Their Mountain Captive by Kayla Wren
16
Roxy
The Mountain Rescue headquarters has way too much plaid. Every surface is faded flannel or bare wood made shiny by hand prints. The grizzled bear of a man who let me in ushers me into a cramped office, with two desks pushed against the wall and a bookcase crammed with old-fashioned paper maps.
There is a mounted fish on the wall above one desk.
Dante would die.
My chest tightens at the thought of him and Alec, but I clear my throat and limp further into the room. There’s a squashy armchair by a beat-up coffee table, and that’s where the man waves for me to sit.
“You need medical attention?” he grumbles.
I think of the bandages Alec wrapped so carefully around my ankle—the way the swelling’s already going down. The diligent way he checked me; dressed all my cuts.
“No.”
I flop into the armchair, wrinkling my nose at the musty rush of air. It’s quiet. The morning is hushed, like people are sleeping nearby, and I wince at the creaking armchair when I lean forward to scoop up an old travel magazine.
Spoons clink against china in the corner of the room.
The man returns, thrusting out a steaming mug.
“We’re out of sugar.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
The man watches me, eyes troubled, then says: “I’m Caleb. You going to tell me what happened?”
Yes. Yes, obviously. That’s the plan, right? Alec and Dante disappear into the sunset, and I make my career with the article of the century. To do that, I’ll have to tell people, and why not start with this guy?
If nothing else, I need his help. I’ve got no supplies, no belongings except Dante’s cuff link, and I can’t exactly limp up the mountain to rescue my backpack myself.
“Um.” My voice cracks. Jeez, why is this so hard? “I fell,” I settle on eventually. A partial truth. “A bear startled me, and I sprained my ankle.”
The man’s grunting, already turning to peer at a map on the wall. A map of Lonely Mountain.
“Whereabouts were you?” he asks, following up with dozens of questions about the bear. Did it seem hungry or injured? Were there other hikers in the area? Did it bite or scratch me in any way? I answer his questions as best I can, and as we talk, my eyes drift to the office window.
They’re out there somewhere. In the cold morning light, probably speeding down some highway like Thelma and Louise. I stare out of that window like some tragic war widow, and when the truck draws past on the street outside, I blink hard.
I’m dreaming.
Or hallucinating—that’s a head wound thing, right? Maybe Alec was wrong, maybe I’m concussed, maybe—
The truck rounds the corner of the square, and I get another glimpse of the driver. It’s Dante, his face rigid, driving and staring straight ahead. I watch, mouth dry, as the truck turns off the square and heads for the road back up the mountain.
Three figures. There were three shadows in the front seat.
Angelo.
“Oh my god.” I lurch to my feet, pointing out the window. “Out there. Call the police.”
“What is it?” Caleb stands and crosses to the window, surprisingly agile for such a big guy, already pulling a phone from his back pocket. He cranes his neck, staring at the empty town square.
“It’s…” I heave a breath. Think about this for a second. Then whisper, “It’s nothing. Sorry.”
The Marinos. Dante’s name can’t get out. They’ll hunt him down—if the police don’t arrest him first. And what about Alec? He’s swept up in this too.
I can’t tell. They wouldn’t want me to.
But I can’t do nothing either.
“I have to go.” I snatch up my steaming coffee, taking two giant, scalding gulps. No way am I facing a mobster on zero caffeine. It’s not right.
“What?” Caleb looks at me like I’m crazy. His hand twitches for his phone again, but what is he going to do? Perform a citizen’s arrest for the crime of being weird? “But your ankle—I thought you lost your backpack?”
“Uh-huh.” I limp around the coffee table. “I better go get it.”
“That’s not a good idea.”
I shrug, grabbing the door handle. “Never stopped me before.”
He sputters, rounding the furniture toward me, hands raised like he wants me to see reason. But Dante and Alec are with that psycho right now, and they’re headed up the mountain in a truck. Me? I’ve got no vehicle. I barely have two legs. I need to go.
“Thank you, Caleb!” I yell as I stumble back onto the sidewalk. He stares at me through the office window, waving for me to come back inside. I force a wide smile then limp off in a hurry, plans forming and breaking apart in my brain.
Transport. I need transport.
I grit my teeth and turn off the town square.
* * *“Well if it isn’t Miss High-And-Mighty.”
The tourist bus idles at the sidewalk, its engine grumbling and its windows fogging against the morning cold. The bristly, red-faced driver lounges in the driving seat, one wrist draped over the steering wheel.
Despite the early morning and the deserted town square, the bus is half full already. The tinted windows are filled with bleary-eyed hikers and sunburned tourists in baseball caps.
I bite back the insults lining up on my tongue, and give him my most dazzling smile.
“Hi! You remember me. That’s good.”
The driver scoffs. “Is it?” He looks around, grinning, but no one is listening to his banter. They’re all slumped in their seats, murmuring to each other. At the back, one man snores.
“Yeah! Of course it is.” I push my hair back; let my hip jut out a little. The driver’s eyes drop, then raise back to my face. “Listen. I left something important on the mountain. My backpack. It had all my stuff in it, all my clothes, my camera—” I don’t have to fake the despair about that “—and I’m screwed without it.”
“What about your boyfriends?” The driver reaches down, rattles an ice coffee in a holder. “Can’t they get it for you?”
Fine. You know what? Some people just want to know you’re miserable. It brings them joy. So I ham it up—I let my lip tremble. Wrap my arms around myself and squeeze.
“They, um. They left me.”
“Oh?” The driver grins. So pleased. “Shouldn’t have got greedy, should you?”
“You’re right.” He narrows his eyes at me, so I pull it back a bit. “I mean, how was I to know? But… yeah. You’re right.”
He sniffs, appeased. And when he waves a hand at the bus, he doesn’t ask for the fee. He’s the king of the mountain, lording it over me, doing me this huge favor—and that’s fine by me.
“Thank you so much,” I babble as I shuffle up the steps, gripping the railing tight to save my bad ankle. “You’re such a gentleman.”
He scoops up his iced coffee and slurps it loudly. “’Bout time you met one.”
I titter. “Yeah.”
Ass.
I find a seat halfway back—far enough away that I don’t have to talk to him. And I stare out of the window until my eyes go dry, until my breath fogs the tinted glass. I know they’re not down here anymore, but I still can’t help looking. Playing that glimpse of Dante over and over in my head.
This is taking so long. And if they’re going where I think—if they’re heading back to the cabin—this bus will only take me partway there.
I slide down and rest my cheek against the scratchy headrest.
My boys.
What’s Angelo doing to them?