Shaking his head, he scanned the library shelves; his eyes stopped on a
book that was appropriate—-at least part of the title. War and Peace. He
smiled, murmuring half to himself, “We’ve had the war part.” The
white-haired woman at the card catalog looked at him strangely, and Rourke
only smiled at her.
At five o’clock, trails or not, he was leaving the town. And if it meant
shooting his way past policemen to do it, then he would. If it was
Halloween here, he didn’t want to find out what the locals meant by trick
or treat.
“Hurry, Michael . . . Annie,” Sarah shouted, taking the saddlebags off the
back of Tildie’s saddle and slinging them over her own shoulder—it could
have been a death weight on her, she realized. She ripped a thong from the
saddle and lashed the bags that were across her left shoulder under her
right arm.
“Michael—you take that knife of yours—and when I tell you to, cut the rope
on the railings—hurry.”
“All right, Momma,” the boy answered, reaching under his coat and
producing what looked like a Bowie knife.
“My God—what a thing,” she exclaimed. Then she turned to Annie. “You stay
with me—take whatever I tell you to carry and do what I say.”
The twin inboard engines weren’t able to resist the current—she had tried
longer than she should have and now it was impossible even to make way for
one of the shorelines. But by swimming they might still escape the
houseboat before it crashed against the remainder of the high concrete
hydroelectric dam—or crashed through the massive gap in the center, to be
crushed there where the water spilled now. Either way meant certain death
for/
herself and the children.
But the horses would be strong swimmers, and if they held to the horses
there would be a chance to escape the current.
Sarah released Tildie and Sam, then swung up onto Tildie’s saddle,
reaching down for Annie. “You hold these blankets—don’t Jet go unless you
have to or I telJ you to.” If they made it out alive at all, the water
would so soak them that the still-cool air temperatures would bring about
chills, perhaps pneumonia. The blankets could be dried over a fire. Annie
was in front of her, the little girl’s crotch crushed against the front of
the saddle.
In her right hand, the arm around Annie, Sarah held Tildie’s repaired
reins, then in her left she snatched Sam’s. She ducked, keeping her head
low to avoid crashing it against the ceiling. The houseboat shifted wildly
under her now. “Michael—when I shout for you to do it, cut all the ropes
you can, then swing aboard Sam and hold on tight and stay with me.” She
had thought, fleetingly, about tying the children aboard one of the
horses, but if the horse were to get in trouble, the children would be
powerless to help themselves. She swam, not well, but well enough, Sarah
hoped. Annie could paddle around, but it wasn’t really swimming. Michael
was a strong swimmer for his age and size and couJd stay afloat—she
prayed.
She kneed her horse ahead, holding back tight on the reins for control.
Ducking her head but not soon enough, she hit her forehead on the
doorframe as Tildie passed through and onto the deck. The boards there
were awash with cold spray from the current as the houseboat plowed
through the water toward—the dam. She could see it clearly, the gaping
holes, as if dynamite had opened it—
or perhaps some crack during the Night of the War, from the bombing. She
didn’t know what had caused it.
“Michael—the ropes! Cut the ropes. Hurry!”
“Right, Momma.” And the boy—not a boy at all she again realized—turned to
the ropes, hacking at them.
“Saw with it, Michael—saw with it!”
The boy had the highest of the ropes cut, then began working on the next.
Sarah reined in Tildie; Sam, inside the cabin still, bucked and reared.
Sarah was hardly able to keep the reins in her hands. “Hurry, Michael!
Hurry! I can’t hold the horses much longer!” The second rope was cut. The
boy glanced toward her once, then ignored her advice, and took the
heavy-bladed Bowie pattern knife and chopped with it against the lower and
final rope— again and again, the knife blade bounced up toward his face.
“Michael!” she screamed, but the last rope was cut.
She knew now that she could never get him aboard Sam. She edged Tildie
forward, as Michael sheathed the knife. “Climb up behind me—and don’t you
let go of me,” she heard herself shriek. Michael tugged at her left arm as
she loosed Sam’s reins, her arm aching as she helped him swing up behind
her.
“Hold on!” she shouted, digging her heels into the frightened mare under
her. The horse jumped ahead, through the opening in the guardrail and into
the water. The mare’s head went down, then surfaced. Sarah was washed in a
wave of ice-cold spray that made her sjiiver. Annie screamed; Michael
said, ‘Tve got you, Momma!”
Sarah Rourke glanced behind her once. Sam had jumped for it, but she lost
sight of him in the next instant. Now the houseboat was swirling toward
the opening in the dam, spinning wildly like a leaf in a whirlpool.
“Tildie—save us, Tildie,” Sarah shouted, afraid to dig
in her heels, the horse floundering under her. “Tildie!” she cried, as the
horse’s head went down.
“We’ve gotta jump, Momma,” Michael shouted to her.
Sarah bit her lower lip, thought she had screamed; then, holding Annie
tight in her arms, she shouted above the roar of the waters around her,
“Michael—don’t let go of me. And if I go under, you save Annie—do it.” She
jumped, her left foot momentarily caught up in the stirrup, then free as
Tildie washed away in the current.
“Tildie,” she shouted, the animal gone from sight. Michael clung to
Sarah’s neck. Sarah wanted to tell him to loosen his grip; it choked her,
but she was afraid she’d lose him.
The saddlebags were filled with water now; the AR- was lost, their food
and clothing gone except for what little she had in the bags.
She was swimming, fighting the current. Annie’s mouth dipped under the
water; Sarah fought to keep her up. Her breath, her own strength, was
failing her; then Michael was gone.
“Michael!”
“Here,” he shouted, suddenly beside her, no longer behind her, holding her
left arm, helping her support his sister. “Momma—there’s the shore!” –
Sarah looked up, the water pelting her face like waves of solid substance,
slapping at her, hurting her.
She could see it—the shoreline, a muddy bank. She reached out her right
arm, almost losing Annie, catching at the girl, the little girl saying,
“I’m frightened, Mommie!”
“I am, too,” Sarah cried as she saw the shoreline move rapidly away from
her. Glancing to her right, she saw the opening in the dam growing wider
by the instant. The
houseboat was now batting against the sides of the dam, then suddenly was
sucked through, lost.
She reached out her right arm again; Michael was trying to tow her. She
wanted to tell him to save himself—so at least one of them would survive.
“Michael!” –
“Keep going. Come on, Momma!” he shouted, water splashing across his open
mouth, making him cough. Sarah was reaching, pulling, tugging, reaching,
pulling, the shoreline still speeding past as she was pulled down by the
current; but the shoreline somehow looked closer.
Michael was pulling at her, pulling at Annie—she couldn’t understand what
drove him.
She kept moving her arms, not really conscious of them anymore, not
knowing if it was doing any good.
Left arm, right arm, left arm . . . She wanted to sleep, to open her mouth
to the water.
She kept moving, her legs too tired now to push her.
Something hard, harder than the water hit at her face and she looked
up—red clay, wet and slimy and . . . she wanted to kiss it.
Her left arm reached out, then her right, dragging Annie. The little girl
was coughing, almost choking. Sarah slapped her on the back. “Annie!”
Annie slumped forward into the muddy clay and rolled onto her back,
crying—alive.
“Michael!”
He wasn’t there—he wasn’t—”Michael!” She screamed, coughing, getting to
her knees, slipping in the mud. She saw a dark spot on the water, staring
into it.
His hair—dark brown, like his father’s. “Michael!!” she screamed, tears
rolling down her cheeks. Jump in and save him—yes, she thought. But if she
died—Annie?
“Mich—” His head went below the surface and she died, but it was up again
and his arms waved above the surface and he was coming toward her.
Sarah waded out into the water which thrashed around her waist. She tugged
at the thong holding the saddlebags to her, loosed it awkwardly, then
hurtled the bags to the shore, shouting to Annie, “Stay there, Annie!”