Imani.I commit that name to memory, needing to be certain I know it, whether or not we can save her. It suddenly breaks my heart that I didn’t pay better attention to every woman on this trip. I should have known all of their names before they were gone. I should have asked to see pictures of all of their loved ones.
“Get that life jacket off, Imani, then hold out your hand!” I demand, while Deborah and I desperately try to row backward against the forceful current so we don’t sail past her.
“I can’t!” she screams, her voice raw with pain and panic.
And then I see why.
Her right arm, the one closest to us, is frantically working to unbuckle her life vest.
But her left arm is just a stump, blunted at the elbow. The flesh trails off into a dark bloody mess, draining into the choppy water.
There’s no way she’s going to get that life jacket off in time.
We can’t hold the raft here any longer. The current is too fast. We’re going to pass her.
But then, with a roar, she wrestles the final buckle loose and slips into the water.
Her black curls disappear from view as her head goes under.
For an agonizing few seconds, I see no sign of her. How could she stay afloat with that injury? Has she gone underneath the raft? Where the hell is she? My heart plummets as we fight the current, certain that even if she does surface, we’ll have missed our chance to pull her to safety.
Then Deborah flings her paddle down and throws herself across the right side of the raft, shouting, “She’s here! I’ve got you! Don’t let go, Imani!”
Allie, Pam, and I rush to help pull Imani into the raft.
“Thank you,” she keeps repeating between sobs, blinking back river water and tears.
“We need something we can use as a tourniquet,” Pam says, her voice somehow strong and calm. I suddenly remember that she spends her days helping panicked animals—that as a vet, she must be steady under pressure, tending wounds that would make anyone else pass out.
“My pants have a cord we can use,” Allie says, already reaching for her soaked joggers and unthreading the string.
As Pam hurries to help her get the placement of the tourniquet right, murmuring assurances that she did this with an injured husky just last week, a sharp clapping sound comes from behind us.
My brain takes a moment to register what the noise is, even as I spin around to look.
I realize it’s not a clappingsound.
Itisclapping.
Bryan stands at the long guide oars of his gear raft, bringing his hands together in slow, methodic slaps.
He’s only twenty yards behind us, now.
“Five of you,” he calls, as his eyes skim over our raft. “Nice.” He puckers his mouth and lets out another low whistle.
My pulse thuds. Bryan tilts his head and opens his mouth, then closes it again and makes a few strokes with his oars, like he’s inviting us to run, so he can give chase.
“This next rapid is a doozy, ladies. But if you make it down, we’ve still got a lot of night left to play.”
My throat tightens with rage. He’s absolutely loving this.
For the briefest moment, I let my unanswered questions rip through me.
Who the hell is this Kellen-Stroop-wannabe psychopath? What does he want? Why has he chosen us?
Because surely, he can’t actuallybeKellen Stroop. Kellen Stroop is dead. Kellen Stroop was a twenty-something-year-old man when he murdered those rafters at Camas Creek seven years ago. And the acne-scarred, neck-bearded, baby-faced kid in the raft behind us right now is notnearlythat old.
Just as quickly, I push those questions away for later—because therehas tobe a later. If we survive this next rapid, I have no doubt Allie will tell us everything she wanted to say around the fire last night. But what matters right now is getting away from this monster and somehow getting all of us down this insane river. I focus on rowing in unison with Allie while Pam finishes the tourniquet, all while sailing toward the enormous whitecaps ahead.
