childbirth. You gave over your body to your child. You gave up parts of yourself, of your life, to be a good mother, a good wife. You faced down the demons of your past, so you could be whole—so that you could counsel your daughter to live right.
Now, not even an hour after leaving Greg and Lily, Rain watched Hank park his car, and take that pack from his trunk. She wasn’t sure if what she was doing was strong, or brave, or just plain stupid—reckless.
She almost called out to him.
Stop, she wanted to say. I know what you’ve been doing. It has to end here tonight.
But she stood, silent in the night, miles from home, from where she should be.
Where was he going? Was it braver to follow him? Or to go back to her family and leave Hank to do whatever it was he was off to do? She could call the police. Or Agent Brower. Or Chris. But then again, she couldn’t do that, could she?
Was it braver to keep a secret? Or to tell it, no matter what the cost to Hank, to Rain, to her family. Or she could go home and say nothing, as she’d done before.
She waited until he disappeared and then, she went after him.
THIRTY-NINE
In the hero’s journey, there are always extraordinary trials, enemies to fight, crushing failures. The path is fraught with peril, from without and within. There are dark nights of the soul, where despair closes its black claws around you and you think that you can’t, that you shouldn’t, go on. And sometimes you just fuck up.
Do you know what I mean, Rain? Have you ever made a mistake so huge, suffered a failure so abysmal, that you think you might not be able to find your way back?
I am kind of in that place right now.
Get up, loser.
He’s raging, filling me with the strength, with the power I need. Unfortunately, the body we’re both in has taken a terrible fall.
I’m afraid to move, my arm and leg are twisted, my shoulder on fire, my hip, my head feels like it might not be on right. I breathe, try to extract myself from this unnatural position. The smell. The utter pitch-black. The leaden silence. Shit. Maybe I’m dead.
I used to think that as I floated in the Gulf of Mexico with my mother. That hot sun, the bathwater warm of the ocean, the smell of salt and sand and sunscreen. The jewel-green water lifted my body and I floated effortlessly. My mother sang, soft ballads by Joan Baez and Joni Mitchell, Norah Jones. Her voice was sweet and melodic, mingling with the calling of the gulls. What did we know about death? Maybe Kreskey killed me that day, and my soul moved to Florida with my mother.
With effort, I push myself to sitting.
“You have really fucked this up,” Tess says. “Does anyone even know you’re here?”
I can’t even see her; she’s just a disembodied voice. I pull my shirt up over my nose to block out the odor. My phone, my flashlight, all my tools are in that pack.
You never leave the fucking pack out of arm’s reach. What is this, amateur hour?
I can move everything—fingers and toes. There’s pain—head, shoulder, hip, leg. Knee badly twisted. But there isn’t that crazy pain from a break, everything is intact. Everything moves. I can only chalk it up to my vigorous fighting and exercise routine, muscles strong and flexible. Bend and bounce or break and shatter.
“Hello?”
A frightened whisper coming from my right.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Who’s there?”
“Billy?” I venture. “Billy Martin? Is that you?”
A sniffle. “Yes.”
I get on all fours and crawl toward the voice. “I’m here to help.”
Which is ridiculous because we’re both trapped down here, thanks to my utter ineptitude.
“Do you have a light?”
“No,” he says. “Don’t you?”
“Is there anyone else down here?”
I come to the bars of a cage. There’s not a single pinprick of light. I’m completely blind. I put my hands on the bars and feel a set of bony fingers. I cover them with mine. The kid absolutely reeks; I try not to retch.
“There were others,” he whispers. “But it’s been quiet for a while. Do you have any food? Any water?”
In my pack, yes. Protein bars. A bottle filled with water. “No,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“How are you going to get us out of here?” His voice is a desperate croak. “Did you—fall in?”
“Don’t worry,” I tell him, deeply worried myself. “We’ll figure it out.”