The Gorge

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

“It’s getting dark,” Clara shouted over the churning water. She knew she was stating the obvious, just as she knew Ace would ignore the obvious.

Ace, behind her in the aft position, worked the paddle from side to side, splashing her shoulders with each stroke. She no longer felt the chill; her body had passed into a numbness that matched the deadening of her spirit.

The only warm spot was in the center of her belly, where a sick miracle of biology was taking place, cells divided and growing, mass forming.

Maybe she’d name it Wayne. It was boy, she knew. She’d always heard “A woman knows,” and she’d always thought it was bullshit, same as “Jesus loves the little children” and “You can trust the government.” But now that she had a cluster of living cells squirming inside her, she thought it was magic of the highest order. The connection went beyond mere extrasensory perception. She now had a religion, a nest egg, and a deepest fear all rolled into one.

“It’s darkest nigh on before dawn,” Ace said, as if offering up some bit of Biblical wisdom.

“You think that cop is dead?”

“Don’t matter none. He had it coming, sooner or later.”

Somehow, his shooting of the FBI agent was more horrifying than the abortion clinic bombings. She certainly had no special place in her heart for cops, mostly because the guys she’d dated thought of them as The Establishment. She’d never dealt with them much; despite the drugs and the violent boyfriends, she had a clean record. Now, her jacket was pretty crowded, assuming she ever got caught.

She didn’t want to think about how that would affect Wayne Jr.’s future.

“How much farther?” Ace shouted over her shoulder to Bowie, who bent over the front of the raft, body tense as he fended off rocks and guided by the graying plumes of foam. The beam of the flashlight on her helmet cut blue lines across his back, failing to illuminate their path. Clara noticed for the first time that his shirt was ripped. His arms were marked by a series of long, shallow wounds.

“Depends on how much longer you want to live,” the haggard guide said.

“Eternal life is already mine,” Ace said, his voice booming like a tent evangelist’s.

“In that case,” Bowie said, pausing to spear his paddle against an outcropping of rocks, “there’s not much incentive in sticking to calm water.”

“He leadeth me to lay down by still waters,” Ace said, mangling one of the psalms. “Though I walk through the shadow of the valley of evil, I will fear no death.”

Valley of evil. Clara thought the dividing line between good and evil was nearly invisible, and probably depended on which side of the line you were standing. Ace’s angels had already killed people, yet Ace had been spared. So far. Maybe the Lord really was on his side.

But what about Clara, and the formative soul inside her? Would God show the same mercy to them?

The raft lurched, skidding up onto a shelf of rock that must have been lurking inches beneath the surface. A side current skirled against the port side, throwing the three occupants against the inflated bow. Clara clung desperately to the grab loop as Ace lost his balance and plunged forward against Bowie. The tour guide recovered and swung his paddle hard, catching Ace on the back of the neck.

Ace sprawled, semiconscious, his eyelids fluttering. One of his guns popped free of his belt and bounced around in the bottom of the raft, coming to a stop at Clara’s feet.

She picked it up.

All she knew about guns was what she’d seen in the movies. And in the movies, women always got it wrong. They either had tiny pistols that were as effective as a mosquito, or they were dames with mustaches who used their guns as surrogate dicks. Which told her nothing.

She pointed it.

The raft bucked and swayed, Ace and Bowie tangled liked clothed lovers, both looking at her. The flashlight’s dots glinted in their eyes.

“Shoot the son of a bitch,” Ace shouted, his words squeaky because of Bowie’s grip on his neck.

Which one is the son of a bitch?

She figured the pistol’s safety switch, if it had one, was off. Ace liked to walk locked and loaded. Half-cocked. In more ways than one.

She could be a heroine. She could get her name in the papers, probably be forgiven for her past crimes. All she had to do was pull the trigger. She could blame it all on him.

It was his fault. Of course it was. He was the man. What judge or jury would ever blame her?

Shoot him, and she was free, no matter how the journey ended. And if she were free, life would be easier for little Bobbie Wayne in her womb. With luck, she might even get a little money out of the deal. Go on Oprah or Montel or Jerry Springer.

All those guys who’d fucked her at Radford would see her and remember. All the pain she had sought and endured would disappear-however briefly.

She held a loaded gun. At this moment, for the first time in years, she was at the delivery end of pain instead of the receiving end. And it felt damned good.