Kristine Kathryn Rusch - Heroics.pdf - Kristine Kathryn Rusch - margozap

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PDB Name: Heroics by Kristine Kathryn Rus

Creator ID: REAd

PDB Type: TEXt

Version: 0

Unique ID Seed: 0

Creation Date: 8/16/1973

Modification Date: 8/16/1973

Last Backup Date: 1/1/1970

Modification Number: 0

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Heroics

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

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First published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, April 2002

Fictionwise

www.Fictionwise.com

Mystery/Crime

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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original

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He thought: He had gotten it all wrong.

His body no longer worked the way it wanted to. He had read that a man

with a gunshot wound -- a simple one, perhaps a slug going through the fleshy

part of the thigh, missing everything vital -- could die from the systemic

shock alone. He had always ignored that, thinking his heroes could survive

anything.

_He_ could survive anything.

Sobel lay face-down in a pile of leaves, the smell of decaying

vegetation rich in his nostrils. The ground was cold and damp, the chill

seeping through his flannel shirt and the knees of his jeans. His feet were

twisted awkwardly, but he felt no pain there, nothing except the throbbing in

his arm, trapped beneath him like a wounded animal.

It was beginning to rain, big fat droplets landing intermittently.

Water was sliding off his face, reminding him that he was alive, that he had

to take action.

He didn't want to sit up.

But he had to. Go back up the road, flag someone down. The car was dead

now, and he'd called 911 from his cell, although he hadn't had time to tell

them the location. He'd left the connection open -- they could triangulate,

right? He'd seen that in a Harrison Ford movie -- but he wasn't sure it would

do any good.

Nothing would do any good.

The rain had stopped suddenly, as if its only duty had been to rouse

him. Being unconscious -- semi-conscious, stunned, shocked, whatever the term

was (and he was usually so good with terms) -- had probably saved his life.

He'd heard the footsteps around him, felt the boot in his side, nudging him,

but he hadn't reacted. Couldn't react. And so he'd been left for dead.

He rolled on his good side, felt his arm flop against his stomach, and

the agony, so sharp that the world went white for a moment. The first man's

shove had sent him over the embankment, down the hill -- he remembered

soaring, swearing, thinking of Sarah, alone up there with them -- and then the

ground rushing toward him. He put his arms out to brace himself, to break the

fall, underestimating both his own weight and the speed he'd been dropping.

He'd heard the snap -- snap_s_ -- three at least -- and then the pain that

blotted out the urgency, the fear, the anger.

He thought of pushing himself up, imagined climbing the embankment like

Jackson Ross, his fictional alter ego, and saving Sarah. Jackson would have

rolled on his good side immediately, would have used the broken limb to pull

himself up the hill despite the pain.

Sobel would do that -- after he rested for a moment.

He had no idea how long he had been un- or semi-conscious. Long enough

for them to climb down the hill, check him for dead and leave, presumably with

Sarah in tow. Why would they want her? An innocent three-year-old with eyes as

big as the world. Not his, not yet. Not legally anyway. The adoption papers

were ready and would be signed the same day he married JoAnn. Instant family.

Take one, add water, and suddenly --

Oh, he was not well.

He pushed himself into a sitting position, and felt his closed Swiss

Army knife press against his left thigh. For a moment that was the only

sensation, and then he realized he was dizzy. The blood staining the leaves;

the way his breath came shallowly; the clammy feel of his skin all added to

his queasiness. He touched his face, felt stickiness, knew that was where the

blood was coming from. Cuts, bruises. He probably had them all over. He was in

shock, no doubt about it. He was in shock and he probably wasn't thinking

clearly.

But to stay here was wrong.

He braced himself with his good hand and got to his feet, swaying

slightly. The air smelled of smoke -- fall in Oregon -- and the sky was dark

gray. It was probably going to start raining again.

He sighed and looked up the embankment. Steep, even with two hands.

There was no easy path. He would have to climb.

Part of him wanted to sit down, wait for someone to come to him. Surely

they would see the car, abandoned, and call someone. The state police would

check the plate, find out it belonged to him, try to call his home, maybe try

to see him. JoAnn was in New York, spending a couple thousand dollars of his

fortune to buy a wedding dress so secret that he couldn't even be in the same

city with her, and she had left Sarah with him.

For safekeeping.

He closed his eyes against the thought, and the swaying grew worse. His

stomach flipped over -- nausea, unfamiliar and unwelcome, adding to his

discomfort.

Cars stayed abandoned on this road for days. He had no idea if anyone

would think to run the plate, and if they did, he doubted they would think to

look for him down here. For all they knew, he was at home. The message on his

answering machine said it all:

_Yes, you've reached Max Sobel, and you should know that I never pick

up this phone unless I recognize the voice speaking into my machine. If I

don't recognize you, I won't call you back, no matter how many times you leave

a message. And claiming an emergency won't help. I learned long ago that an

unlisted number doesn't protect you from unwanted calls, but a well-screened

answering machine does. If you really need to reach me and you don't know me,

try it the old-fashioned way -- by mail._

He had used that message for years, and never regretted it until now.

The embankment. Sarah. He had to wrench his mind away from the other

tangents. And here he'd thought that injuries made the mind focus. Laser-beam

clarity, he had once said in one of his books. Not this never-ending

muzziness, the feeling that he was suddenly wrapped in cotton.

Whatever happened to adrenaline-soaked miracles? Shouldn't he be

running up the hill now, desperate to find Sarah?

He took a deep shuddery breath, and thought, _You can do it._ A mantra,

repeated over and over. _You can do it. You can do it. You can -- you_ will_

-- do it. They had Sarah, and God knew what they would do to her._

The embankment was wet too, the ground soft. He stuck his right foot

into the dirt experimentally, found that it gave easily. He could create his

own stairs. Water seeped into his leather shoes, but he didn't care. He had to

get up to the car. Once he was there, he would figure out what to do.

Right foot, left foot, right hand clawing the mud. The movements

slightly uncoordinated. He hadn't realized how much the use of his other arm

added to his balance. It bobbed against his side, a long aching morass that

sometimes became sharp and stabbing if the arm bounced too hard.

He made himself focus on the climb. Foot, hand, foot, pull. Foot, hand,

foot, pull. The soft mud between his fingers, the damp socks against his toes,

the sound of a car whooshing by above him.

He would make it by sheer will alone. Damn Jackson Ross. Damn his

imagination. Sobel might not be his most famous character, but he was strong.

He had to be.

Sarah was out there.

They had caught him off guard. Two cars, one following closely from

Grand Ronde, the other crossing the line in the Corridor, forcing him to

either drive off the road or hit the on-coming car. He'd been trapped by the

hill on one side, and the embankment on the other, the narrow road curving

ahead of him and behind. There was a small shoulder -- the only measure of

safety -- and he took it almost without thinking.

He'd locked the doors and speed-dialed the hands-free phone on the

dash, keeping the car running. They'd boxed him in, behind and in front,

leaving him no room to turn on the narrow highway, no escape.

He should have hit them, but he'd been thinking of Sarah. _Is this a

game, Max?_ she asked, her little voice quivering. Even she had known

something was wrong, strapped into the child-seat in the back, watching the

men approach.

At the last minute, he'd decided to hit the cars -- they were all

stopped. He was afraid his airbag would deploy, but he'd deal with it. He had

to.

As he shoved the car into reverse -- a mistake, he knew now, because

they saw the lights -- the men who had gotten out of the car behind him shot

out his tires. The explosions echoed in the afternoon stillness, making Sarah

scream.

The 911 operator answered right at that point, and he was trying to

drive even with the shot-out tires, trying to talk to her, trying to keep the

car between him and the men walking toward it. Sarah was crying by then, and

he couldn't see a mile-marker. He didn't know exactly where he was, and the

stupid operator was trying to figure out jurisdiction of all things, when he

and Sarah might have been shot.

Then they got to the door, used the keyless entry to unlock the door.

It shouldn't have worked but it did, making the little click-click as the

locks rose. Sarah was crying as the smallest man opened the rear passenger

door and pulled her out, car seat and all.

_Noooo!_ Max had shouted, reaching for her, then he felt cold air as

his door opened, and a gun at the back of his head.

Foot, hand, foot. So much pain it was crawling along his back and down

his spine, his injured arm a dead weight. He'd never known his limbs were so

heavy. He was nearly to the top. The thought made him giddy, and he nearly

lost his balance. He clung to the dirt, digging his feet in harder, feeling

the leather of his left shoe giving.

A diesel truck went by, exhaling exhaust, rumbling the road. Didn't

anyone see his shot-up car? Hadn't anyone thought to stop, get out, and help?

Would he have written it that way?

He pulled himself up, saw the reassuring dark blue of his Lexus -- a

rich man's family car, JoAnn had said, laughing -- found himself wishing he

had a new one, with the on-board guidance system, or the Cadillac he'd liked

-- the one JoAnn had hated -- with its night vision and On-Star system. He

would have been pinpointed then. No one would have had to hone in on his phone

signal. They would have found him, quickly and easily.

But despite the Hollywood money, the increased book sales thanks to

three successful Jackson Ross movies, Sobel had still been fiscally

conservative. He'd seen no reason to buy a new car when the old one was paid

off and worked just fine.

How was he supposed to know that it was going to be important?

As he reached the top, he lost his hold and fell forward, catching

himself on his good hand. His bad one brushed the gravel and sent a wave of

pain through him. He blinked against it, feeling it, and not letting it slow

him down. Determination was all he had.

A car rounded the corner -- red, four-door, new. It passed him quickly,

not even slowing down to gawk. A woman's face stared at him from the back

window. She was frowning as if she disapproved. Did she think him drunk? On a

weekday afternoon? Whatever happened to compassion? When did people start

disapproving of a man on his hand and knees, injured on the side of the road?

He managed to push himself up and head toward the car. It looked as

wounded as he felt, leaning awkwardly on its shot-out tires. The doors were

closed, although he remembered leaving his open, and there was no trace of

Sarah inside.

His stomach churned. Why would they take her? Had they followed him

from Portland? He'd spent the night after taking JoAnn to the airport, done a

bit of research at Powell's, and left Sarah with a close friend who often

babysat for them. He didn't notice anyone following him after he picked Sarah

up. When they had lunch, he saw nothing out of the ordinary in the restaurant,

although he wasn't sure how he would have noticed. Coping with a

three-year-old who was determined to get pie first took most of his energies.

This didn't seem random. And that scared him more than anything.

He reached the car. It felt like safety, but safety was elusive. He'd

always known that, but not viscerally, not like now. He peered inside, saw the

stuffed dog he'd bought Sarah days ago, felt his heart twist. How she looked

at him. How she trusted him.

God knew what they were doing with her. Doing to her.

And why.

His briefcase was still in the back. He pulled open the back driver's

side door, reached in, felt his left arm sway, prayed it wouldn't hit

anything. Fingers brushed against the edge, but he was getting used to the

pain. Or maybe he was numb. Blessedly numb.

As long as he held onto his mind.

He opened the briefcase, saw his laptop, his business papers, his extra

credit card. And his cell phone. His pager. How strange. They should have

taken everything, shot out the hands-free phone, the ignition, made sure he

was stranded.

But they hadn't.

He picked up the cell, speed-dialed 911, identified himself as the man

who had called before. He probably should have just spoken to the hand-held.

He wondered if the men had even bothered to cut the connection.

"Stay there, sir," the dispatch said. "The county sheriff and an

ambulance will be there momentarily."

How, he wondered, when they didn't know where there was? He supposed it

didn't matter. The highway was the only way through the Van Duzer Corridor.

They probably figured they'd stumble on him soon enough.

"They took Sarah." His voice sounded thick and muzzy to his own ears.

"Are you injured, sir?" Apparently the dispatch had picked up on that.

Maybe he sounded worse that he thought.

"Broken arm, I think. But Sarah -- "

"Sarah is?"

"My daughter. Nearly. I'm adopting her. I just got the papers." Not

relevant. He usually was relevant when he spoke. _Focus. Focus_.

"How old is she?"

"Three."

He spun around, realizing that the dispatch was keeping him talking

until the help arrived. His brain was working slowly, but it was working. He

stared at the tire tracks on the gravel, at the road. No other cars had

passed. Just the few he'd heard, marring the oil path....

Oil path. From the gravel. He tracked it, saw a variegated puddle

exactly where the back car had been parked. It had been leaking oil.

"...sir? Are you all right?"

Apparently she'd been talking to him. He hadn't even heard.

"Wait," he said. "I see something."

"Something?"

He left the line open -- old-fashioned habits died hard -- and walked

beside the trail, realizing almost too late that he had gone on the highway

without looking. _Focus._ He had to focus. If he wasn't clear, he wouldn't be

of any help.

Why was the oil trail crossing the road horizontally? It headed

straight toward the hill. It didn't make an obvious U-turn.

"Sir?" the tiny voice of the dispatch -- female (didn't they ever hire

men in these positions?) -- sounded panicked.

"Just a minute," he said. "I see something."

Which was what he said before, but he didn't want to tell her, not yet.

He follow the trail to the south face of the hill, onto the gravel shoulder,

where the oil became black rock. A wide U-turn then. He felt a deep

disappointment combined with slight wooziness.

This time, going back to his car, he would be cautious. He walked to

the edge of the curve, looked east, saw no cars.

And no oil trail.

"Sir?"

He didn't answer. He was spinning, looking for the oil. It had to be

here. It had to be --

The road was almost invisible, cutting through the trees. It looked

like a path, overgrown and neglected, but it was wide enough for cars. Trees

and shrubs grew over the road, but some of the branches were broken. He jogged

toward them, then quit almost immediately as the pain in his bobbing arm made

him gasp.

"Sir?"

The oil was there, black and familiar, like a trail of bread crumbs.

_Follow me. Follow me._

"Sir?" the poor dispatch sounded panicked now. Funny, he should be the

one who was panicked, but he felt strangely calm.

He brought the phone to his ear -- her voice louder there, and the

ambient noise of her job, faint voices, beeping -- and briefly wondered what

it was like to be her, sitting in a small cubicle, headphones on, mike to the

mouth, monitoring emergencies all day long.

"Sir? If you're there -- "

"I found something," he said. "One of the cars was leaking oil. It went

up a side road just near my car. On the other side of the highway. I'm going

to follow it."

"No, sir. Stay there. When the sheriff arrives -- "

"It might be too late. Sarah's alone with them. She's only three. I'm

heading up. I'm bringing the phone." As if that made it better. He wasn't sure

what he could do. Wasn't sure if he would do it if it weren't for the fact he

had back-up coming. Then realized he would. He couldn't leave her up there,

alone, those wide brown eyes scanning for him, pudgy hands waving, demanding.

Kristine Kathryn Rusch - Heroics.pdf

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