The airplane is on its invisible ramp now, lined up with the opposite end of the field, coming in straight toward her. Half a minute to touchdown.

And then two things:

The Bronco comes slashing out of the trees up there alongside the far end of the runway—

And the helicopter swoops into view low across the treetops. It dips and sways out over the middle of the airstrip—hovering. Beneath the rotor she sees grass whipping flat against the steel mesh.

Her heart leaps to her throat.

They're going to block the runway …

No. Wait.

The helicopter is climbing—rising straight up as if on an elevator—and the Bronco has turned alongside the runway; it's coming down the side of the field toward her but the runway itself is clear.

God knows why but they've made room.

Maybe they're just stupid.

Who cares. You can make it, Charlie. Come straight in and pick me up and somehow we'll get out of here. I've still got the damn gun if we need it …

The thing went caroming all over the inside of the Jeep back there—a wonder it didn't go off—but now it's in plain sight on the floor in front of the passenger seat. She reaches down and picks it up.

When she looks up again she sees the airplane climbing away, steeply banking.
What?

The helicopter is scooting around up there—its movements don't seem to make much sense. The Bronco has halved the distance to her Jeep and if she doesn't move now they'll have her but Jesus Christ, Charlie, what are you doing to me?

Running. Climbing. Turning back the way he came.

Receding into the sky.

The helicopter goes after him now, following him toward the clouds.

Oh Charlie you good-for-nothing bastard. You betraying son of a bitch.

She stomps the accelerator and pops the clutch and the baby cries out when the Jeep lurches into motion.

Hauling the wheel around one-handed she sends it off the field. Slams into the trees—downhill into raw wilderness smashing through brush, skidding past tree trunks, knocking down saplings, bursting into a daisy-flowered meadow, sliding half sideways down the steep slope.

God please help me.

56
In a frantic lunge against despair she rams the Jeep forward, seeking openings among the trees; the wheel chatters in her hand and she's clutching the baby protectively in her arm and both limbs are cramped but she can't let up. No telling how close they may be behind her and it won't be long before they catch up because she's breaking the trail for them. Got to find a way off this mountain …

The baby is yelling again.

She's trying desperately to think of a way out. Trying to remember the map but nothing comes to mind. Never been over here on the back side. Nothing here to see except woods all around.