Ridley Pearson - Killer Summer

“I don’t have time to play games,” said the copilot.

“What the hell are you talking about?” said Matt.

“Shut up, Matt.”

When he spoke again, he was immediately on the other side of the closet door.

“There are two ways to play this,” the copilot said through the door. “You come out of the closet with your hands where we can see them or you stay in there and it plays out worse for you.”

Kevin held his breath. The copilot was talking to him. But how-?

Then he spotted his own wet shoe print on the floor outside the closet, the toe pointing in. His black Reeboks were soaking wet from the dew.

“Okay, have it your way,” the copilot said. He then slid the closet door shut.

Kevin was overcome by the darkness of the space.

“Find a broom handle,” the copilot said to Matt, “and hammer and nails.”

“Jesus!” said Matt, as he took off out of the room.

“What are you, kid, a size nine? Too big for her. And you’re in there alone, which means she’s alone too. Or hurt. Or whatever. If you want to help her, you start talking.”

Kevin heard Matt’s footfalls returning to the room. Then he heard wood crack. The sliding door nearest him wobbled as the broken broom handle was jammed in place. Then there was more wobbling as the copilot tested the doors.

“Bad decision, kid,” the copilot said through the door. “Find the girl,” he then said to Matt. “She’s probably close by.”

“Roger is not going-”

“No names!” the copilot shouted.

“Search the house first. Radio our friend at the plane. Tell him the girl’s alone. We’re going to be fine.”

Kevin finally exhaled. His head was spinning. Roger. Three names.

“But get me those nails or some screws or something first,” the copilot said.

The storage room!

Speaking to the closet door, he added, “You had your chance, kid.”

Summer squeezed her legs together, her swollen bladder making it impossible to think. Kevin, who’d said he would hurry, hadn’t returned. How long was she supposed to wait? Only moments earlier, she’d heard noises and voices coming from inside. Scary noises, angry voices.

Despite her sense of security beneath the tarp, she had to get out of the garage, both to relieve herself and to escape the claustrophobic panic spreading through her. But she was no fan of the great outdoors; the closest she had gotten to wilderness was Orange County, a wasteland without a decent shopping mall in sight. The idea of fleeing alone into the woods at night made her have to pee all the more badly.

She slipped from beneath the tarp, ducked behind a combination ATV-trailer, and kept still. In the colorful, eerie light of power tools recharging, she searched the pegboard above her. There, she found a chisel with a razor-sharp blade about the width of her little finger. She leaped to her feet, slipped it in her pant pocket, and instantly cut a hole first in the pocket and then nicked her thigh. Noticing the leather sheaths on other chisels, she stuffed hers into one and put it in her other pocket. She then pressed her pants against the wound-only a scratch.

Armed, Summer made her way to the shed door, paused, then slipped out into the chilly night air. She pulled the door behind her, ensuring it was latched shut, and sneaked a look at the yard.

Empty.

The woods were incredibly dark and more than a little terrifying. How had she let Kevin get away with the flashlight? There was probably one in the shed, but she wasn’t about to go back there. She tasted freedom in the crisp air. If they were after her, as Kevin had claimed, they were going to have to find her.

With the fallen telephone pole and wires cleared from the bike-path bridge, an hour and twenty minutes after the log spill, two vehicles carrying half a dozen Search and Rescue volunteers, including two canines, were the first allowed across.

Vocal citizens, demanding to be allowed to cross, kept Tommy Brandon and four deputies busy.

“I need to get across,” said yet another man from behind Brandon.

“You and everyone else, buddy,” Brandon said.

A group of twenty to thirty volunteers was working to clear the bridge, using a combination of chainsaws, four-by-fours with hitches, and even a team of draft horses from out Green Horn Gulch. A third of the fallen logs had been removed, and now efforts were under way to tow the semi clear.

“Give it another hour and we’ll have it open again.”

“I’m the girl’s father,” the man said.

Brandon turned.

“Excuse me?” he said.

“The girl who’s believed to be on the plane with the sheriff’s nephew. Teddy Sumner,” he said, then introducing himself. “I need to get to the sheriff… now!”

“Yeah, okay,” Brandon said. “You parked back there somewhere?”

“That’s right.”

“Problem is, Mr. Sumner, there are about a hundred cars in front of yours, and no one’s going to take kindly to someone jumping the line.”

“I’m going across that bridge, Officer.”

“It’s Deputy. And, no, you’re not. Not unless I say so, sir . Right now is not a good time, as you can probably see.”

“ Those cars just came across…”

“They’re Search and Rescue. We just about had a riot on our hands when we allowed that to happen. So we’ve got to let things cool before trying it again.”

“One of your patrol cars… someone could drive me.”

“I’m not exactly long on deputies here. I’ve got four men to see that the bridge is cleared and to hold back a couple hundred very pissed-off people, all of whom have a better reason than their neighbor for getting across. I’m sorry, sir, it’ll be maybe twenty minutes.”

“I can walk across,” he proposed.

“Of course… as you can see.”

People on bicycles and motorcycles and on foot were crossing the bike-path bridge in both directions.

“How far to Hailey?”

“Four or five miles.”

“I demand to be taken to the sheriff.”

Brandon looked at the man, dumbfounded. “You demand ?”

“Call him, tell him I’m here.”

“I respect your situation, Mr. Sumner, and I really wish I could help…”

A tricked-out pickup truck rumbled off road through the sage just then and gunned for the bridge. Brandon hurried toward it, waving the driver back.

“A little busy here!” he called back to Sumner.

The man was clearly frustrated. “Call Fleming. Tell him I’m on my way.”

Sumner charged across the bridge with overemphasized strides.

Who?” Walt said. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

Someone had called in some of the office’s civilian employees. Walt had borrowed three deputies from the jail. He recognized the woman he was speaking to but couldn’t recall the department she was with.

“Here?”

“Front-door desk. Wants to see you.”

“Send him back. Absolutely.”

Teddy Sumner wore attitude on his face as he entered the Incident Command Center. But as he saw the nearly dozen deputies and civilians at their laptops, as he sensed the orchestrated effort led by Walt who stood behind a central lectern, his brow furrowed and he looked as if he might cry.

“Down here,” Walt said.

Sumner made his way through the room slowly, taking it all in.

“Jesus,” he said.

“Your tax dollars at work,” Walt said. They shook hands. Walt reintroduced himself. “We don’t usually allow civilians in here while we’re running an operation. I’m happy to have you look around, but you’ll have to wait in my office if you want to stay.”