At Least They're Committed

The heroins in these books are always flawed either by fate or by health: Forced to marry a murderous rich man who runs the town, or in need of a new heart, or whatever. Always in danger, trapped, whether by health or by wealth. So, without further ado, here’s Tripping Raul and the pivotal chapter in a trash novel (OK, really, you have to stay with this one, it gets better as it goes along):

She woke up alone.

Trapped inside the mountain cabin, without electricity, without food, without heat, without cellphone reception and without . . . hope, Tripping Raul curled into a ball on the horse-hair couch and awaited her fate, waited to die, feeling all itchy.

He’d left her. He’d left her. Of course he had. What a fool she’d been! She’d blindly followed him up here. His credentials had checked out — who was he working with? — she had believed him when he’d said he was FBI even though deep inside she’d questioned why an FBI agent would wear such a jaundiced yellow-beige blazer that didn’t complement his rugged complexion.

How could she question the sincerity in his deep green eyes flecked with brown and maybe some orange but she wasn’t sure because she didn’t want to stare? That was no excuse and she knew it.

She had been so certain he was on the level when he had said the Coyote — the man who had lured women into the mountains, gotten them completely lost and disoriented and left them to die as he watched their every step of desperation while roosting in hunting blinds littered throughout the forest and getting his rocks off as they slowly suffered and cried and perished and then would set fire to the blind closest to the area where the victims succumbed so as to alert the authorities so they would find their emaciated corpses while reducing any evidence to cinders and safely making his escape — was within his reach.

She was a forest ranger. The loneliness of the post kept her safe from Man, from men, and society, but not safe from her own thoughts, from what she was running from, from her past and the physical and emotional afflictions that haunted her — she was a recluse, she was . . . complicated.

She was weak and she knew it. He knew it. How had he known of her condition? She hadn’t told him, but after she’d fumbled through her backpack for her meds to no avail, when she’d grown unsteady the night before, he had guessed her special need. No, she was certain now that he’d already known. That’s why he left her in the cabin to die instead of luring her into the wilderness.

She pulled herself off the couch, her legs, ankles felt huge and weighty, Hillary Clintonish beneath her. Her disorder was already taking hold and making her stumble as she made her way to the window. Outside the wind was blowing, the pollen from the wild yarrow, freshly in bloom after the spring rain, coated the air like a noxious gas. He knew she wouldn’t dare step outside, not without . . . . He knew she couldn’t.

Tripping Raul looked into the pinon pines as they rocked. Maybe she could see the blind, see from where he was watching her. Against her better judgement, she pulled open the glass and screamed through the screen, “I know you’re there! I know you’re watching me! You DICK!” But her efforts were ridiculous, a mute voice against the blustering gale. Worse yet the pollen, the pollen. She slid closed the window and made her way, clutching the backs of chairs, back to the couch. What was she doing? She knew better than that!

Then it started. She knew it would. Her eyes watered: Were the tears rolling down her cheeks remorse for being such a dolt? Was it because she’d been duped into sealing her own fate? Or was it . . . the tickle rose from her throat, settling in her nose and she realized how miserable she was and would further become. She gasped, quickly breathing in and out three times the way a fellow guide had taught her, a way to prevent it from coming on. But it was no use. She was too far gone, with a violent “Ah-SHIT,” she began to sneeze . . . and she couldn’t stop.

********

The door was bolted shut. But why? And then he knew . . . she didn’t trust him. She didn’t believe he was close to capturing the Coyote. She believed he was the Coyote. “TR! TR,” he called but there was no answer. He should never have left her. But what choice had he had? The sun was setting over the peak and the light was fading. He ran through the weeds surrounding the hunting cabin, the pistils from the columbines grabbing at his Wranglers, mocking him by leaving their dreaded, yellow residue on his jeans.

He looked through the windows, desperate, “TR, let me in. I know what you think . . .” But his pleas fell on deaf ears, through the glass he could see her body, limp, collapsed on the couch. . . .

*****

“Peter, Peter, I can see your house from here,” she mumbled. He hadn’t wanted to break in through the door, letting even the slightest bit of the outside into the cabin, into her lungs. But he had no choice. Even if the door hadn’t been locked, he now realized, he’d still have had to open it.

“I’m here, TR,” he scooped her upper body onto his lap, the mucus running from her nose, her breathing raspy, but there, alive, and that was encouraging. Her bloodshot, puffy eyes rolled toward him as her snot ran down his inner thigh. Now was not the time, now was not the time to be aroused, he told himself. But it was hard, so hard. Taking his sleeve, he rubbed her face, removing the drool from her lips and the green stuff draining from her nose.*

“Come on, stay with me,” he nearly sobbed. “Take this, take this!” he was choking back repressed emotions from a less-than-perfect childhood — or maybe it was vomit because, really, this is gross-ass shit. He nearly shoved the pills down her throat, pushing his fingers into her mouth. She gagged a moment, but he followed the pills with fresh water from his canteen.

******

She gulped, barely lucid. What drug was he giving her? The date rape drug? Is that how he got those other women to lose their bearings? Did they hallucinate? She thought all this, while knowing she was going to die, and accepting it. Moron, she deserved to die! She’d been easily led astray by a man with a deep laugh, a self-conscious smile and long fingers (and you know what that means).

Yet little by little she realized she wasn’t getting worse. But better! Her breathing started to clear, the tickle fading. She felt stronger, more alert and she felt her wits coming back. Realizing her head was in his lap, was that a pistol in his pocket or was he glad to see her? she defensively righted herself into sitting position. “What the?” she demanded.

He pushed the denim fabric down on his crotch, trying to readjust. “Last night, when we were hiking our way in here, I noticed that you sneezed,” he explained. “I was worried then. I guess with good reason. Seeing the wind kicking up this morning, I knew I’d have to make my move. I’d notice a cabin about 8 miles from here, so I left early. I thought there might be Claritin. I know it was a huge gamble, but there was . . . ”

She stared, only now noticing the scratches from the overgrown underbrush on his muscular arms, the slashes on his face from the blossoming aspens whipping in the wind. He gently reached toward her and pushed strands of matted blond hair out of her eyes. A loving gesture. She was wrong about him. But wait, no, she was right about him. But only if you’re considering the first impression. So, yeah, she was wrong about the second impression, but right about the first one. Regardless, she knew right then she was going to “softly whispered expletive” his brains out.

That was until he excused himself to take a whiz outside, and she heard the voice of a man howling at the moon . . .

*It should be noted that the real Tripping Raul has no allergies to speak of and would rather be caught dead than have something running from her nose.