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FOR THE THIRD time that morning I shut my eyes tight in the absolute and certain knowledge that I was just about to die. Around me, people were screaming. Lots of people, but the prospect of dying in company did nothing to alleviate the terror.
My stomach lurched as we started to fall. Actually, fall doesn't begin to describe our horrifying descent. Plummet was more like it. An endless roaring plunge. My hair whipped at my forehead, the sheer punch of the wind pulling my cheeks back to bare my teeth in a final death-mask travesty of a smile.
I just prayed that the expression didn't stay with me post-mortem. Otherwise, although I was unquestionably about to die young, it seemed I was destined not to leave a beautiful corpse.
Then we bottomed out, the rollercoaster squatting into the compression. Before I'd time to be thankful I'd survived another first drop, we crested a small rise and bowled into a left-hander so severe the wheels of the open car I was riding in seemed to bounce right out of their tracks and shimmy sideways toward the outside of the bend. Beyond the token piece of safety railing, it had to be at least fifty feet to the ground.
The coaster was constructed out of what had looked to my dubious eyes like a hastily nailed-together clutch of old railway sleepers. I tried to tell myself they were checked, religiously, every day, that the theme park owners would be fools to let anything happen to their paying customers. But in the back of my mind I could already hear the sober voice-over of the dramatic reconstruction after the accident.
And surely even wooden coasters weren't supposed to rattle and shudder this much? We were vibrating so hard my eyesight was blurred. The graunching of timbers as we thundered over them was like the crepitus of broken bones grinding against each other. I knew without a doubt that the damned thing was shaking itself to pieces right underneath us. I could picture each popping nail.
Another bruising turn, another sudden downward swoop that left me tightening my grip on the handle on the seat back in front of me. The chicken bar. As we'd climbed the first lift hill I'd mentally sworn that, no matter what, I would not give in and grab hold of it. Right now I didn't care.
"Jesus Christ!" I yelped.
In the seat alongside, Trey Pelzner stopped waving his arms in the air and whooping just long enough to throw me the kind of utterly contemptuous glance that only fifteen-year-old boys can truly master.
Oh man, it said. You are so old.
I'd spent the last few days trying to be cool in front of the kid. Trying to be on his level. Trying to be his friend. Someone he really didn't mind hanging out with instead of grudging, enforced company.
Wipeout.
Having started to go downhill, things took on a momentum all of their own. Much like a rollercoaster, I suppose. But without the ups.
In this case, the line of cars was grabbed by its final set of brakes and we slowly clattered back into the station. Had we not paid fifty dollars a head for the privilege of getting into the park, torture sessions like this would have been banned by the Geneva Convention.
As soon as the thrills ceased, Trey's animation went with it. He dropped back into morose silence like someone had just unplugged him. If sullen equated to cool, then he was the coolest kid there by miles.
I'd already sussed out enough ride etiquette to know that you were supposed to look bored to tears on the way in and out. It was only during the minute or so of terror that masqueraded as fun were you allowed to squeal and wave your arms. In fact, it was almost obligatory. Holding on for grim death was the ultimate faux pas. In teenage terms, I'd just ordered Pot Noodle at a three-star Michelin restaurant.
The cars stopped, the lap bars unlocked, and we followed the distorted tannoy directions to please exit to the right, being sure to take all our personal belongings with us. I did my best not to snarl at the manically cheery additional instruction that we were to enjoy the rest of our day here at Adventure World, Florida!
We were carefully funneled through the ride-related gift store on the way out. The park's designers had been masters of merchandising as much as the harnessing of kinetic energy. Mostly it seemed that these places were stocked with the same array of hats and shirts as at the other attractions in the park, allowing the wearer to proclaim to the world that they'd ridden and survived.
It wasn't just a kiddy trap, either. I'd noticed people who should have been old enough to know better riding the rides and buying the T-shirts. If age isn't supposed to bring sense it should at least have brought a little dignity.
As for Trey, he seemed determined to flick through every single rack of clothing. Perhaps he'd seen me rubbing the goose bumps on my arms and just wanted to make me stay out of the sun that bit longer. I'd come to Florida told to expect temperatures in the eighties, even in March, but nobody had warned me about the air-conditioning. Every store and restaurant had the dial set so low that if you let your drink stand for long enough, ice formed on the top.
"Hey, I want one of these."
I sighed, moving away from the door with its promise of baking heat just a few feet outside. Trey was near the back of the store by a rack of leather jackets, holding one up by the collar. It was glossy black, with the Adventure World logo beautifully embroidered across the back panel. A lovely piece of work, and no doubt worth every cent of the three hundred and fifty dollar price tag I could see dangling from the cuff. Except for the fact that it was at least four sizes too big.
Before we'd set out from the house that morning, Trey's father, Keith Pelzner, had handed me a folded wedge of cash with the casual instruction that I should buy the boy whatever he wanted.
"Anything?" I'd asked, riffling my thumb across the edges of the bills and realizing just how many of them were hundreds.
He'd shrugged. "Yeah, sure," he'd said, with the air of someone whose current financial status means that large amounts of money can be frittered on an adolescent whim. But even he had paused at the open doubt in my voice, and grinned at me as he'd added, "Within reason."
Now, I eyed Trey for a second to see if he was joking, but there was nothing funny in the mulish scowl. Mind you, the braces he wore to coach his teeth into perfect alignment would probably have been enough to wipe the smile off anyone's face.
"OK," I said, neutral. "Let's see it on."
Trey's glower deepened, but he slipped the jacket off its hanger and climbed into it. Climbed being the operative word. He was a skinny runt of a kid and both of us would have fitted inside the body and still got the zip done up without having to hold our breath first. His fingers never hit the end of the sleeves until he shoved the cuffs right back. Then the leather bunched up round his thin biceps like a Victorian leg-of-mutton costume.
I was careful not to smile, tilting my head on one side as though giving the jacket serious consideration. "Looks a touch on the big side," I offered at last.
Trey sighed, rolling his eyes and shifting his feet like that was the most pathetic excuse he'd ever heard for denying him something so vital. "It's the smallest they've got," he threw back at me, like that settled it.
"Trey, it doesn't fit you," I said, all reasonable. "If you really want a leather jacket, let's look in one of the other--"
The bottom lip came out. The sigh had become a noisy gush. If it wasn't for the rampant teenage acne that peppered his face like woodchip wallpaper, he would have looked about twelve.
"I--want--this--one," he said, speaking very slowly and with great scorn. I'd heard him address the Hispanic maids at the house the same way, obviously taking it for granted that their grasp of English wasn't up to any more than basic cleaning instructions. To my immense disappointment, none of them had ever slapped his legs for it.
I glanced round. Even the assistant was taking notice, I saw, edging out from behind the counter to fuss over straightening a display of polo shirts that was strategically between us and the door. One of the other customers, a youngish good-looking guy in designer Oakley sunglasses and a New York Yankees baseball cap, was two racks down doing a poor job of trying to pretend he wasn't listening in. I moved in close to Trey, stuck my face into his.
"It--doesn't--fit--you," I said between my teeth, matching my delivery to his. "You're not having it."
"Dad said you had to buy me anything I wanted."
"He said within reason," I shot back, aware that for years I'd heard adults in supermarkets talking to their offspring in just the same tone of tightly controlled but thin patience. I'd never really understood it until now. I tried again. "It drowns you and it makes you look like a prat. Put it back."
The word "prat" doesn't have any particular meaning to your average American schoolkid, but he caught the gist and knew I hadn't meant it as a compliment. For a moment I thought we were going to have a major showdown right there. Either that or he was going to lie full length on the ground and beat his fists into the carpet. Instead he glared at me for a second longer, his face starting to flush pink round his collar. I knew I'd beaten him at that point, but at what cost?
He scrabbled out of the jacket as though he suddenly hated the thing, flicked me one last, insolent, knowing look, and deliberately dumped it at my feet. Then he stepped over it and sauntered out of the store.
I waited just long enough to get a grip on my temper, picked the jacket up again and put it back on its hanger on the rail. The assistant came hurrying over to check she wouldn't have to make me pay up under the "you break it, you bought it" rule, but fortunately there was no harm done. On my way out even the guy in the designer shades flashed me a commiserative smile.
I found Trey waiting for me outside, sulking, hands jammed deep into the pockets of his baggy knee-length shorts. He could barely bring himself to look at me. I wanted to shake him.
The track of the coaster dipped to within twenty feet directly above our heads and just then a line of cars swooped through another sequence. Their passing was heralded by a howling like wind through canyons. The note rose and fell as they rode the tracks, accompanied by the mock screams and squeals of unreal fear from people who do not know what it is to be truly afraid.
When I looked back at Trey I was relieved to note that most of the pout had left his face. I never thought that having the memory span of a goldfish would turn out to be a virtue in a kid.
"So," I said, "do you want to look for another jacket?" Hell, why not? After all, it wasn't my money we were spending.
"Nah," the little brat shrugged. "I kinda, like, changed my mind about that." He smiled at me, all glinting metalwork and colored plastic.
I fell for it long enough to smile back. "OK," I said, trying to get things back onto at least the semi-friendly footing we'd had before. "What now? You fancy something to eat?"
"Nah, not yet," he said, and the smile developed harder overtones. He nodded to the track above us. "I think I'd like to ride this one a few more times first."
Without waiting for a reaction, he turned and made for the entrance to the ride again, leaving me standing there with my own smile fading rapidly.
Oh yeah, smart thinking, Fox. Next time, just keep your mouth shut and buy him the damned jacket.
It took another four runs on the wooden coaster before even a fanatic like Trey had had enough. At least by the time I'd endured that, I wasn't scared of us crashing any more. In fact, I was praying for a serious malfunction of some kind. Anything to make it stop, and I would even have accepted major injury as the tradeoff.
Particularly if it happened to my charge.
Maybe I was just getting better at hiding my panic but, when we climbed out after that fourth turn, Trey didn't immediately head for the repeat rider queue. I knew better than to provoke him by asking if he was done, so I followed him in silence as we wandered away from the timber colossus.
"I'm hungry," he announced, reproachful, like I was the one who'd been keeping him away from nourishment in order to satisfy my own hedonistic urges.
I resisted an urge of a different kind, one that would have involved swift contact between the back of my hand and the side of his head, and shepherded him into the nearest group of restaurants. According to the menu boards they served a whole range of stuff that sounded surprisingly good for that kind of venue, including taco, Caesar, or garden salads, chili beef, and baked potatoes.
I should have guessed that a fifteen-year-old would despise anything not stuffed with E-numbers and MSG.
"Oh gross," he whinged. "I want proper food."
Proper food, it turned out, was burger and fries which we found at one of the smaller concession stands. At least it was warmer sitting out there at the benches provided. You just had to fend off the bold sidlings of the local scavenging bird population. If you chewed with your mouth open they'd practically have your food straight off your tongue. Trey was in constant danger of losing his lunch.
The kid shoveled down his meal doused in ketchup to equal proportions, pushing the lettuce and tomato garnish to the side of his plate like he'd found a slug in it.
Still, it was nice to sit down somewhere that didn't try to buck you out of your seat. Even in the shade of an awning the day had a bottomless warmth to it that permeated right down to your bones. I'd just spent a cold winter being reminded about all the bones of mine I'd previously broken. Being here was a luxury, I told myself, regardless of having to look after an obnoxious oik like Trey.
The kid finished his burger, slurped the last of his drink up through the straw and got to his feet, dragging the crumpled park map out of his pocket.
"We gotta go ride Demon next," he decided.
Great. Now we have fear and indigestion, too.
I got up and took my time over collecting the debris of our meal and sliding it into one of the nearby bins, trying to give my food some time to go down before I had to stomach another vomit-inducing piece of so-called entertainment. I'd never been on a rollercoaster of any description before today. If, when this assignment in Florida was over, I never got on another as long as I lived, it would still be too soon.
Nevertheless, it went with the territory. When I'd agreed to an alternative career in close protection, to become a bodyguard, I'd agreed to take discomfort along with reward and danger.
Just my luck that I'd got landed with Trey.
The Demon coaster was across the other side of the park. Scarlet-painted bits of its twisted superstructure were visible over the tops of the trees as we drew nearer. It looked immense and tangled, with no obvious sense of direction. Signs we passed informed us that Demon was newer, higher, and faster than anything we'd ridden so far. I was amazed Trey hadn't headed straight for it, and said so.
He shrugged. "It's a steelie," he said, dismissive.
"A what?"
"A steel coaster, not a wooden one. They're OK, I s'pose, but woodies rule. They're, like, awesome."
I tried not to think about the ride quality of something that didn't live up to the bone-shaker we'd spent half the morning on.
The queue line for Demon was certainly no shorter. We weaved our way in guided by a maze of stainless steel barriers. If you touched them your hands came away sticky with the sweat from a thousand nervous palms. I'm not sure mine were any drier.
As we moved deeper in we came to a split in the path, manned by a young attendant who could only have had a couple of years on Trey.
"Singles to your left," he said as we approached.
Trey started to go left. I caught his arm.
"Hang on a moment, what does that mean?"
He tried to shake me loose. "If you go in the singles line it means you get on the ride faster 'cos they use you to, like, fill up the empty seats."
"No way," I muttered, steering him off to the right. "We'd rather go on together, thanks," I told the attendant, who shrugged and pointed us wordlessly in the other direction, his attention already lost.
As we joined the end of the long, shuffling line Trey was back to sulking again. "Oh man," he complained, "anyone would think you were my mother."
I didn't know what had happened to Mrs. Pelzner. She could have been off visiting her folks, spending her divorce settlement, or dead. It was difficult to respond to Trey's jibe without knowing which, so I let it pass.
"Look, Trey," I said, making a valiant stab at tolerance again. "The company your dad works for has hired me to keep you safe. It's hard enough doing that on a bloody rollercoaster to begin with, but there's no way I can do my job if we don't stick together. You don't have to like it," I added, as he opened his mouth to protest, "but that's the way it is, so learn to live with it."
Yeah, right, his expression said, but he didn't speak to me again as we shuffled our way to the front of the queue line.
I had to admit, privately, that the singles route did seem to be moving much faster. I swear I saw one kid go round twice in the time it took us to get there.
I even saw the good-looking guy again who'd been in the wooden coaster gift store. I only spotted him because one of the attendants held the car back while she made him take off his hat and sunglasses. So this one really was going to turn you upside down and shake the change out of your pockets.
The guy was a little sheepish to be singled out for censure. He looked around as though hoping no one else had noticed. And when it was uncovered like that I couldn't help getting the feeling that I knew his face from somewhere.
I only had a moment's glimpse before the car was released and clanked its way up the first lift hill. After what seemed like an eternity, the clanking stopped, there was a pause, and then the usual screaming started.
They were running two sets of cars on this ride, so it wasn't long before the last run was in and emptying. I was worrying too much about what was coming next to bother racking my memory for where I might possibly have known the Oakley guy from. As the attendant checked the overhead harness was down securely over my shoulders and buckled to the seat between my legs, I had other things to occupy my mind.
I was in for a big surprise.
After the woodies that had been my introduction to coasters, the steelie was a revelation. It was blisteringly quick, yes, but it was smooth the way a sports bike ridden hard on an open road is smooth. It inverted us so many times I lost all comprehension of which way was ground and which was sky, but for the first time I began to see what all the fuss was about.
"Now that," I said when it was over, "is more like it!"
Trey immediately lost all interest in further turns on Demon. He hurried out along the ride exit, his amusement now blighted by my unexpected pleasure. I realized belatedly that all I would have had to do to curtail my earlier torment would have been to make a show of enjoying it. At that moment I could cheerfully have strangled him.
I went after the kid, determined not to scurry to match his petulant pace. Outside I spotted him over by some shops, perched on a low concrete wall with his arms folded and shoulders hunched. He was too cross even to put on an act in front of the two teenage girls who were sitting next to him. As I walked across the open area between us, I saw the guy from the coaster again out of the corner of my eye, now back in his Oakleys and his Yankees cap.
And something about the predatory way he moved sent the hairs rising on the back of my neck in a way no rollercoaster, however scary, would ever be able to do.
He was already closer to Trey than I was and moving closer still, focused on him, intent. His shirt was hanging loose outside his chinos but his right hand was stealing underneath the hem, going for something that was concealed at his waistband. Something I couldn't see, but could certainly guess at.
I broke into a run, using my arms to pump up instant speed like a sprinter leaving the blocks. At the last moment Trey became aware of my full-pelt charge and looked up, startled out of his surly guise. Oakley man was watching his expression. He started to twist, head turning.
And that's when I hit him.
I ducked my shoulder and caught him with a full body slam without breaking stride. I hit him hard and low, and was lucky to stay on my feet in the process. I was luckier still I didn't snap my damned collarbone. He wasn't carrying muscle bulk but he was solid, all the same.
Oakley man went down in an ungainly sprawl, letting go the .40 caliber Smith & Wesson he'd been unholstering as he went. The pistol clattered onto the concrete and spun out of both our reach under the legs of the nearest group of fleeing passers-by. I didn't stop to wait for him to retrieve it, just hurdled his legs and kept on going.
I grabbed hold of Trey's shirt by the front and the collar and hauled him sideways off the wall, ignoring his wail of protest. But for once, he didn't argue about doing what I suggested, or going where I wanted him to go.
Out of there. Fast.
I pushed the kid ahead of me, trying to keep my body between his back and our unexpected attacker. I knew I should have just kept my head down and kept running, but I couldn't resist a quick glance behind us.
Oakley man was still on the floor. His hat was missing but the sunglasses were still in place, giving his face a terrifyingly blank stare. Worse, he had managed to recover his gun. He was clasping it firmly in both hands and swinging the muzzle in our direction, heedless of the crowd.
Finding the nearest exit suddenly wasn't as important as finding cover. I jerked Trey sideways just as the first two shots rang out, so close together the second report sounded like an echo of the first. After that I didn't need to urge him to greater speed.
Panic ripped through the immediate vicinity. I'd heard people screaming all day but this was different. This was the real thing. A scattering became a stampede as everyone strove to get out of the firing line. In doing so they inadvertently put themselves directly into it.
Oakley man wasn't deterred by having human obstacles in his way. He fired another two-shot salvo toward us just as a terrified woman darted across our path. Both rounds caught her in the body. The second passed straight through in an explosion of blood. She was so close to us that we were both splattered with it as she tumbled.
I didn't even stop to check if she was dead.
In a heartbeat, Trey had shifted from pain in the backside to principal. My sole concern was to get him away from the source of the danger and to keep him alive. Nothing else mattered.
I'd automatically taken in enough of the park layout during the morning to know where to find the exits. The security guards we encountered on the way were too busy heading for the trouble spot to try and detain us, despite our freakish appearance.
We bolted out through the turnstiles and I was suddenly glad Trey had insisted we pay for preferred parking so he didn't have to walk from the far parking area to the front gate. Nevertheless, by the time we reached the Mercury Sable I'd been allocated, the sweat had glued my polo shirt to my back and drenched through where it was tucked in to the waistband of my shorts.
I fumbled with the key in the door, then bundled Trey straight across the front bench seat into the passenger side, jumping in after him. As I jammed the key into the ignition and cranked up the engine, my eyes were frantically searching the nearest rows of cars for the first sign of those wraparound shades.
I yanked the column-mounted gear lever down into drive and released the parking brake, chirruping the tires as we set off. I forced myself not to put my foot down too hard on the way out. If Oakley man didn't know what car we were driving, there was no point in making it obvious. My eyes constantly scanned the rearview mirror.
Trey sat huddled in the corner of the passenger seat furthest away from me, his eyes wide and blank with shock. I knew I should do something to reassure him, but for the life of me I couldn't think what.
"Put your seatbelt on," I said instead, calmly. He threw me a disbelieving glance, but buckled up without demur. Shit, he really is frightened.
I followed the signs for the freeway doing my best not to exceed the posted speed limit. No cars seemed to be making an effort to get close to us. Still, I didn't start to breathe again until we were on I-95 heading away from Fort Pierce, south toward Fort Lauderdale.
It was only then, as my heartbeat finally began to settle and my brain started to come out of survival mode, that the question returned of where I'd seen Oakley man before. It lurked brooding at the back of my mind, an itch I couldn't scratch.
I pulled the mobile phone they'd given me out of my pocket, noticing for the first time the blood on my bare forearms, and I remembered again the woman who'd been shot in front of us. I glanced down and saw that her blood was all over the front of my pale fawn polo shirt as well, a livid splash of color already turning dark as it dried. Trey had a few flecks, but I'd caught the brunt of it and looked like an extra from a Tarantino flick. No wonder he'd been unnaturally cooperative.
I hit the speed-dial for the house. Whitmarsh was in charge of house security and he was going to go ape-shit. But that was nothing to what my boss, Sean was going to do when he found out my low-risk babysitting job had ended in a full-scale assault. The fact that, technically, Whitmarsh had authority over Sean would make very little difference.
The Pelzners' home number rang without reply, the endless long burr of the US phone system. I let it ring until it clicked off, then tried it again, checking carefully that I'd punched in the right number. I steered with one hand, flicking my eyes from the phone to the road. There was no mistake.
I tried Sean's own personal mobile, but all I got was a recorded message telling me the number I was calling was switched off. I knew that the house was never empty and my boss never had his phone off without leaving it on divert or answering machine.
Right there, in a big car on a big stretch of open road in a big country, I suddenly began to feel very small, and very lonely.
And then, because I'd pushed it to some peripheral part of my brain, my mental retrieval system finally connected and spat out the information I'd been searching for. I remembered exactly where I'd seen Oakley man before and I wished to God that I hadn't.
It was just about this time I realized how much trouble we were really in.
FIRST DROP Copyright © 2004 by Zoë Sharp.
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