21
The brilliance of what Parker—or maybe my own brain—has just whispered hits me like a jolt of electricity, sending my panic scattering.
Bryan can’t afford to choose the wrong line down the next big rapid either.
Because the river doesn’t care whether you’re a murderer or a random middle-aged woman. If you hit a boulder, it’ll send your raft into a tailspin or a hole, regardless.
Bryan made it down Anvil Falls by himself. That might be luck, but I don’t think so. I’m starting to suspect he’s a far better guide than he’s been pretending. Which means that if we can force him to go first, in front of our raft, we’ll have the upper hand. We can follow the same line he takes.
The trick will probably only work once. He’ll realize what we’re doing—and he won’t let it happen again.
Not to mention that once we get to the end of the rapid, he’ll likely be waiting for us.
We’ll have to deal with the consequences of trying to maneuver past him.
Will he try to take that camouflage-patterned knife to the rubber sides of our raft?
Try to board us, then stab in a frenzy? Can we fend him off with only our plastic paddles?
Those are problems for a few minutes from now.
Right now, the only thing we can really do is try to survive the river’s next challenge.
“Let’s veer to the right, take the easier path,” I whisper, digging my paddle into the water and nodding to where the first waves churn three feet high instead of six.
Across from me, Deborah hesitates then digs in her paddle as well. “Are you sure? It looks …”
I lower my voice even more, trying to make certain Bryan can’t hear me over the rush of the river.
“Just be ready to row hard, okay? We might need to change course at the last minute. But no matter what happens, we’re going to get our raft behind Bryan’s.
We’re going to follow his line through this rapid.
So get ready to spin this boat around, fast, when I say go.
Pam and Allie, you row backward. Deborah and I will row forward until we’ve turned.
Then row all together like hell until we’re behind him. ”
Pam draws in a sharp breath. “That sounds way too risky. Shouldn’t we stay in front of him instead? If we try to get behind him, we’ll have to get so close to his raft.”
Imani whimpers where she sits wedged against the center bench, trying to shield her lopped-off arm as blood trickles into the pool at our feet.
“No, she’s right,” Deborah insists, her voice hoarse and thick with grief.
“We’re screwed if we go down the wrong line.
If we flip, we’re dead. At least this way we have a chance.
” She points to Imani, who hunches with her head against her knees, clinging to a tie strap with her good arm. “Hang on, hon.”
Just then, it becomes difficult to hear anyone’s voice.
The roar of the looming rapid is getting louder, vibrating through the raft.
I study the river ahead, my grip on the paddle slick with sweat.
All I can see through the dark is where the water plumes bright white.
But as we near the right side and I get a look at the “easier” path, my stomach drops.
Those three-foot waves are plenty menacing, and I can only imagine what comes next: Churning holes big enough to swallow us, jagged rocks jutting through the troughs like teeth.
Behind us, Bryan’s gear boat continues following us to the right side of the canyon, closing the distance behind us. In a few seconds, we’ll both be committed to our line of travel, locked into a choice. After that, the current will yank us forward and take control.
Parker? I beg, trying to find that calm, reassuring voice that’s been reeling me into clarity.
“He’s right behind us,” Pam cries in a small voice.
I cast a furtive glance over my shoulder.
His face, like his body, is pointing the same direction we’re moving.
Nothing about his stance indicates that he’s about to veer left and change course.
He’s committing to this path, same as we are.
And he’s closed the gap between us so that he’s almost on our bumper, maybe wanting a close-up view of what’s about to happen.
Or maybe he’s using this as his chance to catch up.
“Do it now,” Parker whispers.
“Now!” I hissed at the other women. “Get us turned around!”
We spin the raft around with quick, frantic strokes. It works better than I’d hoped, and suddenly the bow of our raft is lurching upstream as we row forward as hard as possible toward the nose of Bryan’s raft.
When I glance up, I see an expression of utter shock on his face. But we’re so close, so coordinated in our movements, he can’t do a thing about it.
The current fights us, but we fight harder.
For a split second as we row, we come directly alongside the gear boat, so close I can see water dripping from the patchy hair on Bryan’s jaw—and the rage flickering in his eyes.
A second later, our hull rams straight into the side of his raft, launching him off-center—and dangerously close to the canyon wall—then spitting him back into the current.
“Keep rowing!” I cry.
Bryan fights hard to stabilize his raft, managing to get it under control and straighten the angle just before he hits the rapids.
He’s stronger than I gave him credit for. He’s clearly been downplaying his athleticism and guiding skills. And those long wooden guide oars are far more powerful than our yellow-and-black plastic paddles.
But at this moment, the river is stronger than any of us.
The current surges, the first roiling wave grabbing his raft in its fist.
“All back, row back hard!” I scream. We’re following way too close to his raft now, and the last thing we want is a collision.
I snap into focus, following every move Bryan makes. He’s regained full control, slicing through the churn and steering slightly left. He leans hard on the right oar, skirting a path through a less violent stretch of whitewater.
“All left two strokes, then dig right!” I call, just loud enough for Pam, Deborah, and Allie to hear me, repeating everything Bryan does.
The river boils around us as we hit the first wave in the same spot Bryan did—and we barely avoid an enormous boulder lurking beneath the surface of the smooth black water to our left.
This is working.
Sheets of water rain down on us as the raft pitches through the waves, faster and faster, so close behind the gear boat that I’m terrified we’ll crash.
Each time a deep trough sends us hurtling skyward, I think of the razor-sharp wire that sliced through Nikki’s mouth, Imani’s arm, the heads and necks of the women we left behind in the river. Women we’d shared coffee and a campfire with, only the night before.
This is the end, I think over and over, even as I fight to keep rowing, keep blinking away the constant spray of water, and keep pushing hard to follow Bryan’s movements while he navigates the river ahead.
But somehow, despite each terrifying buck of the raft that threatens to send us all overboard, we continue hurtling forward.
It’s almost like Bryan is our guide again, leading us to safety.
For now.
I can hear Imani praying between the orders I’m barking: “All left,” “All right,” “All back! Steady!”
As we spin around a giant boulder breaking through the surface, the raft lurches down into a deep trough. Pam topples into the center of the raft, sprawling onto Imani. Both women cry out, but I don’t dare look behind me.
“Keep rowing, left, left!” I call to Deborah and Allie, but they don’t need the instructions. We can all see what’s coming next.
The river ahead is calm and glossy, the whitewater dissolving into pure black—and Bryan’s gear boat is holding steady in that glassy water. He stands on the bow of his raft in a slight crouch, head cocked, waiting for us.
We’re cruising directly toward him.
I tighten my grip on my paddle and try to focus on rowing in time with the other women as we veer left, giving his raft as wide a berth as possible. Imani has gone quiet. The adrenaline that has kept me moving is draining back down to empty, and exhaustion is sweeping in.
“Row!” I scream, pumping my arms forward. The others do the same, moving as fast as we can to skirt around him.
He doesn’t scramble, doesn’t chase.
In fact, as we come even with the gear raft, maybe ten yards away, Bryan lifts his right hand like he’s going to wave.
But it’s not a hello. The blade of his knife glints in the moonlight.
With his left hand, he reaches for one of the heavy guide oars, pulling it free from its lock and propping it next to him like a staff.
It’s twice as long as any of our lightweight plastic paddles.
The message is abundantly clear. If we get too close to his raft, he can easily swipe any of us off our raft, knocking us into the current.
This tells me he’s threatened by our numbers—even if just a little. But it tells me something else, too.
If we get anywhere near him, we’re dead.
I swallow a painful lump. The only thing we can do right now is attempt to book it downriver, ahead of him. And for now, we still have the rowing power—but barely. Even with our puny paddles, there are four of us working hard.
As though considering the same thing, Bryan makes no move to close the distance between us. And within seconds, we’ve bypassed him, retaking the lead on the hauntingly still, inky black water.
This is a good thing. But nothing feels good.
I can’t help thinking about the way he watched us pass—his posture, his expression. He seemed relaxed. Almost pleased.
And then I realize this is precisely what he wants. To watch us—any of us who survived the razor wire—run.
We’ve covered some ground on the fast-moving water since Camas Creek, but if I’m estimating correctly, there are still more than sixty miles of desolate river ahead. Countless rapids. He’ll have plenty of time to let this horrifying game play out, like a cat with an injured mouse.
Basically, he’s pretty damn confident of the outcome here.
He knows we’re already dead.