My Three Husbands (25 page)

“Shut the fuck up!” Skinny bellowed. They were working fast now. They picked us up and hurled us into the kennel, slammed the door, flipped up the tailgate, and hopped back into the cab. The truck hurtled forward, spitting gravel, backed up, and sped down the road. The tailgate fell open as we lurched over a hump in the logging road.

We were sprawled on the floor of the cage and being jolted around so much I thought all my bones would be broken. A terrible stench, like rotten meat, rose up from the bed of the cab. The side panels on the truck were so high I was afraid the dads might not even see us. Our only chance was to make ourselves heard.

The road was so narrow that two vehicles could pass only with difficulty. Skinny was driving at breakneck speed, but he had to slow down to get past the dads. When he did that, I screamed until my jaws locked and I thought my eyes would explode. Tremaynne screamed. We screamed louder than the orchestra that was carrying the voice of the opera singer and Whitman.

Once he got past the dads, Skinny sped up again. Behind us, through the open tailgate, we saw the dads' battered SUV sitting motionless on the road. The music stopped. We screamed again. The SUV started to maneuver into a U-turn.

Desperate people do desperate things. That's the only way to explain it.

You have to be desperate to drive that fast along a dirt road with hairpin curves and no side barriers. A dirt road so worn and rutted that we bounced into the air and fell back to the floor of the cage like a heap of clothes in a dryer.

And you have to be desperate to give chase on a road like that.

And we were desperate, too, because all the bumping and jolting loosened the cage from the bed of the pickup. We could feel ourselves sliding off by inches, and we were powerless to do anything about it. Every time the truck squealed around a curve, I was certain we'd be flung out into the canyon.

At one point the cage bounced sharply, and when it crashed down again, we found ourselves wedged up in a half-sitting position against the back. That's when I had my first glimpse of the dads. The minute I saw them, I just started to bawl my head off. I didn't see how they could do what it looked like they were trying to do.

In that moment I knew that they were risking their lives for me.

Whitman was driving. His face was sharp and totally focused on the back of the pickup, reading and responding to every move. He was inching up and trying to get alongside. But the dads were on the outside of the road. One misjudged moment and they'd plunge off. That was obviously what Skinny wanted them to do. He swerved out and shimmied back in.

Daddy was shouting out the window for us to hold on.

But we couldn't hold on. That was the problem. There was no way we could keep the cage from fishtailing off the tailgate.

At the next sharp curve, Whitman slowed and the SUV fell behind the pickup. He followed just inches behind. If the cage flew out now, we'd smash into their windshield and go careening off the edge of the road.

Once he was around the curve, Skinny accelerated. He was now going faster than before. This stretch of the road felt relatively smooth, until his left rear tire blew. There was a loud pop and a sudden lurch as that side of the truck collapsed. The kennel hopped forward another couple of inches.

But even with the blowout, Skinny didn't stop. He slowed down for a few seconds, but then it felt like he actually speeded up. The back of the truck, sunk down on its left side, began to shudder and vibrate. Something was being ground up. I could smell it burning. Major damage was being done, probably to the axle. If he didn't stop, the whole chassis could be ripped out.

Whitman took advantage of the momentary slowdown to roar up alongside us. I couldn't believe my eyes. The passenger door opened. Daddy squeezed out between the door and the seat. When he yelled, “Now!” Whitman veered away from the truck, giving Daddy enough space to squeeze out the door and grab the side panel of the truck. He hauled himself in just as Skinny hit another curve and the cage went sliding. Daddy held onto it as we squealed around the curve.

Whitman fell back behind us as the pickup started to skitter and shake. It was hard to tell if Skinny was deliberately swerving close to the edge before swinging back in again, or if he was losing control of the truck. The blown tire and collapsed rear were throwing the whole thing out of alignment. If he kept up this speed, the axle would snap.

We roared around another hairpin curve. Daddy could barely keep his grip on the cage and hold himself upright. “Hold on, baby, hold on!” he shouted.

But we couldn't. Daddy was the only one who could hold on. When the truck hit a huge pothole, he lost his footing and crashed forward onto the cage. We all slid toward oblivion. I saw the edge of the road and then nothing, just a vast distance across the canyon.

I screamed. Tremaynne clenched his eyes tight. Daddy swore.

We were about halfway off the tailgate. One more major rut or pothole and we'd be tipped out. If we crashed down to the road we might survive, provided Whitman could stop fast enough. But if the truck was juddering along next to the precipice when it hit the hole, that was it. We'd be flipped out into eternity.

At some point I just gave up. I realized there was nothing I could do. I turned my life over to whatever weird forces were in charge of the universe.

Then Whitman started to lay on his horn. He kept at it and kept at it, signaling something. Daddy managed to turn and snatch a look over the cab.

“Another truck!” he shouted. “He'll have to slow down.”

No,
I thought,
he doesn't have to do anything. Desperate people like Skinny don't do what you want them to do.

“When he slows, I'm going to push you off,” Daddy said. “So be prepared.”

I wanted one last look at him. A snapshot to take with me to whatever place came next. To see him, I had to crane my neck and roll my eyes back. There he was. The dad I'd loved and hated for twenty-five years. I don't know how he was holding on. I could feel the incredible strain of his body as he tried to keep me safe. His face was beet red, his lips pulled back in agony, veins popping from his neck and the side of his head. Legs spread wide, feet jammed up against built-in toolboxes on either side of the bed, he grasped the metal cage with his bare bleeding hands and kept his eyes focused right on me.

I couldn't speak. I had no sound left. I mouthed the words.
Love you.

Then I looked away from Daddy and turned my attention to Tremaynne. What message could I give him? In the end, all you want to leave behind is love. You realize that when you get there.

Love
—

I'd just started to mouth the word when the truck rounded another curve, hit another hole, and we were flung up and over the broken tailgate. Daddy, still clinging to the cage, went with us.

I felt the impact as we hit and flipped and skidded toward the edge of the canyon. I heard
“Oof”
and
“aah”
but didn't know who the sounds belonged to. Maybe to me. I heard the squeal of brakes and the skidding of tires.

Then I was dizzily aware that we'd stopped moving.

I felt like a rag doll, battered and flung into a corner.

A car door slammed. Whitman was racing toward us.

Daddy slowly stood up. He motioned toward us.

Whitman got the door of the cage open and untied the ropes. The release of pressure was like a huge orgasm. Tremaynne and I flopped back, panting with relief. Tremaynne was a mess. I shuddered to think what I looked like. Whitman helped us crawl out of the cage. My legs wobbled like a calf just out of the womb.

We all just stood there holding and hugging one another and crying our eyes out. The two of them held Tremaynne and me in a tight four-way embrace.

Daddy lifted his head, wiped his nose, and pointed down the road. “Look.”

The pickup had stopped. It was blocked by a large white vehicle parked at an angle in the middle of the road. The pickup sat there, broken-down and smoking, as worn-out and sad-looking as the guys inside it.

It was suddenly so quiet. My buzzing ears picked up the sound of the wind flowing through the great canyon below us.

“What's he doing?” Whitman said.

The pickup gunned its motor. It careened backward. The passenger door flew open and Blackbeard clumsily leapt out.

We watched in a kind of silent awe as Skinny turned the wheels, stepped on the gas, and removed himself from the scene.

“O
h my God,” one of us said. I think it was me.

Without another word we piled into the dads' SUV and raced down the road.

My attention was focused on Blackbeard. He was standing in the middle of the road, frozen, his arms thrown up in shock or disbelief. And we all knew why. He'd just watched his buddy deliberately run his car off the cliff and plunge to his death.

An ashen-faced passenger in a white Chevy Suburban got out and walked stiffly toward the precipice. He was a young guy, no more than twenty, but his movements were so slow that it looked like he was struggling under the weight of heavy armor. He wore a green maintenance uniform with
Lumina
stitched across the breast pocket.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, peering over the edge. He looked back at Blackbeard. “Why'd he do that?”

Blackbeard couldn't speak. He stood there, mouth open, making little choking sounds.

The man looked at us, huddled together in stunned silence, as if we were his accusers. “Wasn't our fault!” He pointed nervously toward the Suburban. “Prince Brunelli there, he thought there might be trouble up at the Lumina parcel. He thought we should go up there to check it out.”

No one said anything. I stared at the tracks of the pickup in the dusty road. They were clear as a diagram. You could see them right up to the edge, and then nothing.

“We seen the pickup tearing down the road in this direction,” the Lumina guy continued, “and the prince thought something was wrong, thought he'd better stop. Thought he could force the pickup to slow down.”

Now the driver climbed out. It was Marcello. Face grim, he approached us. Approached me, I should say. The look in his deep dark eyes was so intense that for a moment I thought he was going to take me in his arms and kiss me. His voice was husky when he spoke. “You are—all right?” When I nodded, his attention widened to take in the others. “All of you?”

We heard a gagging noise and turned to look. Blackbeard appeared to be choking. He gasped and grabbed his throat, mouth gaping, eyes bulging, tongue protruding, face red as a poisonous mushroom. His hands shot out and clawed at the air, and then he turned and took a couple of tottering steps, his eyes imploring us to help him, before collapsing into an epileptic seizure.

It was horrible to watch, but I wasn't wasting too much sympathy on him.

“Give me your belt!” Whitman snapped his fingers at Marcello. I thought he was going to strap Blackbeard's huge, hairy hands together. Instead Whitman straddled the convulsing body, bunched up the belt, and managed to insert it between Blackbeard's gnashing teeth. Daddy, the driver, and Marcello helped to hold Blackbeard down. His body arched as if he were being electrocuted; his eyes bulged and rolled.

My hand found Tremaynne's, clasped it, and squeezed. He squeezed back. We stood there, silently watching.

Tremaynne nodded toward Marcello. “Prince Brunelli. He's the one who owns Lumina International.”

 

 

Tremaynne was being oddly quiet. I was the one who did all the talking. I told the dads, Marcello, and Marcello's assistant everything I'd overheard about the plan to destroy Pine Mountain Lodge.

Marcello whipped out his cell phone and made three quick phone calls. He called Geof Killingsworth at the lodge, the police chief in McCall, and someone at the Bureau of Land Management. It was obvious that he wielded a lot of clout locally.

Was he really a prince? I'd never seen a prince before. The title made him into a completely different person in my eyes.

Blackbeard finally stopped his frantic thrashing and lay panting on the road like an injured animal. Marcello said he and his assistant would stay with him until the police and ambulance arrived. It was impossible to reach Skinny except by helicopter. His car was flipped upside down like a squashed bug on the canyon floor. No one could have survived that kind of impact.

By the time we returned to Pine Mountain Lodge, the county police had arrived and a couple of officers were combing the grounds. Geof Killingsworth was waiting on the front steps when we pulled up. He hurried over and asked Dad Two if he'd mind driving around to a back entrance.

“Yes, I would mind,” Whitman said obstinately. “We've just been through hell, and we all need to sit down and decompress.
Immediately.”

Geof K looked over his shoulder. Curious guests were peering out from the reception hall. “I was hoping that we might avoid any further negative impact on our guests.”

Whitman turned off the SUV and we all got out.

“Holy Christ,” Geof K said when he saw Daddy's ripped shirt and scraped arm. “John. Do you need an ambulance?” Then he saw Tremaynne and me. “Holy Christ. Should I call for an emergency helicopter?”

“We're all right,” Daddy said, putting one arm around me and one around Whitman. I fished my hand behind me hoping Tremaynne would take it and not feel left out.

He didn't.

 

 

Geof Killingsworth ushered us through the lobby, past the staring guests, toward his office.

“What happened?” someone called out.

“Just a little car accident,” Geof Killingsworth lied.

“Whitman!” Marielle rushed over, a stricken look on her face. She clasped Whitman tightly in her arms.

“We're okay,” Whitman assured her. He gently peeled himself free. “I'll talk to you later.”

Geof Killingsworth herded us into his office and closed the door. “Please,” he said. “Someone tell me exactly what happened up there.”

They all looked at me. So I repeated the entire story. Only this time I left out a few small details pertaining to the Earth Freedom group that I now knew was hiding out in the forest.

“The Commandos,” Geof K said when I told him about Skinny and Blackbeard. “Shit.” He looked at Whitman. “I know you won't mention this in
Travel,”
he said. “It would be a public-relations nightmare.”

“It certainly would,” Whitman agreed.

“This isn't the only state with right-wing paramilitary groups,” Geof K said defensively. He paced around his office. “They're everywhere. All over the country. Half of them are fronts for methamphetamine labs.”

“This guy Gibbs,” I said. “The one who screwed up your sprinklers. Who is he?”

“They
sent him out,” Geof insisted. “The sprinkler company sent him out to do the calibration.”

“He must have known if the sprinklers went haywire this opening weekend, you'd turn them off,” Daddy One said.

“Perfect setup,” Daddy Two agreed.

Geof K smacked his big fist into his palm. “We're going to sue their asses. Big time.”

“You need to find the one called Cap,” I said, “and stop him before he can do anything.”

“I've doubled security,” Geof K said. “If he's out there we'll find him.”

“It might be a good idea to get people out of the building,” Whitman said.

Geof K clasped his hands together, almost like he was praying. “I don't feel comfortable evacuating everyone.”

“It's a good way to test if all your emergency systems are working,” Daddy said.

“It's a good way to scare off every rich fucking asshole we've got staying here!” Geof snapped. “Shit. Prince Brunelli's got so much invested in this place. If we go belly up—” He suddenly looked very haggard. “The local economy's already so shaky. All those fucking eco-freaks have practically shut down the logging industry. Tourism's all that's left.”

I looked over at Tremaynne. He slowly chewed on his lips and stared at me with wary eyes. His expression was, like
, Are you going to tell them about Earth Freedom?

The door opened and a wide-eyed Kristin entered. “I thought maybe you could use some advanced hydration delivery systems.” She put down a tray of bottled waters. “And a first-aid kit.” Her eyes swam with tears when she saw me. “Oh my God. Godiva. Are you, like, okay?”

“I'm okay,” I said.

Whitman said, “Godiva?”

“We all know,” Kristin said. “You don't have to pretend anymore.”

Everyone looked at me. The room was totally silent.

“I'm not who you think I am,” I said to Kristin.

“Yes, you are,” she insisted. Her eyes darted back and forth. “Did you tell them?” she whispered, close to tears. “About the horse?”

She was terrified that I'd tattled about Marcello's horse. When, in fact, I'd completely forgotten about it. “Everything's okay,” I reassured her.

“Kristin, you can
go,”
Geof said.

She practically bowed and walked out backward, like we were royalty.

“I don't think any of us wants an advanced hydration delivery system,” Daddy said. “I think we all need a strong shot of whiskey.”

Geof K had a private bar. He was pouring out whiskies when a middle-aged police officer wearing an ill-fitting black wig and aviator glasses was shown in. The color drained from Geof's tanned face when the officer told him they'd found a cache of explosives hidden in one of the maintenance sheds.

Incredulous, Geof turned to Daddy. “Why would they want to blow up our beautiful resort?”

I was about to blurt out, “So Earth Freedom would be blamed and the timber sale could go ahead.” But I didn't. I looked at Tremaynne and bit my tongue. He sat there with his head bowed, gnawing on his lips, peering up occasionally at the other men. In this male power clique, he was the one with no power. Nobody knew who he really was, or the real reason he'd come out here, so he was ignored. But if they ever found out . . .

Maybe he's done with Earth Freedom,
I thought selfishly.
Maybe now he'll be mine.

“Why would someone want to blow up my beautiful building?” Daddy shrugged and shook his head, wincing as Whitman dabbed hydrogen peroxide on his lacerated arm. “Resentment?”

So Daddy and Whitman didn't remember about Earth Freedom either. I was babbling a mile a minute when I first told them about the plot I'd overheard at Devil's Spring. Maybe I hadn't even mentioned Earth Freedom.

“Resentment?” Geof Killingsworth couldn't fathom such a concept. “This is going to be one of the world's great resorts. It's going to spur development all over this region. Why should anyone resent it?”

 

 

We couldn't go back to our suites until we'd given statements to the police.

With Tremaynne at my side, I gave my name, age, date of birth, social-security number, and then told our story for the third time. How the two of us had gone out for a hike, hoping to find Devil's Spring. How we hid from the two armed men at the hot springs and overheard their plan to destroy Pine Mountain Lodge. How the men discovered us and assaulted us and how we'd fought back and tried to escape and been captured and thrown into the cage in their truck and how the dads had saved us.

“And Prince Brunelli,” the officer added. “If he hadn't stopped in the middle of the road, blocking their escape, God only knows where you'd be right now.”

When it was Tremaynne's turn, he gave his name as Phillip Klunk. He spoke so softly that the dads, sitting on the other side of the room, couldn't hear him. But I heard him.

He kept his eyes on me. I understood that I wasn't supposed to contradict anything he said.

I didn't gasp or object when he gave an address in Sacramento as his place of residence. He obviously had his reasons. I'd just assumed he'd say his home was with me, in my apartment in Portland. He told the officer my story was exactly what happened. He had nothing else to add.

We couldn't get into our suite because I'd lost the security card. Rather than go back downstairs to get a new one, Daddy said we should go through their room.

“We're going to leave you absolutely alone,” Whitman promised. “Order room service. Order a massage. Order anything you want. You still have one day left on your honeymoon.”

“So do you,” I said.

“And we're going to make the most of it.” Whitman turned to Daddy. “If Geof Killingsworth pesters you one more time, I'm going to bust the caps off his perfect teeth.”

The phone started to ring. “And what about Marielle?” Daddy said.

“I'll talk to Marielle tomorrow.”

And then, having settled that, it was like they couldn't wait a second longer. With a loud groan of delayed passion, they embraced and kissed right there in front of us.