Shine - Lauren Myracle [95]
“Screw this, I’m calling the cops,” Jason said. Then, “Ah, shit. No service. Shit.”
The motorcycle was almost upon us. Maybe two curves away.
Jason tugged at me. “Come on. Will you get out of the road before that asshole runs you down?”
“It’s okay,” I said, because I knew the asshole roaring over the hill. I recognized the sound of his Yamaha. “It’s my brother.”
When Christian came into view, he was crouched over the handlebars and leaning into the curve. He righted himself as he approached. He skidded to a halt and flipped the visor of his helmet.
“Jesus, Cat. What the hell? You call the whole world, and you couldn’t call me?” He looked at Jason, who tentatively lifted one hand. Christian turned back, too pissed-off to even ask.
“You’re my sister, and you’re off on some fool mission, and I had to hear it from Dupree,” he said. “What the fuck?”
Oh, I thought. And I did feel bad. I’d forbidden myself from seeing Christian as my hero for so long now that I was simply out of practice.
But he was here now.
I jogged over, nudging him to let him know I was climbing on. “We’ll be back,” I called to Jason. I wrapped my arms around my brother’s ribs and said, “Get me to Suicide Rock.”
It wasn’t but four or five miles farther, which was nothing on Christian’s Yamaha. We pulled into the broad area of packed dirt where people parked their cars. There was a lone picnic table where a family might eat their pimiento cheese sandwiches. Next to it was Beef’s black motorcycle.
“Well, I’ll be dipped,” Christian said.
I hopped off the bike and started for the swimming hole. Christian loped to catch up with me. He’d taken off his helmet, and his hair was slick with sweat.
“So what’s the story?” he demanded.
I gave it to him in shorthand: Beef’s high. He’s got Robert. He’s dangerous.
“Holy goddamn,” Christian said. He raked his hand through his hair, but he didn’t seem terribly surprised. “And just what do you think you’re gonna do about it?”
I scowled, because maybe I didn’t know that part.
The ground was wet and matted with rotted leaves. I stumbled over a root, and he caught me. He held on to my arm and made me stop.
“You stay here,” he said in a low voice. We were getting close enough that if Beef and Robert were up ahead, they’d be able to hear us. “I’ll check on up ahead, and if I see them, I’ll let you know. Then you go back to that new friend of yours and find a way to get the sheriff, all right?”
I glared, because no, that was not all right. I twisted out of his grasp.
The path was slippery with mulch and decay. A couple of empty beer cans littered the pebbled beach. I stopped right at the outskirts of the clearing, but I didn’t spot Beef or Robert. I scanned the murky surface of the swimming hole. Nothing. I glanced at the giant water-soaked log we liked to sit on when we were kids. Nothing.
I stepped forward in order to get a good look at the cliff face on the other side of the swimming hole. At its base was a thick undergrowth of mountain laurel and rhododendron, which after a couple of yards gave way to ferns and slick green moss. Above that rose sheer gray rock. I grew light-headed as I took in the narrow footholds and crannies used for climbing. Everything was too bright. Too high.
“Well, hey, there, Cat,” Beef called down, making my heart stop. I craned my neck, and there, at the very top, was Beef. He had Robert in a choke hold, his hand over Robert’s mouth. Robert looked very small and very frightened. And—his skinny legs did look ridiculous jutting out of his too-puffy shorts.
“Beef,” I said. They were above the jumping rock, standing at the edge of the higher, more tucked-back rock the swimming hole was named for. Robert’s eyes were round. Beef’s eyes . . . well, I was too far away to really see. But they didn’t look right.
“Don’t,” I managed.
“Don’t what?” Beef said. He grinned and fake pushed Robert over the edge, thrusting him forward and jerking him back. Robert made a noise behind Beef’s hand and struggled to get away.
“Robert,